Just Like Heaving
Wherein a ghost and my gorge compete to see which rises first.
BY GREGORY WEINKAUF
Vaguely-known movie critics like to use the term “full disclosure” a lot (in addition to claiming to be peaceniks, then
describing the violent and physically impossible ways they’d like to kill their alleged oppressors for revealing spoilers --
often done within the same paragraph). Well, I don’t have much for you in the way of revenge fantasies or spoilers
(though I am an eternal peacenik)…but I do have a double-dose of full disclosure for you. Dig:
1. The director of Just Like Heaven is a relation of a friend of mine, and we grew up only a few blocks away from each
other, and we both liked Freddie Mercury a whole lot, thus there is absolutely no way for me to be objective about this
movie. (I tried with Mean Girls, and liked it quite a bit, Dear Paramount, but the conflict of interests is definitely pretty
solid with this DreamWorks offering as well. And yet, surprise, sometimes we are harder on those we love. This
dilemma grows more complex with A History of Violence in a couple of weeks.)
2. Due to a weirdly early start-time, I missed the first few minutes of Just Like Heaven, thus those minutes are not to be
reviewed here. I accept in advance the consequences and hate-mail for daring to be cheeky about this movie from a
position of very mild ignorance -- given, of course, that I've seen all the movies upon whose still-fresher graves it
dances. (Afterward, incidentally, I was told what happened by a person who likes to tell what happened.) Life goes on.
Or does it? This, of course, is the basic premise of Just Like Heaven: Is it worth the trouble to fall in love with the ghost
of an annoying person? Now, you may be thinking to yourself: “Hey, he’s a cinéma critic and he’s got (shudder!) a
German surname -- must be a total wretch, this fellow. What does he know about romance?” Well, actually, I’m
remarkably nice. Unless -- and this is a big unless -- I am forced to deal with outrageously stupid, selfish, mean-spirited
and/or horrid people (been there, too long), which prompts me to mock them vigorously. Everyone should do this. If
people practiced this, for instance, we’d have a useful and respectable government.
But I digress. The point is that I’m no wretch, and I welcome romantic comedies of reasonable freshness, yet during
lunch with a splendid person last week, I was illuminated beyond the generic billboard design of Just Like Heaven by
being told its basic plot. “Oh no,” I replied glumly (paraphrased), “so there’s gonna be a stupid shower scene in which
the protagonist pulls back the curtain and the ghost-woman is there and he freaks out -- ha-ha-ha, what fun.”
Well, as it turns out, by the time I centered the remains of my frazzled attention upon the screen, that is exactly what
happened. (For those old enough to be familiar with Laurie Anderson: “Oh no, right…again; Let X = X.”) Jesus. My
breathing was returning to normal and my sweat was beginning to dry as I gazed up at charming landscape-artist David
(Mark Ruffalo) doing a rudimentary freak-out montage featuring the omnipresent spirit of persnickety Elizabeth (Reese
Witherspoon) -- “persnickety” being the most generous word I can select, given that, for the duration of the movie, I
really didn’t like Elizabeth at all, ghost or no ghost, and I departed thinking that David made a very bad choice he would
forever regret. Somehow, a few years ago, I simply missed the Reese Witherspoon Global Brainwashing Ceremony, thus
I just don’t get the appeal.
This movie’s sickie-sweetness also made me gag. Alas.
Anyway, I quickly appreciated missing those minutes I missed, because the elementary guesswork made this movie more
interesting. Amidst the mild titters of the status-quo audience (not unlike thee who shall be plunking down thy hard-
earned this week-end, that thy Significant Other may be rendered Warmer and Fuzzier), the following concerns wafted
through: “Hey, I didn’t know Benjamin Bratt got any work after Catwoman…oh…wait…that’s not Bratt…that’s that guy
who pounded the hell out of randy-ass Meg Ryan in In the Cut, isn’t it?” and “Oh, I get it -- they’re fighting over who
belongs in that expensive San Francisco apartment, except she’s not corporeal, so she compensates by being totally
irritating, which gradually causes him…to fall in love with her?” and “I wonder how much they had to pay for the
Ghostbusters theme?” That sort of thing. If it’s any consolation, I thought that the Joy Luck Club joke was actually very
funny (mind you, at the expense of its speaker). And the line about a woman’s ass-tattoo reading, “All Aboard.” I wrote
that down.
