Film

A vile, unwarranted assault on the reputation of a great writer, if not a libel against literacy itself, this dramedy just plain sucks.

Five two-dimensional middle-class hosebags from three different generations (greatest, boomer and Y) decide that a monthly book club devoted to Austen is just the ticket to cheer up the two depressives in their midst. One of the mopes is a commitment-shy dog breeder (Bello) who’s just lost her beloved canine stud; the other is a wife and mom (Brenneman) whose husband (Smits) has dumped her for another woman.

A chronic matchmaker, Bello recruits the group’s only male member (Dancy) in the hope that he’ll throw a fuck in Brenneman’s direction, thus restoring the latter’s shattered self-esteem. Dancy’s character is a nerdy sci-fi fan as imagined by someone with purely theoretical knowledge of nerds, sci-fi and maleness, and pretty soon it’s an open question which of the women will be lucky enough to bag this paragon of sensitivity and emotional availability. Meanwhile, one of the younger women (Blunt) struggles with the impulse to betray her knuckle-dragging, sports-loving, non-Austen-reading husband with a barely legal high-school dreamboat.

As six months and six books go by, glasses of wine are hoisted, fatuous interpretations of the works of Austen are put forth and warm feelings are shared. Hurl.