Everybody gets rejected in this part. There are, count 'em, four rejected marriage proposals, one turned-down bribe, one turned-down date, one dumped girlfriend, one rejected book offer, and one cold glass of ice water thrown into one undeserving face. I think that's some kind of record. The boys of Utah will have to invent new ways to get dumped.
RECAP Pt. 2:
Kam arrives home to find the girls in a tizzy. Juanita coyly shows Kam a letter from a publisher. “I don’t know if I can handle another rejection,” Kam says, like, you’re an unpublished novelist. Get used to it. Juanita encourages her to be enthusiastic, so Kam allows her to open the envelop. Wish-ignoring, boundary-crossing friend that she is (I mean, honestly, who does she think she is? Darcy?), Juanita has already read the letter, and gleefully announces that Kam has scored an interview with an editor. And there is much squealing and rejoicing and insincere congratulations from a very bored Kellydia, whom I love. Next comes a suggestion of celebration from Kam, but it turns out that nobody really cares that much, and the girls have already made plans. (Kellydia’s mention of her boyfriends Denny and Carter warrants a scream.) Way to burst the bubble there. Kam goes to answer the door with a final squee.
JA quote: “How ashamed I should be of not being married before three and twenty!”
Kam loses her smile when she see Hubbel on the other side of the door, holding a bouquet. Though Kam makes valiant efforts to stop him before he begins, Hubbel silences her with invasion of her personal space, and plows on to deliver this memorable marriage proposal: “Now, even though there are many disadvantages to choosing you, I’ve thought it through, and I’m willing to overlook the things about you that I hate. The overbite, among others.” Which is funny, but not too funny. Hubbel’s line delivery isn’t as crisp as it could be. Kam, almost rudely, cuts him short again. Hubbel responds by laboriously sinking to his knees and showing her the ring. “I know it’s tiny ... but ...” Hubbel says with a tilt of his head that I’m sure he thought was ingenuous and charming. And, eww. Subtext. Why must Mr. Collins always be sexually inadequate in some way?
Kam kind of sneers and shuts the ring’s case. Hubbel takes it in stride, but he looks like he’s about to cry. This scene isn’t funny anymore; it’s depressing. Even Kam looks sympathetic to him. “My mom says that sometimes when a girl says no, she means yes,” Hubbel says. I don’t have to tell you how wrong his mom is, do I? Kam is like, well, I mean no! And the funny sneaks back in when the inimitable Hubbel whispers, huskily, “I don’t get you ... but I want to,” and makes it sound like a come-on. Kam gives her version of “You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so.” The other young ladies of the household, who have been rudely and obviously eavesdropping on this private moment, laugh openly at him. Hubbel climbs to his feet, complaining about her lack of reciprocation for his feelings, and they bicker about whether her act of cutting his hair constitutes a relationship. (In the original version, after taking a moment to describe Kam’s “scalp massage,” Hubbel nonchalantly mentions talking to the bishop about it.) Hubbel thinks Kam is a “forward feminist” and he finds that “very exciting.” I can’t describe how gross the sexual jokes are. Kam says no for the tenth time. She should try another tact, because he’s not getting it. “Elizabeth, we’ve been commanded to multiply and replenish the earth,” Hubbel proclaims, and finally strikes the tone the scene should have had from the beginning. The girls break out into very loud, ill-timed, and very fake laughter. Hubbel tosses off an exit line, and catches his cheap-ass carnations in the door. I swear that he says “Bitch!” but the closed-captioning thinks he said “Fetch!” which doesn’t even make sense. In fact only makes sense as a euphemism for bitch. Is it swearing if it’s only in the minds of the beholders?
The girls share a lame, energy-free moment that’s supposed to be sweet, and then Jack pokes his head in the door, wanting to know what’s up with Hubbel. Wah. Wah. Wah.
