I cannot express with any accuracy just exactly what kind of physical torture this film was for me. I would have rather endured a habañero enema. I would have rather engaged my penis in a wrestling match with an unhappy ferret. When people in the audience laughed at the pathetic jokes, I would have gladly sacrificed my life if somebody offered to firebomb the theater. Nobody who thinks this film is funny deserves to live.
My most significant moment while watching "The Bachelor" came when a drunk walked into the theater and sat down near me about an hour after the film started. God, how I wanted to be that man. Where had he been during that first hour I'd spent cringing in that seventh circle of Hell? Oh, the joy of freedom. The premise is that Jimmie (Chris O'Donnell) must get married within twenty-four hours or risk losing a hundred million dollar fortune. This is complicated by the fact that he's already botched a proposal to the woman he really loves, Ann (Rene Zellweger).
I think her name was Ann. It could have been Amy. I don't really care. I doubt I could have recited the alphabet correctly after stumbling out of this thing. I may now have my m's and n's permanently mixed up. And it doesn't take the film five seconds to induce that state, as Jimmie makes an analogy between women and grass: Men are horses and women are grass that men eat. The writing and direction of this film made me wince so hard that the muscles in my face actually began making a sucking sound.
Chris O'Donnell has a nose for comedy that would be put to better use in the ass of some animal. He executive produced this fiasco, so one assumes he read the script and thought it was clever. I fear for Chris O'Donnell's brain. Much of the direction seems to have come from somebody with a dissociative disorder. Director Gary Sinyor should have his eyeballs melted so he can never look out of another camera again. All prints of this movie should be burned. The day it comes out on video should be declared a National Day of Mourning.
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