During a Q & A following his presentation of a fave movie (Groundhog Day), director Mark S. Waters divulged some of
his tricks of the trade. One of them was this: Cram in as much dialogue as possible, and instruct your actors to talk fast,
since people can receive dialogue faster than (most) people can deliver it. Well, such is the effect here -- a bit of comedic
Cukor, a bit of laughing Lubitsch, nothing new, but Waters (though now a million miles from The House of Yes) has a
fine sense of this technique, definitely elevating the by-the-(opening-weekend)-numbers screenplay by Peter Tolan and
Leslie Dixon, which is based, apparently, on a novel If Only It Were True (people really give novels titles like that?) by
Marc Levy…oh, who co-produced. Check.
Well, good on ‘em all. You can enjoy their movie. Hip-hooray for the home team. There’s nothing significantly
nauseating about Just Like Heaven -- unless, of course, you’re me. For starters -- no, you just don’t mess with that Cure
song. No, no, no. Bad Music Programmer! No bonus! While I am well aware that John Hughes somehow got away with
completely misinterpreting The Psychedelic Furs’ “Pretty in Pink,” and that The Cure has sold “Pictures of You” to
Hewlett-Packard, this is just wrong for a thousand reasons -- two of which being: A. That Cure song is much more
effervescent and promising than this whole movie; and B. I am totally sick of Generation Y stealing our ‘80s hits and
slopping out inferior covers of them. The cover here (by pixie-voiced Katie Melua, who delivers a Cleared for Display
and Sale at Starbucks-type sound) is actually surprisingly pleasant in its own right…but nonetheless, why?
Here, dig the other ways in which I am uncool: I cared not one whit about the Jon Heder stunt-casting (in the role of a
New Agey dork who says things like, “There’s this cancer-causing ray of spirit hate coursing right toward your body!”
then follows it up with that spine-shatteringly hilarious “co-la” line of his). To me, “Napoleon Dynamite” means Elvis
Costello, circa 1986 -- or maybe I shouldn’t have said that, lest a romantic comedy arbitrarily entitled “Tokyo Storm
Warning” come slipping down the pike. What else? Well, two major complaints, actually -- and then we’ll get to the plot
and performances and wrap it up.
I ask: Was anybody paying attention to how the shots looked while they were shooting this movie? No offense -- it’s all
generally very professional and “Hollywood” high-key in appearance -- but the blasted smoke! Smoke! SMOKE!
Everywhere! For the exteriors the cinematographer can almost get away with it, this being San Francisco, famous for its
romantic billows of fog but now also, apparently, making a bid for Craziest Smog-emitting Foliage. If you think that’s
distracting, wait until you visit the interiors, where the smoke visibly curls as characters flit and flap through the frame.
Perhaps there was some mention in the introductory minutes about the movie being sponsored by a smoke-machine
manufacturer.
But the primary problem with Just Like Heaven, alas, really is major. In this movie, hapless David starts to appreciate
(and ultimately adore?) his persnickety poltergeist -- even though she puts him through hell and makes him make an ass
out of himself at a bar in front of indie-fave Donal Logue, plus all manner of awkward things. His affection is definitely a
stretch, but for me it snaps early, once Elizabeth encourages David to knock on neighbors’ doors in hopes of discovering
her true, mortal identity (plus whether or not she’s actually dead, which I shall not spoil for you -- as if I could). A door
opens, et voilà! -- there stands Katrina (Ivana Milicevic), an überhottie of dubious mental abilities (“I’m, like, Osama --
hello -- Communism is so over. Give your people toilet paper!”) who nonetheless exists and shows great potential (the
effort behind the dolt shines through) and decides instantaneously that she wants to seduce the fellow.
Okay, dear male heterosexual viewers (and other interested parties), please ask yourselves: Is it gonna be Elizabeth, who
is nothing but a constant, chirping pain, and (as far as David knows) does not exist -- or Katrina, a bit of a knucklehead
who should probably finish her G.E.D. at some point, but is otherwise, like, living and breathing and totally hubba-
hubba? For some reason -- possibly because Milicevic easily eclipses Witherspoon -- there are no known publicity stills
of Milicevic for this movie. But here’s what she looks like (photo courtesy of TV’s The Mind of the Married Man).
See what I mean? Dude, lose the ghost!
And what else happens? Well, the screenwriters carefully position a ticking clock within their tale, that David and
Elizabeth must hurry to discover who and where she is. Um, and the leads run around a lot, and say snarky things to
each other, and blithely gloss over enormous moral issues, and eventually lie together on a bed for a few "touching"
seconds. I mainly saw some pretty colors and heard people saying kinda funny words kinda fast. I reflected more than
once on Tommy Wiseau's "San Francisco"-based "romantic" "comedy" The Room, and how amusing (and more meta-
honest) that movie can be, especially viewed with an obnoxious midnight audience. Heck, during Just Like Heaven's
mismatched couple's iconic park bench scene, it became clear that Must Love Dogs, while no more plausible than this,
somehow proved funnier and caused less queasiness. I also realized that there's a new stop-motion movie also concerned
with loving the departed and being forced to choose, and that it's much more engaging and moving than this despite
having no actual human beings onscreen. But mainly I just kept trying to figure out why David even likes Elizabeth.
