This movie is completely trite and unoriginal. I should say "trite and hackneyed," because really it deserves only clichés for descriptors. Its feeble efforts at self-reflexivity fail every time. In the conversation discussing whether true love is a process or a lightning bolt, the screenwriter has the audacity to claim (through the mouth of a character) that this story tells us which it is. But it doesn't! At all! And no on-screen disclaimers are capable of explaining away Brittany Murphy's EMBARRASSING accent, nor can empty pseudo-self-referentiality redeem the film (in truth, the movie doesn't reference itself, it just mindlessly, impotently appropriates the concept of self-reference from movies past). Watching this movie is like spending an hour and a half staring at the tackiest lawn in town while filling your stomach with cheap greasy fast food and ignoring profiteers bulldozing civilization's entire cultural and artistic heritage in your peripheral vision. It's a cheapened reproduction of a reproduction of a reproduction. A simulacrum. A gaudy hunk of cubic zirconium that you can't wait to forget. The only penance this movie offers for the crime of its existence is this: it ends.