bnorthup
01-14-2003, 12:33 PM
Two Weeks Notice (PG-13)
At the Gaslight
Take this job and shove it
By Brent Northup
Ever wonder what movie stars do between “significant” movies, to keep bread on the table? They make movies like “Two Weeks Notice,” a routine romantic comedy with mailed-in performances from Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock.
The story begins with a stretch of credibility that is never fully resolved: a strong-willed environmentalist with an Ivy League law degree decides, oh-what-the-hay, and goes to work for a Donald Trump clone. I guess she figures, like many cowgirls who regretted marrying the last cowboy in the bar, she can change him.
Thus begins the tale of how Miss Diehard Environmentalist learned to stop worrying and love the capitalist entrepreneur who is threatening to tear down paradise and put up parking lots.
Needless to say, they fall in love – but not before she has a brief battle with her conscience and gives her boss “two weeks notice.”
Now, I suppose it’s entirely possible that love would leap such chasms. In fact, it’s a fact of life that the idealism of youth often gives way to the Cadillacs of retirement. But “Two Weeks Notice” just doesn’t make this improbably transformation very believable.
To make matters worse, both Bullock and Grant are barely awake. I’ve always suspected the big stars periodically suffer from “burn out” – and become the Hollywood equivalent of the employee who’s snoring at her desk. “Two Weeks Notice” is proof that it happens to the best of ’em.
I’ve read some reviews that dared to compare Hugh Grant to Cary Grant. Good golly, Miss Molly, is that ever an insult to good ol’ Cary. Such comments would spin Cary’s compass so that he could never tell which way was North by Northwest.
Hugh Grant is a curious actor who seems to have found a niche playing the feminine male with puppy dog eyes. He’s been charming in a few well-chosen roles, but let’s not forget that this adorable, sensitive modern-age guy once paid an $1,180 fine for having sex with a Hollywood prostitute.
Admittedly that’s a low blow, but Grant is a limited actor who needs the right role.
Similarly, Bullock tends to repeat previous performances, as she does here. She needs to get pickier about the scripts she selects, lest she slide down the DisneyWorld chute that washes out her promising career.
But, of course, it’s January, not exactly the most exciting movie season. So we know we’re going to get a few less-than-Oscar-worthy releases in local theaters. Never mind that the rest of the country got to see this movie on December 20 and that it’s just reaching Helena on January 10. But that’s another column.
END
At the Gaslight
Take this job and shove it
By Brent Northup
Ever wonder what movie stars do between “significant” movies, to keep bread on the table? They make movies like “Two Weeks Notice,” a routine romantic comedy with mailed-in performances from Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock.
The story begins with a stretch of credibility that is never fully resolved: a strong-willed environmentalist with an Ivy League law degree decides, oh-what-the-hay, and goes to work for a Donald Trump clone. I guess she figures, like many cowgirls who regretted marrying the last cowboy in the bar, she can change him.
Thus begins the tale of how Miss Diehard Environmentalist learned to stop worrying and love the capitalist entrepreneur who is threatening to tear down paradise and put up parking lots.
Needless to say, they fall in love – but not before she has a brief battle with her conscience and gives her boss “two weeks notice.”
Now, I suppose it’s entirely possible that love would leap such chasms. In fact, it’s a fact of life that the idealism of youth often gives way to the Cadillacs of retirement. But “Two Weeks Notice” just doesn’t make this improbably transformation very believable.
To make matters worse, both Bullock and Grant are barely awake. I’ve always suspected the big stars periodically suffer from “burn out” – and become the Hollywood equivalent of the employee who’s snoring at her desk. “Two Weeks Notice” is proof that it happens to the best of ’em.
I’ve read some reviews that dared to compare Hugh Grant to Cary Grant. Good golly, Miss Molly, is that ever an insult to good ol’ Cary. Such comments would spin Cary’s compass so that he could never tell which way was North by Northwest.
Hugh Grant is a curious actor who seems to have found a niche playing the feminine male with puppy dog eyes. He’s been charming in a few well-chosen roles, but let’s not forget that this adorable, sensitive modern-age guy once paid an $1,180 fine for having sex with a Hollywood prostitute.
Admittedly that’s a low blow, but Grant is a limited actor who needs the right role.
Similarly, Bullock tends to repeat previous performances, as she does here. She needs to get pickier about the scripts she selects, lest she slide down the DisneyWorld chute that washes out her promising career.
But, of course, it’s January, not exactly the most exciting movie season. So we know we’re going to get a few less-than-Oscar-worthy releases in local theaters. Never mind that the rest of the country got to see this movie on December 20 and that it’s just reaching Helena on January 10. But that’s another column.
END