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| Oh lord. |
Boy meets girl. Girl is a workaholic. Boy is sexy but romantic.
Boy woos girl. Girl is resilient. Boy goes away. Something bad happens. Boy
saves girl. Girl realises feelings. Boy publically declares love. Boy and girl
live happily ever after. Roll credits.
Damn Hollywood, it’s no wonder we’re all so confused.
I have seen countless chick flicks and girly movies. You may recall I enjoythese films because they’re safe, easy and don’t take a lot of brain power. But
recently I have realised, these movies are some of the most complicated and
dangerous films of them all.
I remember the first time I watched The Notebook. I was 15,
carefree and more impressed with how well a boy could skateboard rather than
their ability to recite Shakespeare. Back then the film did absolutely nothing
for me. I thought it was soppy, unrealistic and I cringed at the thought of a
boy being so obsessed with me he would send me 365 letters and build me my
Barbie Dream House.
Moving on seven years to a conversation with my boyfriend of 5 years about how recently I just want to be silly and romantic, and how it’s
nice to be constantly told how amazing I am (because that’s how the
relationship started; him showering me with affection whilst I told him to stop
being ridiculous). I was shocked by his response.
He said: ‘You drummed that out of me a long time ago, baby’.
Yes, that’s right ladies. I, Miss I-don’t-need-no-man-to-tell-me-I’m-pretty,
had successfully managed to break my very own Noah Calhoun.
Over time I have been conditioned to believe that I will end
up living in New York in a crummy apartment that I miraculously makeover with
quirky multi-coloured cushions. I will somehow make my way up my chosen career
ladder even though there are better candidates but not before I stick it out in
a badly paid job that somehow pays for this far from humble abode in the middle
of Manhattan. I will end up with some stupidly gorgeous guy who is so desperate
to be with me that he will publically declare his love for me with some sort of
spontaneous speech or flash mob resulting in some major PDA. Dum dum da dum dum
dum dum, dum dum dum dum dum dummmm (The wedding march can’t really written
phonetically can it?)
This, all from the girl who at one time in her life used to
use the excuse that she had hay fever just so a boy would not buy her flowers.
What the hell happened?!
I believe this lot may have something to do with it.
Ryan Gosling, Jake Gyllenhaal, Ryan Reynolds, Ashton
Kutcher, Zac Efron, Gerard Butler and their evil sidekicks Rachel McAdams, Anne
Hathaway, Sandra Bullock, Catherine Heigl and Reese Witherspoon.
I feel sorry for guys, I really do because the men in these
movies have set the bar to such an unrealistic height that women are bound to
be disappointed with the reality. These poor blokes clearly don’t have any idea
where they stand because in one breath we’re telling them that we don’t want
them to be perfect and dancing in the street is just too much fromage to
stomach. Yet we are more than happy to sit with a bar of Dairy Milk and swoon
over Jake Gyllenhaal’s abs and Ashton’s persistence to get the girl of his
dreams.
I feel sorry for us too! Why should we expect less than the
geeky girl who trumped a bet involving the hottest boy in school? Why aren’t we
enchanting the eternal bachelor to become our soul mate? Why hasn’t our
childhood sweetheart shown up later in life with a six pack and a successful business
ready to sweep us off our feet? And why oh why have we not stopped torturing
ourselves and turned off the TV?
My only suggestion ladies to cure yourself of this terrible
illness – the dreaded 'Notebooked' - is a hard dose of the beautiful Blue Valentine. Because it’s
the closest nod to a romantic reality the cinema’s got (And Gosling still
takes his shirt off. So it’s not all bad.)
