I went and saw Bridesmaids last night. It’s a type of film I only intermittently enjoy, but the web buzz was enough to get me out to a theater. Even my favorite mainstream feminist film critics gave it resounding praise, with Dana Stevens even writing,
Hallelujah and praise the Lord for Paul Feig’s Bridesmaids (Universal), a movie we’ve been awaiting for what feels like forever. At long last, we have a smart comedy with dumb jokes—a giddy feminist manifesto that responds to the perennially circulated head-scratcher “Can women really be funny?” with a whoopee-cushion fart. I loved virtually every minute of Bridesmaids and forgave its few missteps the way you forgive your best friend for being a good-hearted klutz.
I saw pieces on whether or not it was a feminist film all over the place: feministing, zunguzungu, The AV Club, Salon, Alternet, The American Prospect. It seemed that this was not just another piece of pop culture that was getting coverage because of its ubiquity (Twilight, Transformers) that my friends were seeing merely to debunk. This was something they were embracing and adopting as their own. After two weeks, I gave in and bought a ticket.
My first reaction to the film was disappointment. Was I missing something? Was I a bad feminist??