Defending the chick flick genre
My DVD shelf constantly baffles people. Nestled in between my rows of comic book adaptations, horror movies and Quentin Tarantino special editions are more than a few dreaded chick flicks.
Yes, that’s right. I love the chick flicks. Meg Ryan falls in love with Billy Crystal? Count me in. Renee Zellweger falls in love with Colin Firth? I’ll take two, please. Molly Ringwald falls in love with Andrew McCarthy/Judd Neilson/Matt Dillon look alike? I’m so there.
The chick flick is the one thing that film critics -- men and feminist -- can hate on together. And for those of us who actually enjoy chick flicks, we spend more time defending them than we probably do watching them. It’s a little hard to defend the genre when the criticisms are true.
So lets all agree on something because the critics are right: all chick flicks, more or less, tell the same story. A woman spurred by the absence of a significant other goes through a metamorphosis only to find someone who loves her just the way she is. The ending is either overtly pessimistic or gut-wrenchingly trite. Roll credits.
It’s not the rote repetition of this formula that allows a particular movie entrance into the Pantheon of Chick Flicks. Only movies that have a spark of personality, chemistry and originality will stand the test of time. Where would "As Good As It Gets" be without Jack Nicholson’s charm? Or "Pretty Woman" with out Julia Roberts and Richard Gere’s smoldering eye sex? It’s these traits that make not only a good chick flick, but a phenomenal movie.
The biggest complaint that the genre garners, however, is the fallacy of it’s alleged message: You can’t be happy unless you have a husband, 2.5 children and the picket fence optional.
But maybe chick flicks aren’t trying to tell us you can’t have joy unless you have a man. Maybe they are just trying to tell us no matter how successful you are, its OK to admit what love can do to you. It’s OK to admit it hurts you, it changes you and it's even OK to admit you want it.
