I ask Jack, “Why can’t movies be realistic, so we’re prepared for wedding dress fittings, for women who hate their jobs as much as we do, that are sick of saying how great something looks when really it’s shit but a thousand pound dress pays the rent and the more you sell the sooner you’ll take home a salary. So it’s six days a week, making appointments, quizzing girls to check their weddings are real, and keeping their measurements on file with their phone numbers like that means it’s more likely they’ll order their dresses from you. I’m pretty handy with a tape measure myself, you know?”
“I know,” Jack replies, carries on reading his phone, thinks this is like the time I talked for twenty minutes about how gimmicky The Artist was or how The Descendants felt like flogging, or what I imagine that to feel like, or my rant ten minutes into What’s Your Number? about how inherently sexist it was, or is, because that won’t disappear once it’s committed to film. It’s basically a recorded crime.
“I mean it,” I say. “I was expecting champagne, congratulations, a choice of colours. Instead I got, ‘Where’s your friend? Where’s the wedding? Why isn’t your mum here? You shouldn’t try these on until you have your venue. Why didn’t the other bridesmaids come with you? Why do you live here? Wouldn’t you rather be with somebody else?'”
“Maybe she was lonely,” Jack says, then shows me the trailer for Seeking a Friend For The End of The World.