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Artificial and reeking of white privilege, this is the kind of movie that causes regular folks to shake their heads and mutter things about "entitlement" when speaking of the "Hollywood elite."
Home Again doesn't seem to be particularly concerned with story development - probably a fifth of the movie is made up of montages, all jaunty music and well-lit actors more fitting in a sunscreen commercial.
Witherspoon is a genuine fireball, and it takes a lot to muffle her high spirits in a blanket of bland. So congratulations, Home Again. Against all odds, you've done it.
As the credits roll, it can be said that Home Again is a tight, witty script from a first-time director with a long list of hits ahead of her - and, of course, the golden age of Hollywood dynasties lighting her way.
Witherspoon, so good in her passion project Wild, mugs it mercilessly for the camera. It's as if she, too, is wrong-footed by the lack of canned laughter.
Witherspoon lacks the abandon the May-December love angle requires, and the movie is so tidily formulaic that it feels as if it's been airbrushed; the send-up of Hollywood falls flat too.