The Bridges of Madison County
I've heard a lot of lesser critics talking endlessly about the "improvements" this movie claimed over the book upon which it was based. This is tantamount to saying "This film is better than flipping through a thick stack of grocery coupons. Yee-ha!" Let's get one thing straight about "The Bridges of Madison County": The book sucks, the perfumes based on the book suck, the album of songs penned by the author meant to accompany the book (yes, there is one) really, really sucks, the t-shirts suck, the calendars suck, the coffee table book sucks and all the zillion other "Bridges of Madison County" merchandising tie-in products suck. Guess how the movie turned out.
I'll concede that the film wasn't quite as painful as the book, but that's because during the film you can at least try to cultivate psychic powers by attempting to drill holes in your popcorn with intensely focused brain waves. You can also amuse yourself by intermittently squeezing your girlfriend's hand for ninety minutes, hoping to dear God that she recognizes the differences between men and women and doesn't expect a serious answer from you when she asks whether you liked this movie or not.
It's no coincidence that most men who get roped in to seeing this film without knowing anything about it will leave asking aloud why the frumpy housewife role wasn't given to Pamela Anderson instead of Meryl Streep.
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