'Julie & Julia:' I'm Still Nuking My Asparagus

Let's call it the cinematic equivalent of bad Chinese. When I sat down to savor a huge helping of Meryl Streep (and suffer through some de rigueur Amy Adams) in "Julie & Julia," I expected the movie would do for food what "The Devil Wears Prada" did for fashion -- infiltrate and inspire. Two hours and as many bad wigs later I was left . . . unsatisfied.

Unlike Melinda, who only "likes" Meryl Streep, I could watch La Streep chop onions for hours and then thank her for making my eyes red. Still, I doubt that like Alex, I'll be shelling out 22 clams for "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." Not because I'm above shamelessly nonsubliminal movie marketing, but because this particular movie just wasn't marketing to me.

Blogger Julie Powell's "I'm turning 30 and my life totally sucks because I live in Brooklyn" attitude is as cliche as all these new cupcake cafes popping up in every major city. Cupcakes are not new, people! And neither is a "third of your life" crisis. Now having just finished writing a book on being in your late 20s and arriving late to the grown-up party, I'm totally familiar with and sympathetic to the growing-pains dilemma, but instead of relating to Julie, I just wanted her to shut up for one second. Compare that to Anne Hathaway's Andy Sachs in "The Devil Wears Prada." She's the plucky college grad who probably thinks a Pulitzer is in her future and who -- despite being a touch narcissistic -- totally wins over the audience.

Speaking of falling, for me, J Squared's only redeeming quality is Julia and Paul's love story. Director Nora Ephron doesn't shy away from the Childs' passion or exploit it. Afternoon tea for the two old folks? Try afternoon delights. "I would go to school in the morning," Julia Child once said in an interview, "then for lunch time, I would go home and make love to my husband." And she was 34 when they got married (See, Mom!).

Unfortunately, the film, having been inspired by Powell's book "Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen," was obligated to rhythmically skip back to the dry ingredients that make up Powell's narrative -- whiny almost-30-year-old, boring job, dingy apartment, dorky husband. And try as she might, Ephron's deejaying skills simply weren't good enough.