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Let me just preface this column by saying that I watched the movie Julie&Julia last weekend and, with the exception of the Meryl Streep scenes, it was so awful it took me a bottle of wine and every fiber of willpower I possessed to make it all the way to the end. And no, I’m not a movie columnist, but when a film so strongly makes a statement about modern American culture, I feel like I’m obligated to offer my commentary. (And yes, Julie&Julia made a statement.)
The movie is a biopic about two women who share a love for French cooking. The first is Julia Child (Meryl Streep), author of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, one of the most influential cookbooks ever. The second is Julie Powell (Amy Adams), temp-turned-blogger who cooks her way through Julia Child’s cookbook in one year. (Powell in real life then wrote a book based on her blogging and cooking experience.) So, to summarize, one woman pioneers an industry and writes a book. The other woman reads the book and follows the instructions. It’s not exactly movie magic. At least, the latter half isn’t.
My problem with the movie, essentially, doesn’t even have that much to do with the movie itself, although it was boring and long and it sucked (see why I’m not a movie columnist?). My ire concerning Julie&Julia has less to do with Powell herself, and more with the culture that chooses to applaud her mediocrity. Give me all the grief you want about how hard French cooking is, but at the end of the day, Powell literally just made dinner every night. It’s hard for me to believe that Powell’s story is on par with Julia Child’s moving to France, studying at Le Cordon Bleu and writing a book that made French cooking widely accessible to the American public.
Mostly, the movie, as well as the whole Julie/Julia/whatever project just makes me sad. It seems that, little by little, real ingenuity and creativity are being stripped away. Writers like JD Salinger or Stephen King or Truman Capote — people who truly write groundbreaking, original works of fiction — are a dying breed. Either books and movies capitalize on what other people did years ago, even better (Robyn Okrant’s Living Oprah is about the author’s experience living Oprah’s advice for one year — another book that’s based off a blog), or books and movies are just masturbatory me-me-me sessions (Elizabeth Gilbert’s work, the books Eat, Pray, Love and Committed, are an homage to her vapid, middle-aged self-exploration). Julie&Julia just happens to be both.
So, I’m going to jump on the bandwagon.
I, Sarah Watts, am going to write a column about a movie that’s based on a book that’s based on a blog that’s based on another book. That’s right. For every minute that Julie Powell’s character is in the movie Julie&Julia, I’m going to write a column about it. 140 minutes. 140 weeks. Starting right now. Seriously, guys, this is deranged stuff.
For the first edition of my new series (let’s call it Sarah&Julie&Julia), I’m going to real-time review minute 0:39 to 0:40, wherein Julie Powell has to murder a lobster in order to make lobster thermidor for her dinner party. Buckle your seatbelts, because here we go!
0:39: Julie has to kill a lobster and she feels super guilty about it. She imagines her sleep machine next to her bed is calling her a lobster killer in the middle of the night. She pouts. Adorably.
0:39: More pouting. Oh, Julie. We know you don’t want to murder that lobster, girl. But you must. Your public demands it of you.
0:39: Julie and her husband are riding home with the lobster. It’s in the backseat shuffling around in the grocery bag, and Amy Adams pouts at it while it reaches up at her imploringly. Gulp.
0:40: Julie putters around the kitchen and whines. “I’m just going to throw them into the water … and that will be that!” That’s right, Julie! You show that son of a bitch!
0:40: Julie shoves the lobster in the pot. It knocks off the lid and Julie runs for cover, screaming. Fin.
Christ, this is terrible. Can I have a movie deal now?
Sarah Watts is the Discourse Editor
swatts@luc.edu
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