My Editor Is Wrong About ‘Silver Linings Playbook’

As a writer for this august publication of record, it is my sad and solemn duty to report upon all of my editor’s gravest errors. In this case, it is his willful dismissal and obstreperous refusal to see the relative merit and entertainment value in Silver Linings Playbook (2012), which is so totally good enough to kill a few hours with, so watch your mouth, Tyler.

My esteemed editor registered his disgust on his personal Tumblr before bragging about his remarkable state of domestic bliss at present:

Ten minutes into this movie, I thought, “What the hell is this shit?” Five minutes later, Andrew turned to me and said, “I hate this.” We left about an hour later. 

True love is sharing a hatred for overrated Oscar-bait movies, you guys.

First of all, “Oscar-bait”? The last thirty-odd Best Picture winners have been overwrought melodramas, not screwball romantic comedies. [Ed. note: "screwball?" More like blue balls. Also, please review Shakespeare in Love, Chicago, and last year’s winner, The Artist.] Secondly: you left an hour after you both agreed you hated it? Seats must have been pretty comfortable, dude. [Ed. note: We were in the front row. Perhaps that added to my discomfort? That and the choppy, extreme close-ups that David O. Russell employed foolishly.] Feels like you might as well have stuck it out to the end, where it becomes the exact kind of movie you like! [Ed. note: So, like, Wet Hot American Summer? Coal Miner’s Daughter? DO EITHER JANEANE GAROFALO OR SISSY SPACEK SHOW UP?] (Am I kidding? You’ll have to watch to find out.)

In conclusion, I’m not entirely sure what this man expected from the director of Flirting With Disaster, Three Kings, and ♥ Huckabees. [Ed. note: Solid point. None of those are particularly good, either.] I thought Silver Linings Playbook was slighter than these but slotted neatly into the oeuvre itself, delivering the philosophical laughs and credible absurdities I’ve come to associate with David O. Russell’s work, and I certainly can’t see what in it would so offend as to drive one from the theater. [Ed. note: Well, there was the whole thing where Jennifer Lawrence was playing a role that could have gone to Miley Cyrus or, hell, Juliette Lewis if it came out fifteen years ago. Both would be similarly competent at delivering lines in which they explain their feelings rather than bothering to subtely show them.] But perhaps it’s not for me to say how my editor has strayed from the path—only to note that he has.

Follow Miles Klee on Twitter. [Ed. note: I wouldn’t recommend it.]