(L-R) Meryl Streep and Amy Adams
Writer: Nora Ephron, Julie Powell (book - Julie and Julia), Julia Child, Alex Prud'homme (book - My Life in France)
Director: Nora Ephron
Notable actors: Worryingly, I can honestly say (hopefully for the first and last time) there were none.
Julie and Julia was, certainly, a good idea. I recall a vague thought of wanting to see it when it was first released. It’s quaint, certainly. And that’s just about where the good points end.
The first buggering irritant was Meryl Streep’s height. In real life, Julia Child was six foot two. Well, that’s all very good. In real life people are taller than others, and indeed shorter than others, all the time. I know an extremely feminine-in-appearance girl who just happens to be well over six foot. But was this really the most important factor in a damn movie in which height plays no point other than to distract?
The infamous Sherlock Holmes is described as being well over six feet by creator Conan Doyle, but in recent years he’s been played by Benedict Cumberbatch (a dead 6’0) and Robert Downey Jr (5’8) respectively. Did this height loss somehow fail either production? No, because in the real world nobody gives a flying fig about height. Nobody, that is, expect those with short on talent but lumbered with height somewhat pathetically use said height in order to lose an argument (have you ever seen an argument won with a height-related insult?).
I cannot for the life of me understand why Child’s height was so drastically important to her character in the film. All I know is that it was perhaps the most distracting thing the filmmakers could have done, even overlooking Streep’s ridiculous accent.
As you may have guessed I will never be one, no matter who it is, to play favourites and blindly believe every fine actor is fine in every performance they give. If you’re an obsessive Streep fan, there are, as Kermode says, other opinions available.
So, the film’s barely begun and there’s already two massive irritants you’ve got to put up with for two rather pointless hours. Watching Julie and Julia is quite literally watching the same film in two different time settings with differently abled actors. It’s a bit like going to see a RSC production of Hamlet only to have each scene repeated, straight after the RSC do it, by the local primary school. While Amy Adams may be adorable, her character here is deplorable. No sympathy is felt for either character.
Julie has to create drive for herself, despite the fact she’s getting on fairly well in life. What a shame, you’re one of the billions of people around the world who live in accommodation best suited to their needs. The accommodation best suited to my needs is a mansion fitted with a traditional pub, the biggest private library in Britain, a theatre/music room complete with stage so I may host my own private performances...ok, I’m running away a bit with the idea. My point is, there is absolutely nothing here which gives you sympathy to Julie. Perhaps reading the slog of her blog would produce such an effect, but the small glimpses given here try far too hard without giving the audience anything to work with.
The story is similar with Julia. Bored well-to-do housewife who in another time would’ve been Julie. We get it. I admit my working class ethic may make me biased to dislike Julia, but I do, and the wording toward the end when Julia is said to have knowledge of Julie’s blog ...well all that does is make you realise both characters are bitches and you’ve wasted two hours of your life.
Julie and Julia haplessly makes every mistake possible several times before the film is through. There’s only so much I can take of watching scene after scene repeated straight away in a different setting, and it’s even worse with unsympathetic characters and a storyline so predictable you knew the end before even sitting down in your chair. And nope, I knew nothing of Julie or Julia prior to seeing this.
I hope dearly the real Julie isn’t as vapid as the real one makes her out to be, and equally do I despair of what Julia Child’s estate has allowed to become of her memory. I care nothing for each individual on a personal level through interaction with their fictional selves, by the by – this is simple human sympathy.
The worst part? After you've been so nice as to sit through the whole damn thing you're given the most condescending good-bye; just before the credits role, text upon the screen proudly proclaims ‘Julie’s book was made into a film.’ No shit, diminutive height Sherlock.
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