Have you ever been to a wedding where you didn’t actually know the bride and groom? Maybe you were a plus one or the neighbor’s kid, added last minute to fill a seat? Well, that’s how I felt at the nuptials in Ted Demme’s Rachel Getting Married. I spent much of the film wondering, “Why am I here? I don’t even know these people.” And yet I still had to sit through the endless speeches at their rehearsal dinner, ceremony, and reception, and all the awkward family drama that littered each and every scene. Maybe I was supposed to think, “Wow, this couple’s diversity and love of eclectic traditions and music warms my heart.” But when I wasn’t rolling my eyes, I was looking at the clock.

The awkwardness I felt was very intentional. As a voyeuristic audience member I was nervous and uncomfortable when dysfunctional Kim (Anne Hathaway) came home from rehab for the wedding. Kim, who only thinks of herself and shits on everyone just to make sure she is in the spotlight at all times. Always self-deprecating, always holier-than-thou. From the get-go I couldn’t stand her, but was that Kim or was it Anne Hathaway, the bubbly teen from Princess Diaries all grown up? The fact that her character annoyed me so much means she must have done something right!

The family saga is complex and heartbreaking, and not one of them—from Tom Irwin’s impressive performance as the desperate father; Debra Winger as the detached mother; or the fed-up sister, excellently played by Rosemary DeWitt—knows how to deal with their problems, either individually or collectively. It is for that reason that each family scene is so painful. For years they’ve been bottling up their pain and misdirecting their emotional support. Sounds just like a real family!

As you are consistently slapped in the face by skeletons-in-the-closet, it becomes increasingly clear that this family’s problems are not going to be resolved within the span of a weekend wedding or a two hour movie. If anything, I left feeling drained, depressed, and dissatisfied. Characters may have come face-to-face with their problems and gotten a few gripes of their chests, but nothing was resolved. The elephant remained rigid in the room. Not just that—the elephant crashed the reception, caught the bouquet, and probably shagged the priest.

But I realize I may be in the minority. This movie did pretty well and earned Anne Hathaway an Oscar nomination—the performances were definitely the highlight. Overall, I felt that there wasn’t enough happiness to forgive the sadness, enough growth to make up for the selfishness, or enough cake to send me a slice through the ethers. Maybe Netflix can work on that last part.

Last night I dreamed an infomercial. Over and over again, no matter what else was going on in my dream, I kept coming back to this infomercial. Actually, it was more of a celebrity interview, but there was an underlying psychology being peddled to viewers:

Tome Cruise, the spokesperson, sat at a long table brimming with boiled cabbage, legumes, lettuce—a bevy of healthy, low calorie items. When the camera panned in for a close-up, Tom began fervently cutting into the boiled cabbage with a knife and fork. “Mmm,” he said, widening his eyes with gusto, “this pork roast looks fantastic!” And taking a big bite, he moaned with delight.
Next, he speared a carrot stick and chomped into it, rolling his eyes toward the heavens.
“You see,” he explained, stretching his arms wide around the table, “I am a pretendetarian. I can eat the foods I love–fries, ice cream, pasta–and still maintain a sleek physique, just by pretending that my boiled beets are really beef wellington; my carrot sticks are greasy fries; and cabbage wedges are potato chips.”
Then, Tom Cruise wrapped his fist around a huge bowl of sprouts and drove them into his mouth with a grin. He chewed with euphoria, and I imagined the rich sinful taste of spaghetti carbonara instead of those thin, wispy seedlings.

Okay, so it was a very strange dream, but when I woke up I couldn’t stop thinking of Pretendetarianism. I’ve heard the term before, but it usually refers to people who say they’re vegetarians but actually aren’t (do they scarf burgers in the closet, or what?). But this type of Pretendetarian is more motivated by a fantasy, mind-over-matter, or “emperor’s new clothes” style of culinary indulgence.

Could be a great diet. I’ll give it a try and let you know.