Movie Review: The Back-Up Plan

by Amy on April 24, 2010 · 0 comments

“If I don’t meet Mr. Right by the time I’m 40, I’ll just visit the sperm bank and take matters into my own hands.”  This was an easy statement back when 40 was a distant star in the bright sky that was my future.  Anyway, it’s not like I ever thought I’d need the sperm-bank option.  By 40 I’d be sharing middle age with a husband and two kids and a family dog…like everyone else.

Forty is now looming, and, because no one is like everyone else, the husband and two kids simply never materialized for me.  I can’t force the husband issue, and I’m content to let that chapter of my future write itself.  But I do have the power to try to build myself a family ― if I want to exercise it.  I can adopt, or freeze my eggs, or take out a loan at my local sperm bank.  None of these options are foolproof, and none are easy.  So I’d love to put off this decision and let matters unfold naturally, but science tells me I need to make my move now if I want to play the game.  “Plan B has arrived,” it whispers in my ear.

Which is why, although critics have slammed the new movie The Back-Up Plan as a cliché chick flick, I caught it with my friend Alessandra last night.  I was curious how Hollywood would treat a subject that’s non-Hollywood reality for many of us who find ourselves single at the eleventh hour of our ticking clock.

My opinion on the movie:  Yeah, right.

Zoe, the supposed EveryGirl in the film, is played by an inhumanly gorgeous Jennifer Lopez.

Yeah, right.

Zoe meets Mr. Right literally upon leaving the sperm-bank clinic after getting inseminated.

Yeah, right.

Mr. Right owns a picture-perfect organic cheese farm in the country but happens to be a sophisticated city guy in his spare time.

Yeah, right. 

Zoe, the only pretty chick in her single mothers support group, is the only one to get the guy.

Okay, yes.

Everyone else in her single mothers support group is weird or annoying or freaky.

Yeah, right.

Mr. Right rescues Zoe from having to address any of the complex issues sure to arise from mothering a sperm-bank baby.

Yeah, right.

Let’s just say I didn’t leave the theater with any answers.  And I didn’t bump into Mr. Right as I was leaving, either, say, accidentally knocking the popcorn out of his hand and getting into a heated debate over butter versus no butter.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  Hollywood was only doing its job.  And, in the end, my life is not a movie, and neither is my decision.

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