A review of the film Sisters
Tina Fey and Amy Poehler are sick of you, of me, of us. You know who we are: us proud female dweebs of this world who always self-described as too smart and too ugly, while others simply shrugged us off as “quite OK” and just “slightly annoying.” But at least we’re funny! Not in a manic pixie girl kind of way obviously, we aren’t effortlessly hip or good enough at karaoke, but funny in a way that makes us think we’re saying what everyone else thinks, without ever giving them the chance to claim otherwise. And that’s why Fey and Poehler agreed to make the film Sisters, to get rid of us saddos once and for all.
In it, your perfectly imperfect idols obliterate any opportunity for you to turn to your best girl pal and claim “that’s so us!” There’s literally not one joke about loving cheese. Sisters is directed by Jason Moore, that guy who made Pitch Perfect, and is written by Paula Pell, a writer on Saturday Night Live since forever, supposedly, which could lead some of us to think that maybe Fey, Poehler and others who make a cameo, like Maya Rudolph and Rachel Dratch, owed ol’ Pell a favour. “Fuck it! We won’t even read your shite script! We’re in!” they all yelled, pulling hilarious faces and swapping their best Walken impressions, before reading out the homophobic lines and terrible dick jokes.
Poehler plays Maura Ellis, a kind of (very) poor man’s Leslie Knope, who works as a nurse and is dismayed to learn that her parents are selling their house, because they’re old. She calls on her sister Kate (Fey) to come back from wherever she’s living and have one last blowout in their childhood home. While Poehler fills in the role of the uptight, bland woman whose kooky hijinks include an unfortunate situation involving a man’s anus and a doll, Fey takes her tits out to show that she can play a mom who much rather party and perform awkward dance numbers than take care of her whiny teenage daughter. The film mainly plays out like a middle-aged take on Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion and might consequently best be enjoyed by people who still quote that film because it somehow reminds them of their childhood, albeit if they’d gone blind and deaf and developed slightly worst taste.
So, fine, Fey and Poehler, my brethren of funny-looking females will leave you be for now, you obviously don’t want us binge-watching episodes of 30 Rock and Parks & Rec in our “house pants” while wildly mass texting “it’s wine o’clock somewhere!” at a time of the day deemed utterly, wildly inappropriate (by us). Your future film choices make it clear that you’re looking for a more career-driven, Sandra Bullock kind of crowd anyway. We’re tearing up our handmade Fey Real! t-shirts and forgetting you.
So, bollocks! We’ve still got Schumer anyway.