Cut to an Indian restaurant. Yes, the randomness never stops. Jack is mildly amused by Hubbel’s line, and cites his faulty “delivery.” “His delivery was fine. I just didn’t want the package,” Kam snarks. Please! Stop with the dick jokes! This movie is rated PG! “You know there’s only one reason why people commit matrimony before they’re thirty, don’t you?” Jack muses. No. I don’t. What is it? Kam rolls her eyes and pronounces that “sad.” What! What is it?! Jack returns to mildly putting peer pressure on Kam, though he makes a bigger deal out of his chicken tika masala than marriage. Mmm. Chicken tika masala. I love Indian food, especially naan bread. I’m sure y’all will hear more about this when I recap Pride and Prejudice Goes to India and Becomes a Vehicle for Preaching about Neo-Geo-Politics and Why Prejudice Is Wrong, Which Won’t Be The First Time For a Jane Austen Movie. Kam is fine with marriage, she’s just not ready yet. She’s got to finish that undergrad degree. Jack mumbles something about having somebody to “hold,” and Kam looks stricken. “Or there’s always living in sin,” Jack jokes. Kam rolls her eyes. Hasn’t she noticed that this man talks about sex, like, constantly? Doesn’t this go against her religious values? Why are they friends? Jack asks Kam if she has any tens, and when she doesn’t, offers to pay her back for the meal.
Outside, Kam mentions Will, which is probably the only reason she went out with him in the first place. Jack story is that he fell in love with Will’s sister, but that Will didn’t approve of his “middle-class upbringing,” and tried to come between them. He offered Jack a bribe, which Jack “thought about” but never took, and in the end, Will’s sister broke up with him. I guess the implication is that Will talked her into it. Well, that’s not juicy at all. In other news, I must own that blue fitted blouse Kam is wearing. Arriving at her Beetle, Kam absent-mindedly tells Jack, “When you do find someone, she’ll be one lucky girl,” while digging through her purse for her keys. Her face is hidden from Jack, so it’s understandable that he misunderstands, if you understand me. He kind of sidles up behind her and tries to kiss her. She stops him and they drive home.
At home in bed, Kam komplains that Jack “forgot his wallet” so she paid, which wasn’t what we saw. She asks Juanita about her date with Charlie. “Es el hombre mas increible del mundo,” Juanita sighs. “Bess ... day ... ehverrr.” She should just speak Spanish, man. Kam asks about “the kissing.” Yuck. I know I sound twelve, but MYOB, Kam. Juanita mumbles that Charlie is a “gentlemen” and something about following Lydia’s advice to withhold sex, and I guess that means that they haven’t kissed. Kam jokes about Lydia’s availability, and babbles about her not-boyfriend Jack and how his hands are like an octopus, but Juanita has fallen into a Charlie-induced haze, and isn’t listening. Kam doesn’t mind, and compliments Charlie in general. Except for his friendship with Will. And his sister. And his “bizarre sense of fashion.” “Ay... pero tiene esos ojos de un color tan increible,” Juanita murmurs, and Kam giggles and calls her “Mrs. Bingley.” This scene is really cute in a way I find difficult to explain. The young women are so comfortable with each other, so cozy and intimate.
JA quote: “Those who do not complain are never pitied.” True dat. And what is Kam doing? Komplaining, of course. She’s shelving books with the still silent and completely contemptuous Mr. Gardiner, and bitches that her mom called, she’s only twenty-six, bitch bitch bitch bitch. I hate to use that word, but there’s no other way to put it, is there? Carmen Rasmussen appears, and FASTFORWARD! Because she sucks, and this scene is kind of confusing anyway, because Kam addresses her as “Charlotte,” which means that she is supposed to be Charlotte Lucas instead of the actual American Idol rejectee Carmen Rasmussen, and now I can’t surmise that everyone ended up at the Bingleys’s house in order to see this girl who was on TV once. She buys the Pink Bible, and it’s $7.09, and Carmen Rasmussen only has eight bucks, and Kam can keep the change, and yes, it’s THAT BORING! After she has mercifully disappeared, Kam returns to bitching without missing a beat. This komplaint even has its own Loser Montage, and, as her rejects include “too short,” “too tall,” and a guy who reads comic books, I’m sending Kam a 72-pt. message to shut up. Why is she whining about getting a date anyway? She doesn’t want to get married, and she knows available guys, like Jack Wickham, who she could call if she wants a date. So ... why?
Speaking of the gropey devil, Kam muses that she likes Jack, “when he keeps his hands to himself.” That right there is a sign that she shouldn’t date him. What does she think, that they’re going to play pinochle for their entire relationship? She moves on to Will, who she thinks is handsome, intelligent, arrogant, self-centered, and adds, “In fact, I pity the girl who ends up with him.” Then why are you considering dating him? Oh, so he can walk into the store while she’s badmouthing him, and she can drop behind a stack of the Pink Bibles and stay there for what feels like forever. Will didn’t really hear anything incriminating, and stands uselessly, waiting for her to get up. He opens a Pink Bible to pass the time, not processing what he’s reading. Kam finally reappears, and Will asks her for a word. She’s like, oooookay? Will takes a nervous breath, looks over at the much-put-upon Mr. Gardiner, and pointedly asks for more privacy.
