As we all know, a thank you note must always be hand written, preferably on a lovely creme-colored stock in indigo ink from a heavy fountain pen that allows the words of gratitude to flow smoothly from its nib. This is why cursive must not be allowed to disappear from our public schools, because a heartfelt message inscribed with your own hand is really the only way to convey the depths of your thanks. “TY GRAM 4 the $$!” will simply not cut it.

So I must apologize for doing this in an electronic format. While it goes against every fiber of my being, I simply do not have time to send a stamped envelope to everyone in Hollywood, so I must resort to the internet, as we so often do. Please imagine this as lovingly crafted note, full of flourish and proper punctuation. As you would expect, my penmanship is excellent.

Dear Twentieth Century Fox,
Thank you so much for distributing the new buddy film, The Heat. In a summer where the term “sausage fest” would not be hyperbole, having a movie that stars two women was a like an icy, delicious treat for our parched throats. I saw it the first weekend it opened; so did just about everyone else I know, some who even happened to be men. It’s not that we don’t appreciate the guys in tights and exploding robots that are always there; it’s just that occasionally (maybe more than once every three years?), it’s fun to go see the cinematic equivalent of coming home and taking off your bra. It’s relaxing and liberating!

Dear Katie Dippold,
Thanks, girl, for learning so much during your stint as a writer on Parks & Recreation that you could write a feature film and get it produced on your first try! I have no doubt that working with the fabulous Amy Pohler helped you tap into the sometimes mysterious and hilarious ways that Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy might work a little bit differently than oh say, Danny Glover and Mel Gibson. The fact that you have a vagina probably helped, too.

Dear Paul Feig,
Since you are now apparently the only director working in Hollywood who can direct a film that features women and makes money, I would like express my gratitude and ask if you could be a little more prolific. Two movies in three years may seem like a quick turnaround to you but it feels like a freaking eternity to those us in the seats wishing we had just a couple more options that could pass the Bechdel Test. Bridesmaids was great and this one was lots of fun, but maybe you could toss a mercy script to Kathyrn Bigelow and tell the suits that you’re making it and they won’t notice.

I’d also like to mention how thankful I am that you did not have your leading ladies engage in two time worn traditions: The Pratfall and The Undercover Hooker. True, there is a scene where Melissa McCarthy tries to glam up Sandra Bullock, but it’s to make her blend into the club scene “because she looks like she’s there to do the crowd’s taxes.” You didn’t put them in gratuitous stilettos and fish nets or have them hilariously fall down a flight of stairs – the laughs came from the way the characters interacted and that seems kind of revolutionary for this kind of movie.

Dear Sandy,
May I call you Sandy? I’d like you to know how much I appreciate you coming back to comedy after picking up that gold statuette for The Blind Side. This movie was essentially Miss Congeniality 3 for you, but you were a gracious straight (wo)man for Melissa, and that’s the sign of a true pro. Loved the cat joke, even though the NYTimes review spoiled/hated it.

Dear Melissa,
Where do I start? I don’t understand why I find you as funny as I do, but you have a way with a line reading that seems totally original to me. Your commitment to the absurdity of your characters, your fearlessness in the way you move, your complete confidence in your innate sexiness make you a screen persona that one cannot ignore. Thank you for showing Hollywood that not only are women funny but they can actually open a movie and not be crammed inside a small box that dictates we should all look like Sandra Bullock (don’t tell Sandy I said that).

In conclusion, my enduring gratitude to all of you who worked together to give me a delightful couple of hours out of the heat with The Heat. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare (that would be the next review) but it sure was better than The Lone Ranger.

Sincerely,
flicksthatmakemesick

Barf Bag Rating: ZERO BAGS, unless you don’t like emergency tracheotomies performed with a steak knife. Then it would be a TWO BAGGER.