The only thing this film proves is that Los Angeles is an utter hellhole that sucks the life out of 99% of everybody who ends up there.
The pivotal scene in this film -- about a group of friends and the L.A. singles scene -- occurs when Mike (Jon Favreau) decides to call a woman he just met in a bar. The only problem with this is that he really just met her -- it's 2:30 in the morning and Mike is so desperate that he doesn't know any better. He's also in the kind of post-relationship funk that causes guys to do weird things like pour orange juice on their cereal.
I don't want to watch some post-relationship funk and I don't want to watch Mike call some girl eight times at two in the morning and make a complete fool out of himself. It's at movies like this that all the stupid things you've ever done in your life come rushing back to you as if you'd just had some really nasty dental work and the Novocain has started to wear off prematurely.
Along with his friends, Trent (Vince Vaughn), Rob (Ron Livingston), Sue (Patrick Van Horn) and Charles (Alex Desert), Mike goes party-hopping as a part of a retro-Swing movement the production notes claim is "beginning to sweep the country."
I doubt this movement is sweeping anything. The only thing this film proves is that Los Angeles is an utter hellhole that sucks the life out of 99% of everybody who ends up there. Everybody is working a crap job. Everybody is miserable. And the likelihood of two disease-free, sane people bumping into each other is on par with that of Pat Buchanan and Pat Robertson greeting each other with a long, wet, sloppy French kiss.
Worse yet, these miserable L.A. people go off and make movies about their misery so they can all sit in the theater together and take solace in their common plight. There may be nothing acutely illegal about that, but please, spare the rest of us.
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