Baseball-free movie review: Prime

Have you seen Annie Hall?

So has Ben Younger.

It’s hard for me to talk trash about Younger, since he wrote and directed Boiler Room, one of the most surprisingly enjoyable movies of the last few years. He also has a lovely first name, and we Bens like to stick together. Except for Affleck, that is.

But as one of the wigger side-characters in Prime would say, the movie was a madBoiler phat dissappointment. It was a "New York movie" clearly written by someone who no longer lives in New York. It was a love story for someone who had watched a lot of love stories. And it was for the most part, a blatant attempt to mimic the spirit of one of the best movies ever made, which is never a good idea.

From the "but she’s not Jewish" thing, to the focus on psychiatry, to the uneasy trip to the Hamptons, right down to the somber, tear-jerky ending montage, it was a cut-rate Annie Hall all the way through. And why was it called Prime? I have no idea. But at least he didn’t go the Annie Hall route and call the movie Rafi Gardet. That would have made it even worse.
Prime
Prime is watchable, but nothing more.

Rating: Shallow fly out to right.

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