I Don't Know How She Does It

Even though Douglas McGrath's adaptation of the grossly solipsistic novel by Allison Pearson, I Don't Know How She Does It, is a complete and utter failure, actually inspiring awe with its sheer badness, it works indirectly as a sharp analysis of breeder entitlement and self-involvement. To expand, the title, which is stated approximately 40 times throughout the film, is more of a self-proclamation of importance and ersatz martyrdom than something that people would actually think or say. It's doled out with the same whimsical, single-serving, dime store wisdom as the many The Office-style confessionals peppered throughout the film, where glib ciphers profess the many trials and tribulations of narcissistic investment banker cog Kate Reddy (Sarah Jessica Parker). Her struggle appears to be balancing her home life with two children and her working life, which, according to the film, seems to involve coming up with bizarre, reality adjacent "investment" proposals, when not accidentally emailing high-valued clients (Pierce Brosnan) about blowjobs without repercussions. After she mopes around about having to bake, or buy, a pie for her kid's bake sale, she spends most of the movie flirting with the possibility of pulling up her designer skirt to sit on Brosnan's face, despite being married to the perfectly affable, if dull, Greg Kinnear. Of course, this is all scrutinized with crass fashion magazine tidbits about avoiding innuendo in emails and using mammograms as an excuse for being late. But beyond this cutesy and grotesque, counter-feminist empowered NYC bullshit, there are some keen observations from the best friend character, Christina Hendricks, who discusses corporate gender double standards and the expectation for all to adhere to a rigid male ideology. It's just a shame that it's all sugar-coated and sanctimonious, making it nearly impossible to take seriously. This leaves only the unintended subtext to make the film worthwhile, which involves the aforementioned breeder entitlement. Every conversation in the film revolves entirely around Parker, whose erratic, self-obsessed behaviour and inability to recognize the struggles of others are shockingly true to life. She's so busy justifying her choices and maintaining the image of cultural bliss that she's incapable of emotional maturation or developing mutually beneficial relationships with others. If her kids were younger, surely there'd be a scene with her walking down the middle of a sidewalk, with her designer stroller and purebred dog, talking on her cell phone, expecting everyone to jump in the street to accommodate her novel ability to crap out a human. Included with the DVD is an interview with the shrill writer of the book. She's British and has yellow teeth.