Movies have taught me a few valuable lessons.

There may be a train platform in between numbers 9 and 10 in London's King's Cross Station. If two men are fighting for your attention, and one is very pale and the other is Native American, well, watch out—they may not be men at all, especially if one smells like wet dog.

And the lead girl always, always gets the guy.

I watched Bridesmaids this weekend, about two months behind the rest of the world. I read up on it beforehand: Dana Stevens at Slate called it a "giddy feminist manifesto." Watching the film is a "social responsibility," claimed Rebecca Traiester at Salon, an opportunity to "persuade Hollywood that multidimensional women exist, spend money and deserve to be represented on film." (Michelle Dean at The Awl disagreed, noting that all the conversations in the film about weddings were still really about men.)

Maybe it is a feminist film, especially if feminism in film means men make hardly any screen appearances and are primarily asses when they do (I'm talking to you, Jon Hamm).

But it seems odd that this giddy feminism would result in the same formulaic rom-com result as The Devil Wears Prada, Pretty Woman, The Proposal, and about every other romantic comedy I can think of having watched in my lifetime.

Annie (Kristen Wiig) has a life in shambles. Her cake business (and dating relationship) went under in the recession, she drives a beat-up car and lives with a British brother and sister and, after they kick her out, her mom. She loses her second job at a jewelry store for mouthing off to potential customers, and has an ongoing sleeping arrangement as a playboy's "number three." When she meets ...

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