Movie Review: "Side Effects"

I’m not one for pretty boy actors. And if their off screen hijinks include lame treatment of women? They’re off my hunk list forever. This is why I’ve never been a big fan of Jude Law.

But I am a big fan of date night at the movies, which is where I found myself yesterday, confronted by a terrible slate of films, except one, less terrible option: “Side Effects”. This movie stars Jude Law and that other pretty boy actor I just don’t like the look of: Channing Tatum. The movie was billed as a suspenseful thriller. It was showing at the right time. My fella and I were in.

 

The movie is indeed suspenseful and thrilling. It also provided us with a first in our relationship. I hate onscreen violence so when it’s happening I watch my fella’s face instead of the movie. When the bad part’s over he gives me the nod to go back to watching. Last night my fella gave me the nod and what do you know? The most violent part happened, right before my eyes. It was that unexpected and shocking!

 

It’s a good thing I wasn’t the one holding the Raisinettes. I was so startled I would have dropped them for sure. I did this once, in Boston, and spent the remainder of the movie scrunched up, sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on my seat, because I was sure Boston rats would be at my feet, nibbling on the spilled Raisinettes and possibly my toes.

 

This was the kind of creeped out feeling I got from the movie “Side Effects”. The movie’s about a depressed gal (Roonie Mara) and what happens when the drugs prescribed to help her end up hurting her. This is the kind of movie that keeps you guessing about who’s bad, who’s good and what in the heck the director was thinking in casting Channing Tatum as a genius financier. One who wears twerpy hats and white buckskin shoes. Clearly, the wardrobe lady for this film isn’t going to be nabbing any Oscars. Neither are any of the actors.

 

Because the film’s not exactly high art. But it does engage you and make you thankful if the extent of your mental fogginess is an inability to remember where you left the car keys. Because poor Roonie Mara can’t remember much about the car keys or anything else really. Is her malfunctioning brain to blame? Her medication? Her therapists? Pharmaceutical marketing campaigns?

 

There are lots of indictments here. Kind of like the “Women Tell All” episode on “The Bachelor”. And though that’s not high art either, sometimes that’s just what you’re in the mood for.