Maid in Manhattan

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I haven’t watched Maid in Manhattan. I swear to you I haven’t. Please believe me. Here is my review of Maid in Manhattan:

Longing is a terrible thing. Down, deep down in your socks, and all interweaved with the elasticated nylon of your tasteful work blouse: longing. ‘When will my prince arrive’ you whisper to yourself in the deceptively discrete cubicles of your workplace toilets, as you sighingly detach another square of two-ply toilet paper from the dispenser and trump disconsolately.

But longing is a beautiful thing too. Snurking up the contents of an individual tub of demographic-specific edible paste (‘Chocsplat!’ or ‘Thinslop’ or whatever), the love glands in your imagination conjure up an array of handsome suitors and paramours who preen and lunge to win your favours. You award yourself a second carton of Thinslop (or ‘Chocsplat’ or whatever) and the merry carousel of sexy figments whirls anew.

You: longers, yearners, charmingly suggestible types. Maid in Manhattan is the film for you. You don’t have to be a maid (professionally or sexually) to be able to identify with the principal character of this film to the point where, in your mind, you actually become her. Nor do you have to live in Manhattan. You will puff out your cheeks with ennui when she does. When she laughs gutfully with her grinning, cackling friends, you too will laugh with your very giblets, even if you are not sure that anyone has actually said a joke. You are now symbiotically linked up with Jennifer Lopez’s character – a neurochip of sorts transmits her experiences and emotions to your brain and you are as one mind.

Consequently, when Richard Gere, like a lusty young jack, makes merry sport of her maidenhead, he messes with yours too. You are his humpmate, in the Biblical sense of the word. More importantly, when he and the titular (and how) maid are wedded, you too are, de facto and de jure, the spouse of Richard Gere, and may enjoy all of the conjugal privileges and perks that inhere to this role. Just think!

For now and evermore, you and Jennifer Lopez’s character will be indissoluble. The convergence is complete. The once impenetrable boundaries that separated consciousnesses have been overthrown and now your brain and Jennifer Lopez’s character’s brain may swim blissfully in each other’s grey swill.

As the small print on the DVD box makes clear however, this does not apply to Jennifer Lopez herself. Ms Lopez’s brain remains firewalled from all forms of malware, which, unfortunately, includes every character she has ever played and you.

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4 Responses to “Maid in Manhattan”

  1. oldrope Says:

    I like the bit where everyone scorns her at the polo match for being a whore, then they fuck on a piano.

    And the Roy Orbison song as well. I like that

  2. John Le Baptiste Says:

    Mr Old Rope. Decorum please. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t maximum coitus, just a round of light frottage.

  3. Banjo Fett Says:

    I forgot what a good film Maid in Manhattan is. Gives me an idea for a sequel: Butler in Burnley, starring Hugh Grant.

    It’s more of a serial killer film though, as he’s actually a serial killer who serial kills people by strangling them through force-feeding. Like, he turns up at places looking for butler work, then makes them some scones and brings them in on a big silver tray. Then he shoves them down the toffs’ throats until they’re dead. There’s loads of close-ups of his mental face while he does it, and afterwards he dusts off his butler gloves and says stuff like ‘I trust sir has had his sufficiency of scones for today? In that case, sir, I take my leave.’

    You know, like Hannibal Lecter in The Remains of the Day.

  4. John Le Baptiste Says:

    Hmmm. I think you’re typecasting Grant there, especially after his Ian Huntley-esque turn in About a Boy.

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