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Canwest News Service
If you're flying home for the holidays, you'll likely get sucked into the inflight entertainment. When you do, you'll likely relate to James Parker's essay on Nora Ephron, Nancy Meyers and the sentimental strain in American cinema found in this month's Atlantic. He writes: "When it comes to movie consumption, there's no truer democrat in America than the slightly inebriated airline passenger. You've observed it, I'm sure — how at a certain altitude, and after a certain number of Bloody Marys, every prejudice of class and gender begins to be dissolved; how in that strange and hurtling passivity the grandmother in the aisle seat will submit with a kind of rapture to The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, while the tattooed young man by the window gratefully dabs his eyes at the last frames of 27 Dresses. … [On the ground] the moviegoer sticks sourly and soberly to his or her demographic bracket, and the films of writer-directors Nora Ephron and Nancy Meyers are dismissed as 'chick flicks.' "
