Review: ‘In Her Shoes’

Parisians may be offensive, but at least they have a degree of charm, wit and sophistication, which is more than can be said of the film In Her Shoes.

This is without doubt one of the most inane follies ever committed to celluloid. Billed as a comedy drama, it is neither comedic nor dramatic. In fact, during the course of a mind-numbing 140 minutes, nothing of note happens whatsoever. The narrative plods along like an obese asthma-sufferer in a suit of armour, making his way across the Gobi desert at the height of a particularly oppressive drought. Clichés abound, the performances are anaemic, and the dialogue is as unremarkable as a road sign on the M62.

Then there is the unseemly, semi-pornographic obsession with Cameron Diaz’s body. One imagines that behind the camera, Curtis Hanson passed the time masturbating like a baboon, so frequent are the shots of his female lead prancing about in her undercrackers. Diaz has great pins, no doubt about it, but the man who brought us LA Confidential shouldn’t really be dwelling on them like a randy frat-boy, who enjoys hiding in cupboards to watch his roommate have sex.

All things considered, you would be hard-pushed to find an artistic endeavour in any medium with less to recommend it, including Tracy Emin’s lost masterpiece, ‘Shit In My Shoes’.

Verdict: Not The Done Thing

Vin De Maison

One of the few things I don’t miss is Paris, not least because its denizens take great pleasure in humiliating the English.

For example, when you order vin de maison in a Parisian restaurant, the waiter will almost certainly inform you that anyone uncultured enough to drink house wine should go to a ‘ferkeeng nightcloob’.

In such an event, take this advice on board, choose a heart-stoppingly expensive alternative, and sit in embarrassed silence until he returns – not with a normal-sized bottle but a fucking great Methuselah. Guffaw merrily at this hilarious gag, even though you want to brain the garlic-licking berk with a soup spoon and force-feed him his own cerebrum. By this stage, the other patrons in the restaurant should be looking at you with a mixture of pity and disgust, as though an albatross has crapped on your head.

Eventually, a proper bottle of wine will be delivered to the table. Pour yourself a large glass – you’ll need it to wash down the chef’s special.

Don’t Miss …

In addition to an extremely rare live performance by your favourite band, there are other things that shouldn’t be missed. These include:

The Final Episode of Damages

For the first time in aeons, get so hammered on a Monday night that you fall asleep on the sofa at 10:38 – three minutes into the series finale of the brilliantly Byzantine legal drama. Wake up during Inside Sport and immediately fly into a rage. Smash the remote control on the coffee table and use one of the plastic splinters to poke out your eyes – just so you can’t become slavishly devoted to a brilliantly Byzantine legal drama ever again.

Karl’s New Year’s Eve Party (December 2007)

Drinking vintage Krug, playing human rodeo and licking MDMA off the cleavage of a 23-year-old model is no fun. Not compared to a night at home, in a prepubescent sulk, watching Jools Holland’s Annual Hootenanny.

Your Grandmother’s Funeral (January 2007)

Pay your respects on a windswept platform at Nuneaton station, waiting for a train to Crewe that never arrives. Apparently, there are actual trees on the line, rather than merely leaves, which means all northbound trains are cancelled. Toast granny’s passing with a lukewarm latte and an energy bar, before returning to London via Hull.

The 0950 Coach From Oxford To Bristol (November 1995)

In missing the one and only bus that runs between the two cities on Saturday, fail to appear at full-back for Bristol University’s 3rd XV in their keenly-anticipated clash with Keynsham. Then neglect to inform your mum, who is about to set off from London to watch you play, even though she isn’t anticipating the clash quite as keenly as everybody else. In fact, she couldn’t give a fuck about the rugby, but is looking forward to seeing her son, rather than a bunch of hairy strangers cavorting in the mud.

Dummy

Having become a pariah at work, cheer yourself up by going to see Portishead in concert.

If the notion of cheering yourself up by going to see Portishead in concert sounds oxymoronic, don’t worry. Simply arrive at the Hammersmith Apollo, have a cataclysmic row with your long-term girlfriend, and storm out of the dress circle five minutes before Beth Gibbons walks on stage. Then go home, drink half a bottle of Scotch, and plunge a rusty nail into your jugular vein.

That’ll put a smile on your face, of the rictus variety.

Office Romance

Turning up to work looking like a Georgian dandy may be humiliating, but it’s hardly the worst of crimes.

If you really want to cause a stir, try describing your boss as a gelatinous slag in the company of a man you later discover to be her husband.

Losing Face

Perfume is not the only thing a gentleman shouldn’t wear. Lipstick and blusher can also be emasculating. I say can because they do occasionally have a place – namely, on your face at this mad shindig.

But remember, stage makeup is a complete bastard to remove (even with an electric toothbrush), and doesn’t go down quite so well in the office the morning after the night before.

Pour Femme

When emanating from the clothes and body, stale beer smells about as pleasant as the intestines of a dead carp. To mask the stench, douse yourself in scent. Do not, however, douse yourself in a scent so trendy and expensive it comes in a bottle without any writing on it. Otherwise, you’ll end up having a conversation like this with your long-term girlfriend:

HER: ‘Are you having an affair?’

YOU: ‘No.’

HER: ‘Then why do you smell like a woman who drinks too much lager?’

Not The Best Of Starts

Don’t know about you, but I’m stumbling through life like Oliver Reed on his way home from a dinner party at Keith Floyd’s house. It’s a grotesque spectacle, this wayward perambulation, marked by pratfall after idiotic pratfall.

But do I ever learn from my mistakes?

Only when it’s too late.

So, what have I learned today?

When you get so drunk you can’t remember that somebody threw a pint of lager over your jacket the previous night, it’s best not to wear the same jacket to work without first paying a visit to a Chinese laundry.