Concessions

Oh my GOD, being a woman at the movies is so embarrassing (reminds
me of being in the workplace—am I right, male
executives?). Say I attend a woman movie on a rainy Sunday
night. Right off the bat, I’m forced to sit through that expensive-ass
Stella Artois commercial wherein the fussy bartender leaves an entire
car of train passengers stranded on a trestle, just so he can pour a
perfectly ordinary glass of beer and still slop foam all down
the sides. POINTLESS. Thank you for completely screwing up the rail
system of your coastal European land, bartender with Big Ideas.
(That doesn’t technically have to do with my ideas about lady
justice—I’m just really fucking sick of watching it.)

Next appears a trailer for Nights in
Rodanthe—from
the people who convinced you that you’re anatomically obligated to
weep over The Notebook—in which we are all forced to
participate in the Getting-Back of Richard Gere’s Groove (hint: I think
it took a dark stroll down Diane Lane’s Diane Lane). Gross. And then,
an advertisement for a movie “about women” entitled The Women.
The Women illustrates women in each stage of our womanly
wominanity—from the vapid hot bitch of youth, to the screeching
Cathy cartoon of 27, and beyond, to Cloris Leachman, to dead.
Siiiiigh. This is my future. These are my choices. This is what I am
supposed to enjoy watching.

And, at last, the main course: The House Bunny. Anna Faris,
an estimable comedienne whom I am on the verge of never defending
again, plays Shelley Darlingson, a dumbass nudie model kicked out
of the Playboy mansion for being over the hill (the aforementioned 27
and beyond). With “nowhere to go”—WHY DON’T YOU HAVE ANY MONEY?
SURELY THEY PAID YOU FOR THOSE PHOTOS OF YOUR BOOBS!—she takes a
job as housemother in a dying sorority of social rejects (i.e.,
pretty girls in ugly hats).

The only way the Zeta house can keep its charter
is—obviously—to get some hair extensions and water bras,
stop being a pack of socially retarded shaved Sasquatches, and get
busy losing those pesky back braces, virginities, and
personalities.

Here are some examples of the caliber of joke that you shall find in
The House Bunny: “This is not a brothel,” says a mean rival
housemother. “A brothel? Oh, I’m not looking to make soup!” replies
Shelley!

“I manage a nursing home,” says an area male. “Oh, that’s so great
you give nurses a place to live!” replies Shelley!

“You’re too smart! Boys don’t like girls who are too smart,” says
Shelley. “We endorse this idea without irony!” replies The House
Bunny!

In the end, the girls of Zeta house reflect upon what they’ve
learned: “So, we’ll be half Shelley and half who we really are.”
“Hmm… maybe 60 percent Shelley!” Wink!

lindy@thestranger.com