When Confessions of a Shopaholic, directed by PJ Hogan, of Muriel’s Wedding acclaim, was released in 2009 – a year that brought us the high-octane, male-dominated likes of The Hangover, Sherlock Holmes and Inglorious Basterds – it was the tail end of the romcom’s golden age. And, just like its genre-mates released that year – Bride Wars, He’s Just Not That Into You, Ghosts of Girlfriends Past – Shopaholic received a wave of scathing reviews, weighing in at just 26% on Rotten Tomatoes.
A good chunk of the criticism surrounding Shopaholic centred upon its tone-deaf timing: a movie released during a global recession about a young woman addicted to shopping, whose desire for Gucci boots and Marc Jacobs underwear leaves her in over $16,000 of debt. “If you spin out the unintended analogy of Confessions of a Shopaholic to the current financial crisis, the film starts to mutate from a not-that-funny comedy into a tragic allegory,” wrote Slate. The film was called loud (it is), a hybrid of The Devil Wears Prada and Sex and the City (it was) and an ode to materialism (although it’s more like a cautionary tale), but despite all of this, I find myself returning to it, like a perfectly lived-in leather jacket.
In order for a romcom to work, it has to feature a compelling protagonist, look pretty, and generally follow the classic screwball blueprint of comedy stylings and romantic dynamics. Honestly? Confessions of a Shopaholic has a closet-full of these elements. Isla Fisher, carrying the movie on her petite shoulders, is flawlessly cast as neophyte journalist Rebecca Bloomwood. Fisher’s natural effervescence and keen sense of comedic timing endears us to Rebecca, a character who could easily read unsympathetic. To me, she’s a modern Carole Lombard, clutching a flip-phone, decked out in Patricia Field jewel tones and statement jewellery – able to pratfall into a glass door and display a sweet vulnerability in the same scene.
As is made clear during the movie’s opening moments, Rebecca’s spending compulsion can be traced back to her childhood. It’s the 1980s, and a young Rebecca and her mom Jane (the fabulous Joan Cusack) are shopping. The thrifty Jane opts to buy her daughter a sensible, durable pair of shoes instead of the glittery fast-fashion pumps the camera has panned so tantalisingly across. Of course, these are what a plethora of Rebecca’s classmates are being treated to at that very moment. If you’ll allow me to go armchair psychologist in a piece about Confessions of a Shopaholic, it’s a painful experience to feel “less than” as a child. The deep, unreasonable shame that comes from not possessing whatever the current iteration of youthful cool is. “There were real prices and mom prices,” Rebecca narrates wistfully – I’m sure many of us will remember being told something was too expensive as a child, only for one of our friends to turn up with The Coveted Thing soon after.
Flash-forward to the present, and Rebecca is a person that equates the finer things – lavender honey, spa appointments, designer everything – with happiness. They are her armour and part of a pattern of learned behaviour resulting in dopamine release, “When I shop, the world gets better, is better. Then it’s not any more, and I have to do it again,” she says. On the surface, Rebecca might be materialistic, a pawn in a capitalist society that proposes luxury is attainable to the malleable consumer, but is it a stretch to see it more as seeking tangible self-worth?! “They said I was a valued customer, now they send me hate mail,” Rebecca laments to her best friend Suze (the always fantastic Krysten Ritter) as they comb through overdue bills, emphasis on her desirability in the eyes of, of all things, her bank. When sent to a Shopaholics Anonymous group (a cringeworthy scene that attempts and fails at comedy, but, like so much of the film, has good intentions) Rebecca describes feeling “confident, alive and happy” when she shops. Who among us can’t relate to chasing this.
While Rebecca might be fiscally irresponsible to the extreme, it’s to Shopaholic’s credit (ha!) that the film makes sure we know she’s good at her job – a talented writer with excellent interpersonal skills and a unique voice. Is it a tad condescending that her column at financial magazine Successful Saving essentially explains finance to the reader through fashion analogies, comparing store card APR rates to a half price cashmere coat? Sure. Is it a savvy angle? Absolutely. Equally refreshing is that the romantic plot with Rebecca’s hot, entrepreneurial boss Luke (Hugh Dancy) isn’t suffocating, more of a pleasant little bonus (their meet-cute occurs at a hot-dog stand! They have good eye contact! He is familiar with Prada menswear!) and Dancy has decent chemistry with Fisher, playing off her schtick as the perpetually half-amused straight man.
Despite the clunkiness and seriously ill-advised release timing, at its core, the film is attempting to comment on financial responsibility and more generally, what it looks like to screw up in your 20s. It’s about recklessly doing tequila shots off of your bills, instead of paying them. Impulsive decisions that backfire, like hocking all your clothes, including your bridesmaids dress for your best friend’s wedding, then panicking and buying back only a cocktail dress for a work event. Making hyperbolic statements like “if I could get this job, I’d be happy forever,” and “I’m turning my life around!”, because you really do believe them. In earnest, I find this very silly film very relatable. It’s well-paced, fluffy fare, heavy on the shimmer sound effects and heavy on the colour-popping palette. And most significantly, it reminds me that possessing 12 credit cards is absolutely terrifying.