Kam finds him in the back of the store–I think in the “Gardening/Psychology/Great American Humorous Novelists/Self-Help” section. She’s still like, oooookay? “I find, umm ...” Will says in an undertone, then breaks off and hums for a moment, drumming his fingers against the books. His body language is bizarre. Well, that has precedence. Will acts like he’s searching for a hard-to-find word, and says, “I find–I find you strangely attractive?” He makes it a question, like, “I find you strangely attractive, okay? Are you getting this?” Kam non-reacts. Will gestures wordlessly for a moment, then says, more earnestly, “You’re not the sort of girl that I normally ...” more gesturing... “... go out with. I mean, you know, you’re loud, you’re disorganized, your friends are an ... embarrassment. But, um ... I, uh ... I like you, I don’t know why.” I love the “disorganized.” I’m visualizing Will screening potential girlfriends by going through their sock drawers. However, Kam is not loud. Will ducks his head and scratches his nose. It looks kind of like he was trying to claw his eyes out, but he missed, hit his nose, and tried to make it look natural. Does this sound bizarre? It is. Kam, looking stricken again–no fair using the same expression on two different suitors!–asks if he’s serious, but Will has suddenly taken an intense interest in Gardening/Psychology/Great American Humorous Novelists/Self-Help, and is too busy examining the shelves to listen to her. He clears his throat, and begins to ask her out, but interrupts himself by knocking five or six books off the shelf. No, I get it! He’s so bothered by the out-of-order books that he can’t help but try to reorganize them, even in the middle of asking someone out. Will looks like he can’t decide which is more awkward, picking up the books or letting them lay, and asks her out to dine the following night. “No[, duh],” Kam replies. Will is too distracted by the books to note her tone, and makes an abortive move to pick them up, scratching his ears. He hmmms some more, goes for the books and changes his mind again, and asks her if Friday is free, with an adorable little eyebrow raise. “Strangely attractive?” Kam repeats incredulously. Will is like, yeeeaaaah ... that’s what I said. “As much as I love being insulted by you, I think you’d be much happier at a table for one,” Kam says, not unkindly. Hey, no fair using the same line on two different suitors! Though once you get to your third marriage proposal, you start running out of material. Will stares at her blankly, considers picking up the books again, and sighs, “Okay, I’m sure you have things to do,” as he leaves the shop. Has it even registered with him that he got turned down? Maybe she should write him a letter or something. Kam is like, what was that all about?
Kellydia complains that her outfit is “last season,” as she drives the girls to church in her Jeep. Rainy Day Mary school-marms that it isn’t “appropriate for church.” Whatever, Mary. I don’t see anything wrong with it. In a quick non-sequitur, Kellydia informs Kam that Will is “very rich,” and why is this information shoe-horned in? I thought the audience would assume that Will is very rich, considering that he hangs out with the nouveau riche Bingleys. He smells of old money. Kam looks like Danny when she wears sunglasses. Kellydia must have skipped her Ritalin this morning, because she’s flitting from subject to subject. She tells Kam that she’s too judgmental, and then informs her that everything she needs to know is in the Pink Bible. Rainy Day Mary says something shutuppable about the Holy Scriptures, and yeah, we get the irony of the girls going to church to get a date, and quoting chapter and verse from a dating manual cunningly named the Pink Bible. The sisters giggle about Kellydia’s secret boyfriend. Kellydia and Nickitty jam to the faux rap song “Bling Bling Daddy Daddy Bling Bling,” despite Rainy Day Mary’s protests (what’s the matter with a little hip-hop, Mary?), and Kellydia caps the Parade of Irreverence by attempting to run down half the ward in the parking lot.
