Last night was our magazine’s packed preview screening of Julie & Julia. I know, the Web needs another food blogger’s review of this flick like it needs another food blog, but here we go:
All the negative chatter had my expectations pretty low. I figured I’d cringe at Amy Adams and, at best, have some serious beurre blanc cravings by the end. The truth: I left that theater walking on air.
I don’t think I’ve laughed out loud that much in a movie in years. I blissfully bought the whole thing—hook, line, and butter. I wanted to disappear into the life of Julia Childs, which, of course, was the point. I also had a few goosebump-inducing moments where I realized that I already share the life of blogger Julie Powell: Young, recently married urbanite lives in crappy apartment and continually searches for life’s purpose in a plate of food? You got me—I even have the cat.
This is not serious filmmaking—though there’s definitely serious acting. The overwhelming positive attitude spewing forth from everyone in the film is unrealistic. (However, I found it refreshing that, for once, the men were the empty supporting characters, not the women. Poor Julie’s husband didn’t even get a specific job.) And nothing happened that you didn’t expect to happen from the get-go. But considering I’m not a fan of romantic comedies, I adored watching a feel-good flick that didn’t revolve around the warring sexes or binge drinking. (Though, there was plenty of that, too. I’ve never craved a martini so bad in my life.) The food pictures are pornographic, the Paris obsession is contagious, and, for me at least, Adams’ character was entirely identifiable.
The best part of the night? Sipping a Côte de Provence rosé with some foie gras and figs at Monsieur Marcel just before. It set the mood just right. Highly recommended.
The film opens tomorrow. Monsieur Marcel opens at 11—every weekday.