You’re All Going To Hell Anyway, So You Might As Well Do Something For Yourself

Jack says, “Some films justify cheating and even endorse it, as if the writer’s after a way of rose-tinting a past they can’t really change.”

I ask for examples and Jack gives a comprehensive list that’s almost faultless, although his romantic comedy knowledge isn’t as full as I’d like in someone I’m considering seriously.

“What about Something Borrowed?” I ask him.

“That I didn’t get,” he replies. “The first half I couldn’t tell who we were vying for. And when she had the chance to fuck Jim Halpert and maybe even marry him and didn’t take it, the character seemed unknowable, as if the writer went back and re-wrote parts of her own life to feel better about them.”

“Isn’t that everyone’s dream?” I ask Jack. “To change things we can’t?”

“Not mine,” he replies, then he reaches for his phone, and I hear the message send, knowing I’m a bad overlap, like two people’s coats on a bus seat awkwardly layering or two flat fridge magnets, one peeling from the heater heat, the other more firmly stuck, only just. Not every action’s comprehensible so it makes sense that in films sometimes people make fucking stupid decisions.

You kinda look like a shiny mermaid

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.