Ten minutes into Because I Said So, I
shit my pants. Not by choice. And not like a steaming load just
plopped out of my ass. Rather, this was a slow, warm leak that
started around the time Diane Keaton's character called her
copulating daughter to remind her that her tits were lopsided,
and it continued right through the second all-girl singalong
at the end of the movie.
This shitting thing isn't normal. I'm not trying
to brag, but I'd say I can control my bowels practically 93
percent of the time. This wasn't a, "Aww, man, I thought I was
just gonna fart" moments, either. No, Because I Said So
forced me to shit my pants.
Have you heard of these experiments the government
does? They torture people in foreign countries: they can dislodge
an enemy's bowels with only sound waves and other psychological
tactics. Because I Said So has the same capability.
I don't know for sure what part of the movie
did it. Maybe it was the high-pitched bickering of the the girly
cast that lodged in my spine and vibrated to my ass. Maybe it
was the speed-dating montage, the furniture-moving montage,
the women singing doo-wop, the fucking phoniness of every God
damn scene, or all the screechy, hysterical women calling each
other on cell phones. Or maybe it was the way the few men in
it had their balls snipped off and crammed into the space where
their personalities were supposed to be. Maybe the movie will
lose money in theaters but find second life as a tool of the
Defense Department. The nail-on-chalkboard shriek of Diane Keaton
having an orgasm could easily bore through the rocks of Tora
Because I Said So made me shit my pants.
Diane Keaton, in a role that will redefine her
and make people forget she was ever in Annie Hall plays
a shrill, new-agey, jingly-jewelry bitch mother of indeterminate
career living in a multi-million dollar house. She has three
daughters: Lauren Graham, Piper Perabo and Mandy Moore, all
of whom also live in homes straight out of middle-class aspirational
Learning Channel remodeling shows. She pesters the daughters
by cell phone mostly so the movie can have a shit-inducing running
gag of her not finding her phone in her giant handbag. Tee hee.
First thing I don't understand is why the daughters
call her back or answer their phones. Fuck her. If she is so
God damn meddlesome, pick up the phone, yell, "Eat shit and
die!" and hang up. Hell, my mother only calls once a month and
I do it every time. It's a little something called payback.
Between pratfalls where she lands face first
in cakes, Keaton harasses her kids while the brood try on dresses
or shoes in department stores. Because, you know, women like
shopping and men like sports. Oh, except the men in this movie.
They don't like a God damn thing except doting over annoying
Graham and Perabo are married. I think Perabo
was also mute. I don't remember her saying a fucking thing.
That's good. But Moore and her fat ass are single, so Keaton
plots to hook her up.
This leads to a running gag about Keaton accidentally
connecting to porn on her computer, and it's really loud. So
loud that it makes her dog hump furniture and callers ask what's
going on in the background, much to Keaton's obnoxiouse, hammy
shame. Yet, she's so fucking stupid she doesn't know how to
unplug or turn the fucking thing off. She knows how to turn
it on, but not off? What sort of fucking retard is this?
Anyway, she finally manages to place an online
personal ad over 1000 words long declaring she is seeking a
"life partner" for her daughter. That's fucked up enough, but
what's even more fucked up is the movie's makers think that
respondents would line up out the door for that. Who the fuck
has the attention span to read shit like that? Who that did
wouldn't be scared crapless? "Oh, finally: the girl of my dreams,
described by her mother in interminable prose. I bet she's hot!"
The audiences gets subjected to a montage of
Keaton meeting ad responders. Guess what? The guys are losers;
runny noses; bad teeth; the same old tired dating-montage clichÈs
that I've seen done better in commercials. Tee hee. And my bad
case of the shits worsens.
I wonder who dumbass writers Karen Leigh Hopkins
and Jessie Nelsonthink responds to really crappy ads. Not even
me. The logical approach for Keaton after writing such a creepy
ad would be to immediately cross off anyone who responds and
then let Moore publicy bone any other person in the world. They'd
have to be safer and more normal.
Of course, the last candidate in the montage
is dreamy, Muppet-mouthed super-successful architect Tom Everett
Scott, who charms Keaton with his sophisticated tastes and wealth.
He wins the approval to date Moore. He apparently wants to,
even after seeing the ad and meeting the terrifying, Stucasaurus-like
creature behind it. The movie never explains why such a winner
is answering ultra-pathetic personal ads, but if its director
Michael Lehmann were that deep a thinker, he would have realized
long ago what a TV-hack he is and killed himself.
Now, here's the "hilarious" twist. Watching
all these candidates interview from his stage in the bar is
hipster lounge guitarist Gabriel Macht. For no logical reason,
he becomes intrigued in the freaky Keaton and decides he wants
to date her daughter.
Moore dates the uptight, uber-rich Scott in
his house in the hills, and she dates the guiter-teacher-to-children-wonderfully-warm-single-father-fedora-wearing-goofy-old-car-driving
Macht in his home on the canal in Venice Beach. (Yes, everyone--even
the struggling artists--must have ridiculously posh digs because
this movie is geared for fucking morons who like to look at
Can you guess who Moore chooses in the end?
Can you guess who Keaton roots for at first, but later decides
to let go and let love take its course? Can you imagine a movie
so fucking fake, dictated by magazine fashion over common sense
or emotional honesty? If you can't, you're an idiot, and this
movie was made for you.
Be warned, though, wear Depends. One Finger
for Because I Said So. It made me shit my pants.