JA quote: “The dullest topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.” And the reverse is true, as Hubbel proves by preaching a revenge sermon aimed at Kam for turning down his marriage proposal. This might seem a little far-fetched, but there are well-known stories circulating in my family about vengeful preachers who barely put up a pretense of protecting the anonymity of the examples used in their sermons. This is also known as the "Trishel-not-her-real-name" phenomenom. The girls listen to him in disbelief, except for the enraptured Rainy Day Mary, and they are sporting noticeably different hairstyles than they were in the car. He goes on and on, as the congregation stares at him, and finally sums it up by saying it all boils down to “pride.” (In the LDS version, he adds “The neophyte disease.”) “It’s contagious. And let’s just say, someone in our congregation has a fever.” The faux-Beatles strike up the band: “I can’t stand the way you see me / All crazy now with nothin’ to show.” Kam leaps to her feet, and throws her hymnal/Bible at Hubbel. Against all reason, it hits him, and he goes down. The congregation breaks into applause, Juanita raises Kam’s hand like she’s scored a goal. The faux Beatles are really getting into it: “Comin’ off like you really loved me! / Girl, we haven’t gone that far–”
“Pride,” Hubbel says. (In the LDS version, he adds “The neophyte disease.”) “Let’s just say it’s contagious. And someone in our congregation has a fever.” Kam glowers quietly at him. Yes, it was all a fantasy sequence. And did you notice that Hubbel’s lines were different before and after it? Hmm. It’s like Pulp Fiction. (In the LDS version, Hubbel mentions his missionary president, President de Bourgh.) The pastor or whoever it is in a Mormon church shuts Hubbel up and makes him sit down. “Because we’ve gone twenty minutes into the next meeting, we’ll dispense with the closing hymn and ask Jane Vasquez if she will would please give us a closing–a short closing prayer,” pastor-guy says. (In the LDS version, it’s quite different and much longer: he thanks those who “intended on bearing their testimony,” says they’ve gone twenty minutes into the next “ward sacrament,” and addressing Juanita as “Sister Vasquez.”) Juanita cheerfully pops up, flamenco guitar strums, and on Hubbel’s face grows the most disgusting look of glee ever. I’ve got to make an icon out of that.
JA quote: “A fortnight later ...” Classic, that. Kam bursts in Juanita’s room, actually honest-to-goodness squees, and expositions that she’s going to her meeting with the publisher. Her discussion with Juanita about her wardrobe is cut short by Juanita’s miserable face: Charlie broke up with her. “He got permeeession to search in some lake fur some ancient Native American bear.” (I swear that’s what she says. The closed-captioning says “burial ground,” which makes much more sense.) There’s a quick fantasy sequence of Charlie suiting up in a wetsuit and diving into a pond. He looks really good without his shirt. That’s all I will say. Apparently he skipped town, leaving only an email for Juanita which reads, “I’m sorry you won’t be able to reach me, as our location will be remote. I had a good time. You’re a great girl. Charles.” Kam reads the letter aloud in a tone of voice that insinuates she thinks Charlie is a moron, and hee. Juanita is devastated, and Kam snaps, “He’s an idiot! I hope his air tank leaks.” Quick fantasy shot of Charlie, dead on a pile of dead fish. Hee hee hee. With little transition, Juanita tells Kam that Hubbel proposed to her out of the blue, and that he then moved on to Carmen Rasmussen. He’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel there! Juanita laugh-cries at the thought. Then, bravely drying her tears, she changes the subject to Kam’s meeting and asks about her clothes. Aww. Kam and I are touched by how selfless she is.
Kam putters around in her VW. Another catchy faux-pop song plays as she experiences engine trouble, pulls aside to deal with it, and keeps on puttering. I thought this was completely useless the first time I saw it, but the director’s commentary reveals that Kam was supposed to sport an ugly grease stain on her clothes afterward. Then the directors wondered aloud why they didn’t make the grease stain more visible, and decided it was because they weren’t actually allowed to ruin the clothing, which ha! The outfit she settled on is a white business suit with a blue (natch) blouse. I like it, but I wonder what made her choose a hairstyle that has me reciting, “There once was a girl / Who had a little curl / Right in the middle of her forehead. / And when she was good, / She was very, very good, / But when she was bad, she was horrid.” Kam pulls up to what is obviously, obviously, a hotel, and throws her keys at the valet.
Inside the "restaurant," there is the traditional confrontation with a snooty waiter, who is snooty and contemptuous to Kam for no reason. Perhaps someone should explain to him the process by which costumers pay the restaurant money in order to eat the food there, and this money is in turn paid to him in his weekly paycheck. He checks the reservation sheet for Janice Brown, the woman who Kam is meeting, and insists that she’s not eating here in the restaurant. Kam asks him to look under the name of the publisher, D&G Publishing, and who should look up from his menu but Will. The name of the restaurant, by the way, is Rosings. Scream away. Will stares at Kam, then looks at the manuscript he has with him on the table: The Iron Carriage, A Novel by E. L. Bennet. Ah, the pieces are coming together! Kam is at the end of her rope, but Will intervenes and says she’s here to see him. “No, I’m not,” Kam says, nervously. “D&G Publishing?” Will asks pointedly. “And I assume that you’re E. L. Bennet?” Janice Brown had a last minute emergency, and Will is there on her behalf. And Will is a thoughtless jerk for not calling E. L. Bennet ahead to tell her so, or at least informing Head Snooty Waiter that his dinner companion would be looking for Janice Brown.
