There’s an irony at play in the idea of a Hollywood movie about female body image. It’s a bit like getting Pol Pot to make a film about human rights. Not surprisingly, this grindingly repetitive comedy misfires, not least because it fails to see the problem in arguing that we should love ourselves as we are, flaws and lumps and all, while simultaneously mining for yuks the premise of a normal-looking woman (Amy Schumer) who suddenly believes that she’s a world-class hottie.
In addressing unrealistic expectations and low self-esteem – universal girl angst – the film is well intentioned. But, like a few too many films churned out of the predominantly male studio system and marketed to a female audience, you get a sense that, deep down, it doesn’t have a particularly high opinion of women. The characterisation is so shallow, we barely scrape below the immaculately applied foundation. Schumer’s character, Renee, may believe herself transformed after a head injury at a spin class, but the one thing that doesn’t change, before and after the brain trauma, is the character’s wearisome self-obsession.
