A few months ago, while he was underwhelming the rest of the world, Tom Hanks’ most recent character, fiftysomething college student/Julia Roberts-seducer Larry Crowne, sent me into a downward spiral. Maybe not a full-blown nervous breakdown, but certainly an unbecoming, hyperventilating, snot-and-tears meltdown. (To quote Ethan Hawke in one of my favourite films, “Do you find me attractive…? You do. You’re strangely attracted to me right now. You’re oddly, oddly attracted to me.”)
Step aside, Sarah Michelle Gellar in Ringer. Step aside, Sarah Michelle Gellar in Buffy.
The first time I saw Brenda Walsh, she was sitting at a breakfast bar, extolling the virtues of California fruit. Her bangs were a smidge too short, her clothes more St. Paul than Beverly Hills. But she seemed happy as she chewed on a twelve-calorie slice of kiwi.
Taking a long hard look at my life, I have to admit, I feel like a loser.
It’s OK. You don’t have to tell me that it can’t be as bad as all that. Stats are stats.
I bought Reality Bites on VHS in 1995, when I was 16, in those primitive days when you had to wait around a year to see a movie you’d missed in the theater. As I paid, my dad asked the sales clerk what it was about. “It’s a minor slacker film that teens seem to love,” the clerk sighed, rolling his eyes.