J.A. quote: “Angry people are not always wise.” And wise people are never angry.
Kam orders without looking at the menu. Will cocks an eyebrow and orders the same thing with a pointed look at her. I like that. It’s impossible to tell if he’s laughing with her or at her. Kam is nervous enough to vomit at this point. She and Will make with the uneasy banter about her ordering, and she called ahead, and she likes chicken as long as it doesn’t come with “those little green things that get stuck in your teeth,” hello! They’re called rosemary sprigs! And Will wonders if they ordered the “little green things,” and she says they didn’t, and he’s relieved, and this is all very cute. Will gets down to business, saying that he read “a good portion” of her book last night. Does this mean that he had an entire day to notify her that there was a change in plans? And he didn’t call her, why? It seems so out-of-character. “Janice thinks that you’re, uh, a very interesting young novelist, and that your work shows potential,” Will says evenly. “I agree with her.” Kam can’t help but smile, and asks what he does for D&G Publishing. Is he an editor? Will hems and haws and admits that he’s the D in D&G Publishing. It’s a sign of too many in-jokes when you go looking for them where they don’t exist. I spent forever trying to figure out if Janice Brown was Jane Austen’s cousin, or the G in D&G Publishing stood for Gardiner, or whatever. Kam nervously gulps down some water, but that might be because she has apparently swallowed a cotton ball.
Will pulls out his spork and gets down to business. Uh. Again. He classifies Kam’s novel as a “revisionist period adventure.” Kam gets her dander up about the “revisionist” part. “In its view of history, certainly,” Will replies blissfully. “Generically, I’d call it a romance.” Kam is even less pleased, even when he points out that it’s not an insult. Yeah, duh, Kam. You call yourself a writer, and you snoot on romances? And where is Andrew Black going with this, anyway? Most Jane Austen fans like romantic comedies, and see no shame in it. Why would they want to see a movie wherein the main character is “too good” for romances? It’s like when Joss Whedon, King of Geeks and beloved by sci-fi fans everywhere, cast socially-inept, dweebish, self-hating, virgin nerds as the villains of Season 6 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. All you’re doing is attacking your main audience. There’s a smug sense of superiority about it, wherein you believe that you and your viewers “know better,” that you sometimes lower yourself to partake in what the masses ignorantly love with all your hearts, but you, a true connoisseur of the arts, only enjoy in an ironic way. Romances are for chumps, you and Kam know this, but you’ll chuckle along with the rest of the fools for maybe a day, as long as everyone acknowledges that you’re simply slumming.
Anyway, back to the movie. Will delivers his nutshell review of Kam’s book: “Thematically ambitious, interesting well-rounded characters–of course, it’s deeply flawed ... Flaws which will require extensive revision.” Kam starts whining about how many times she’s rewritten it, which is a sign of an amateur–never tell a publisher or an agent what draft number you’re working on. They do not care. No one does. Will explains that he means that he wants someone else, a “more experienced author,” to do the rewriting. I must say that I’ve never heard about anything like this. In the movie business, sure; in the movie business, you’re lucky if any resemblance of the first draft makes its way onscreen at all, and it’s not uncommon to use as many as twelve different writers on the same script. (This is also why most movies suck.) But in the book world? I don’t know. I’ve heard of book doctors, ghost-writing, and co-writing, but not this. Kam asks for details about these flaws, and Will obliges her with a long list that does nothing to negate his earlier praise of the work: story incoherence, weak characterizations, florid, purple prose in parts. He pauses to flip through the manuscript and points out a redundant passage, musing over a misspelled word, which is hilarious and in-character. Kam hears laughter in the restaurant, as Will’s voice intones, “Immature ... naive ... cliche ... weak ...” I think that this is all in her head. And then Andrew Black completely assassinates Kam’s character.
