Here’s a movie so feathery light I almost don’t want to bother reviewing it. It’s cut from the same cloth as a thousand romantic comedies before it — chick lit made celluloid (literally, as the film is based on a popular book series).
But it is successful enough at its intended purpose, to give you a few smiles and laughs for 90 minutes between dinner and the car ride home (or in our case, the car ride to a fancy hotel in Coral Gables).
It certainly lacks the emotional heft of The Devil Wears Prada and the smart wit of Bridget Jones’ Diary, to name two of the most successful entries in this genre. But it does have one thing going for it, and that’s Isla Fisher.
Meet Me In Montauk 