Eat. Pray. Snore.

Having enjoyed Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat. Pray. Love. for its lively diction, exotic travelogue and happily-ever-after narrative arc, I eagerly anticipated the movie. But it's one thing to write a compelling memoir about a largely interior journey and quite another to film it.

Still, I wonder, whether director Ryan Murphy might have found other ways to externalize this tale besides showing Julia Roberts shopping for bigger, pasta-accommodating jeans in Rome (note to Murphy: we don't need to lie down in order to zip up, anymore, they put lycra in everything today) or Richard Jenkins' power-hosing her with dialogue?

For her part, Roberts, who can light up a screen with her incisors alone, looked as if someone had slipped her quaaludes before filmming for all the joy she seemed to take in these beautiful locales.

Where was the rhapsodizing about the food? Where were the struggles with sitting meditation and yoga? Where was the light and heart and humor?

It's easy to dismiss Gilbert's memoir as indulgent and privileged. (Box wine, Fred Astaire DVD's and some ill-considered cashmere purchases constitute a more realistic prescription for soured love.) But her writing was strong and funny and showed hunger and spirit. The movie? The best thing about it were the scarves. 

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