In a movie as spiritless and stupid as this, you can't help but look for clues you've hit bottom.
And just then, Matthew McConaughey is caught in a torrential downpour of used condoms.
God bless us, every one!
True, Ghosts of Girlfriends Past may not be the first example of Hollywood strip-mining Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol for its own idea-strapped purposes, but it's among the most egregious: An inept, cynical celebration of douchebags disguised as a fantastical comedy about romantic redemption.
At this (low) point in his career, McConaughey's films -- Fool's Gold, Failure to Launch and How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days -- have become so thin and meritless, they don't have scripts; they have tweets. ("Playing Scrooge as a sex addict. hard to keep my shirt on. FOTFLOL.") Say, maybe Kate Hudson can squeeze in another one before Bride Wars 2.
This time out, McConaughey is Connor Mead, a wealthy, womanizing smoothie who views marriage -- and presumably the female gender -- as favourably as Ebenezer Scrooge saw Christmas.
How do we know this? Because shortly after we meet celebrity shutterbug Connor, he's breaking up with multiple women via conference call.
Too subtle? Fortunately for you the action quickly shifts to his younger brother's wedding in Newport, where Connor guzzles Scotch, insults the bride-to-be (Lacey Chabert), gropes her comely mother (Anne Archer) and conspires to bed a bridesmaid.
Maybe he's really this noxious.
Or maybe he's just reacting to the presence of Jenny (Jennifer Garner, utterly wasted here), Connor's childhood sweetheart, the one girl he ever really loved. The sparks are still there; so are the open wounds.
Salvation -- as unlikely as it is -- eventually arrives in the non-corporal form of Connor's deceased Uncle Wayne (Michael Douglas, equal portions smarm and cheese).
In life, he raised his nephew to be the cad he is today. In death, though, he wants to show his protege the error of his ways and that it's not too late to experience true love.
You know this already, but he accomplishes this by guiding Connor through chapters from his past, present and future.
From here, the movie intercuts between Connor's kooky supernatural encounters -- thus the aforementioned deluge of discarded rubbers -- and the shrill disintegration of his brother's weekend nuptials.
But whichever time zone you're in, it's fairly loathsome -- even if, by the end, Connor has morphed from disbelieving cynic to soft-hearted romantic, desperate to rekindle his relationship with Jenny.
Fact is, McConaughey, no matter the grin plastered across his face, simply doesn't possess the depth of charm to make Connor likeable -- or the skill to convince us of the sincerity of his transformation.
It doesn't help, either, that Douglas is obviously having the most fun of anyone in the cast. It's difficult to imagine, dead or not, he really has misgivings about his hedonistic lifestyle.
And in fact along the way the movie starts to form a compelling argument against domestication, especially if your soon-to-be mate is a grating harpy like Chabert.
Maybe the concept should have been reversed: A middle-class schnook who married his high school sweetheart is visited upon by three ghosts who help him realize life really is better as a rich, functioning alcoholic who has meaningless sex with beautiful strangers and couldn't find Dullsville U.S.A. on Google Earth if he tried.
Maybe for the sequel.
(This film is rated 14-A)
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