Stop Confessing

While sitting around the other day, watching my likely-made-for-women television programming (this because of all the tampon commercials), I saw a preview for a new movie Confessions of a Shopaholic. The story is apparently about some girl that loves to shop and ends up working for some sort of economical living periodical (at least that's what I think it might slightly be about). It could be a totally alright movie, maybe not my cup of orange ginger tea, but surely someone out there might like it. I'm not upset about the consumerist dreams that movies like this instill in receptive minds throughout urban, suburban, and forgotten rural America. No, it will clearly be a romantic comedy glorifying the overly consumptive tradition of American culture through somewhat ironic jest. The thing that bothers me is the title. Why does it have to be labeled as a confessions piece? Is the movie really going to be some shopaholic standing in front of the camera listing off their shopping-related confessions?

No, it clearly won't be a list of confessions. The thing is though, in addition to promoting buy-a-philic behavior, it's perpetuating an absolutely miserable movie making habit: making films called Confessions of a Blah Blah Blah.

Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen
Confessions of a Sushi Addict
Confessions of a Thug
Confessione di un commissario di polizia al procuratore della republica

These movies have three things in common: (1) they all have the same word in the title, (2) I've never seen any of them, and (3) despite not having seen any of them I am unbelievably confident that they suck. Oh yeah, they also aren't really confessions at all. In order to confess to something, it has to be something that brings shame to you (hence the whole confession part) and will most likely leave you broken in a rubble of excommunicated bits and bobs. It's not a confession if, upon disclosing this terribly ordinary secret, you fall in love, or are hugged, or are somehow given a nugget of undue respect.

I'm sure the sushi lover was embraced by his sushi hating stepfather. The thug probably got given a record deal, or wrote a book about the streets. The drama queen probably lived a fairy tale life (actually, she probably got birthing hips, bad skin, and an inexplicable infatuation with small stuffed collectible animals). I can't read Spanish (is that in Spanish). The shopaholic will undoubtedly reveal her true identity at the thrifty financial magazine and fall into the arms of some impossibly dashing jackass (not so dashing when he gets drunk and threatens to kick my ass at a bar for calling him a fascist is he?).

The question is, will you be happy for her? Will you envy her? Will her "confession" have moved you to stop buying all the stupid crap your credit report can't possibly justify? Probably not. It'll probably send you to the coupon section where you'll try to find a deal on something that looks like something you saw someone wear or do on TV once. Luckily for us, your frivolous consumerism is exactly what we need right now.