As for the movie: I can suspend my disbelief enough that it doesn't seem at all whack that a nun would drop a piano on a dentally challenged, club-footed grunt that looks like the love child of Edward J. Olmos and a rotten Cheddarwurst.
But when the sexy sliver of a female lead peers out from beneath a swath of perfect bangs, her gaze falls on the socially awkward Jesse Eisenberg, the poor man's Michael Cera. In fact, he is Michael Cera, if Michael Cera was saddled with a crippling disease called "Forever Puberty."
"That's bullshit," I thought as the romantic duo traded 1997 nostalgia and a bottle of wine. Why would the last woman of breeding age on the entire continent choose Jesse Eisenberg when there is a perfectly handsome Woody Harrelson doing that sly crooked grin all over the place? Seriously. Why would she let Jesse Eisenberg's Noxema-puttied lips near her?
That's when I woke up and smelled the Axe Body Spray.
Oh. Because she is supposed to be 23. Like Jesse. Woody? Well, he spent part of the latter half of the 1990s dangling from the Golden Gate Bridge, environmentally activisting. Which probably makes him ... pushing 50. Me? I'm at that weird age where I feel a kinship with that 23 year old, but find the guy in the early stages of negotiations with AARP far more attractive than the knock-kneed perm explosion chewing on the strings of his hoodie.