
It is a movie about two women. Here is an incomplete list of what one of the women did: worked for the O.S.S.; married a man who served his country for his entire life and then was suspected of Communism by disciples of Senator McCarthy; fought institutional sexism in France; took eight years to write a seminal French cookbook that still stands as the best of its kind in English; and went on to become a decidedly un-gorgeous television star. The other woman took eight years to write a novel that went nowhere, worked for the government trying to help 9/11 victims, and then blogged about cooking every recipe in the aforementioned French cookbook.
I wish this were just a Julia Child biopic. I would have loved to see Meryl Streep perform the entire arc of Julia Child's life, because it was a full, whole life. Julie Powell's story is a publicity stunt that a lot of journalists wrote about because it made for easy copy. There is one achievement and one gimmick, and they are both given equal narrative weight. The movie just isn't balanced properly.
There is a problem, too, with the twinned climaxes of the film: Being published simply isn't enough to build a movie on. It's not satisfying enough a climax, not active or cathartic enough. This is why there have only been two movies about writers that have ever been successful. This is not one of those movies.
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