Now, I know that she’s an “artist” and all that, with a fragile ego, and that she doesn’t like Will, despite that he’s been nothing but polite around her. But, she’s also a first-time unpublished novelist. Her desire to be published is more than enough to override her stupid dislike of an entirely likeable character. Moreover, she knows he likes her, because he told her so, and it’s obvious he still carries the torch. Why not use that? I’m not saying she should whore herself out, but try saying, “I understand that my book needs work–I expected to get some criticism from the publisher, and I’m fully ready to do whatever it takes to make the novel the best it can be. But I’m not really comfortable turning my novel over to another writer. Let me try my hand at revising it first, and if I can’t make it what you want, I’ll go elsewhere.” Because, like I said, she’s an unpublished novelist. And he owns a publishing company. And he has a crush on her. Please, someone, do the math! He wants to publish the book, and all he needs is a little nudge in the right direction! Asking for the right to revise your own material isn’t ridiculous, even screenwriters have the rights to the first revision. If there was any possibility in the audience’s mind, or in Kam’s mind, that he set this meeting up to humiliate her, then I could excuse her hissy-fit, but there’s not; we saw how surprised he was to see her; he read the book and formed his opinion of if before he knew she wrote it; Janice agrees with him; it’s an objective analysis! Throw a tantrum every time your writing is criticized, and you will never be published. So, basically what this scene amounts to is this. Will: I want to publish your book! Kam: How dare you! *Throws glass of water at him and stalks out.*
“Is this about you turning me down?” she blurts out. Yes, Kam. Every time he is turned down for a date, he criticizes an unpublished novelist. He has to get his kicks somehow. Poor Will starts to say that their personal life has nothing to do with this, but Kam is incensed at his use of the first person plural possessive pronoun. Will insists that “our” judgment, meaning his and Janice’s, is totally “fair, honest, and impartial.” And it was, because he didn’t know who she was when he read it! God! Will is a little pissed, and offers to give her some recommendations if she wants to take the work someplace else. Take his offer! Take it! Kam, ignoring me, goes on a rant about how she can totally take criticism, and she actually felt sorry for him when he asked her out and she turned him down like he was something on the bottom of her shoes that needed to be scraped off, but actually she wasn’t nearly mean enough because Will is a mean, mean, mean, mean person. “How dare you! How dare you bring me here to humiliate and insult me?” Um, hello. He didn’t. He didn’t know who you were. Shut up. She brings up Will’s totally deserved criticism of Rainy Day Mary. “And then you come to my work, and in front of my boss, you tell me I’m strange?” Actually, he asked to speak to you privately so your boss wouldn’t overhear, and he never said you were strange. Loud, yes, disorganized, yes, condescending, yes, with embarrassing friends, yes. Strangely attractive, yes, but not strange. She finally brings up something kind of substantial, namely Will’s supposed breaking of Jack’s alleged heart by unsuccessfully bribing him to stop seeing Will’s sister. Oh, boy, that’s damning. Eye-roll. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Will ices. Yeah, mind your own fucking business, you persnickety gossip. Then, for no reason at all, Kam wildly supposes that Will broke up Charlie and Juanita. “You are the most sorry, sad man I have ever met, and I don’t want you anywhere near my book!” Kam finishes. Will just sits there, like, okaaaaay? PMS much?
“Pasta for the lady?” the waiter offers. The faux-Beatles gear up as Kam leaps out of her seat, grabs her manuscript, and throws her drink into Will’s face. And then she drives a wooden stack through the last remaining vestige of her likeableness.
Okay, it was totally a fantasy sequence! “Pasta for the lady?” the waiter offers. Kam’s hands are shaking so badly she knocks her glass of water onto her manuscript. She grabs it and manages to knock over the tray of food on her way out. Poor Will is befuddled and upset, but dry. Which is good, because if she really did throw a glass of water at his face because he had the gall to suggest her book was less than perfect, I really would be cheering for her death the rest of the movie. Well, not death, maybe. Her total disappearance from my screen, I guess.
This second part covers the second thirty minutes of the movie, which, in total, is 100 minutes long.
I love this review. I got this movie for like, eight bucks just because I could and I love P&P. And I'm LDS, and I still think it's only good to laugh at. If they had changed the names, maybe it would have had a fighting chance, but I can only shake my head and laugh at the cheesiness of it all. Well, and swoon over Darcy. ♥ And look for places that I know.
I got the soundtrack free with the movie, too. It's not half-bad. A weird mix, but not bad music.