How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Cute
I despise how precious this movie is. I hate that it’s so mannered that it might as well come with a sweater, and I loathe its fake-quirky conventionality. But most of all, I hate the feeling that it’s as engineered to fit the established tastes of white intellectuals and critics as Yogi Bear was to fit children and morons.
So when, like a girl scout, Our Idiot Brother arrives at my door in its quasi-fascistic outfit, selling sugary treats of no nutritional value to raise money for some dubious cause, I’m eager to boot it down the steps or yank it off its little pink bike by the pigtails. I am a thinking adult. I am not fooled by your dimpled fake smiles or shiny merit badges. But… what’s that you say? Your treats are made of Paul Rudd and his unconditional love for a golden retriever? Paul Rudd and a golden retriever? But… but… that’s… cheating! Paul Rudd is already a human golden retriever! COME BACK! I’LL TAKE A THOUSAND BOXES! A MILLION! EVERY BOX YOU HAVE! I DEMAND TO KNOW WHERE THE FACTORY IS!
90 minutes later I am comatose. Broke, bloated and covered in shame tears, but content. You have beaten me, Our Idiot Brother. You have pandered to a demographic, and that demographic was me.







