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Wine Country is one of those movies that its defenders defend by saying it's just a pleasure to get the chance to hang out with all of these fill in the blanks -- in this instance the "fill in the blanks" are some of our finest middle-aged funny ladies, many bearing an SNL pedigree. And I agree -- it is a pleasure. So much so that I spent about sixty percent of the film wishing that that was what I was watching -- can you imagine how great a documentary about Tina Fey and Amy Poehler and Maya Rudolph and Paula Pell and Ana Gasteyer and Rachel Dratch and Emily Spivey drinking wine in Napa and just hanging out would've been?
Instead Wine Country strains towards uninvolving half-baked tensions and lukewarm insights -- I feel like you put a box of wine in the human being Maya Rudolph's lap and got her guard down and got her and Amy riffing on real life there could've been something profound and moving and sweet to come out of that. As is Wine Country postures towards that experience, but keeps ringing false with broad platitudes. I don't begrudge these comic wonders a paid-for-by-Netflix vacation by any means, and I'm more than glad to come along, but it's a little off-putting how Wine Country doesn't ever strain to reciprocate -- it's a one-sided window I ended up feeling left on the outside of, admiring the well-appointed drapes.
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3 comments:
you shall die for this...
Yikes, Anon. That's a bit much.
I watched the other night not really knowing what to expect. It was unfortunately lukewarm boxed white wine served up by Netflix in a silver tinted decanter (and yes, I'm referring to the hair as well).
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