I just finished watching a screener of "Jack and Jill vs. The World" starring Freddie Prinze Jr. and Taryn Manning, written, directed, produced and co-starring Vanessa Parise, a woman who is obviously looking to launch her career by tackling a feature all by her lonesome and doing a remarkably bad job of it. Her film can only be described as the longest 89 minutes of my life.
When Freddie Prinze Jr, looking bloated and worn out while trying to do his best Patrick Bateman (and failing), is the best actor in a piece, you know you're in trouble. Taryn Manning is desperately trying to recreate Drew Barrymore but comes across as utterly charmless and vacant.
As far as writing goes, I think my favorite lines were, "I come from an island. The island of heart surrounded by the sea of intuition" or "Boingo, boingo! Time to be a mommy!!!" Anyone who would knowingly scribe those lines and then, even more sinful, direct the horrendous performances that accompany them (and they're even worst when badly acted) should be ashamed of themselves (yes, Vanessa, I’m talking to you).
The film is riddled with holes and contrivances. For example, how does Manning’s character find her way to the roof of the executive building she has no business being in? I get it, she has to meet Prinze somehow but come on! And then, to illustrate her wild child-ness, she drop kicks her phone off the roof and onto the congested streets of
Ohhh, and did I forget to mention this reheated Love Story is boy meets girl, girl inspires boy to buy free trade coffee and leave his six figure a year advertising executive job because that’s what righteous people do (again, riiiiight), girl reveals she has cystic fibrosis…STOP! Hold the phone! Is that supposed to make up for the bad acting, heinous direction and sophomoric writing? She’s got a tragic and terminal disease?!?!? Well, it doesn’t. It almost becomes laughable and should greatly anger anyone whose life has been touched by the disease which is awful and painful and tragic and not something to be trotted out for your shlocky script. If Parise’s family or life has been affected by the disease, she should have written about it in her journal, not used it as a dramatic device in a film that will rot on a shelf if there is any justice in the world.
The film is excruciating on every level; writing, acting, directing, even wardrobe (apparently free spirits need to wear odious amounts of pink). This is the kind of flick that gives independent filmmaking a bad name.
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