With that settled, performances: You already know I don’t care about Witherspoon. Ruffalo’s stab at giddy romance may
appeal to female people seeking a whiff of “rogue-lite,” providing that they are either under fifteen or extremely sheltered.
Logue is pretty funny in a couple of scenes here, offering a sense of gravity and grounded comedy the movie mainly
lacks. Likewise Dina Waters, who is very amusing and relatable as Elizabeth’s sister, particularly in the scenes involving
maternal and sisterly panic. Oh, and Milicevic deserves an Academy Award.
Just Like Heaven
Entertainment Value: 6/13
Style: 6/13
Philosophical Insight: 4/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, 12 September, 2005
Wherein a ghost and my gorge compete to see which rises first.
BY GREGORY WEINKAUF
Vaguely-known movie critics like to use the term “full disclosure” a lot (in addition to claiming to be peaceniks, then
describing the violent and physically impossible ways they’d like to kill their alleged oppressors for revealing spoilers --
often done within the same paragraph). Well, I don’t have much for you in the way of revenge fantasies or spoilers
(though I am an eternal peacenik)…but I do have a double-dose of full disclosure for you. Dig:
1. The director of Just Like Heaven is a relation of a friend of mine, and we grew up only a few blocks away from each
other, and we both liked Freddie Mercury a whole lot, thus there is absolutely no way for me to be objective about this
movie. (I tried with Mean Girls, and liked it quite a bit, Dear Paramount, but the conflict of interests is definitely pretty
solid with this DreamWorks offering as well. And yet, surprise, sometimes we are harder on those we love. This
dilemma grows more complex with A History of Violence in a couple of weeks.)
2. Due to a weirdly early start-time, I missed the first few minutes of Just Like Heaven, thus those minutes are not to be
reviewed here. I accept in advance the consequences and hate-mail for daring to be cheeky about this movie from a
position of very mild ignorance -- given, of course, that I've seen all the movies upon whose still-fresher graves it
dances. (Afterward, incidentally, I was told what happened by a person who likes to tell what happened.) Life goes on.
Or does it? This, of course, is the basic premise of Just Like Heaven: Is it worth the trouble to fall in love with the ghost
of an annoying person? Now, you may be thinking to yourself: “Hey, he’s a cinéma critic and he’s got (shudder!) a
German surname -- must be a total wretch, this fellow. What does he know about romance?” Well, actually, I’m
remarkably nice. Unless -- and this is a big unless -- I am forced to deal with outrageously stupid, selfish, mean-spirited
and/or horrid people (been there, too long), which prompts me to mock them vigorously. Everyone should do this. If
people practiced this, for instance, we’d have a useful and respectable government.
But I digress. The point is that I’m no wretch, and I welcome romantic comedies of reasonable freshness, yet during
lunch with a splendid person last week, I was illuminated beyond the generic billboard design of Just Like Heaven by
being told its basic plot. “Oh no,” I replied glumly (paraphrased), “so there’s gonna be a stupid shower scene in which
the protagonist pulls back the curtain and the ghost-woman is there and he freaks out -- ha-ha-ha, what fun.”
Well, as it turns out, by the time I centered the remains of my frazzled attention upon the screen, that is exactly what
happened. (For those old enough to be familiar with Laurie Anderson: “Oh no, right…again; Let X = X.”) Jesus. My
breathing was returning to normal and my sweat was beginning to dry as I gazed up at charming landscape-artist David
(Mark Ruffalo) doing a rudimentary freak-out montage featuring the omnipresent spirit of persnickety Elizabeth (Reese
Witherspoon) -- “persnickety” being the most generous word I can select, given that, for the duration of the movie, I
really didn’t like Elizabeth at all, ghost or no ghost, and I departed thinking that David made a very bad choice he would
forever regret. Somehow, a few years ago, I simply missed the Reese Witherspoon Global Brainwashing Ceremony, thus
I just don’t get the appeal.
This movie’s sickie-sweetness also made me gag. Alas.
Anyway, I quickly appreciated missing those minutes I missed, because the elementary guesswork made this movie more
interesting. Amidst the mild titters of the status-quo audience (not unlike thee who shall be plunking down thy hard-
earned this week-end, that thy Significant Other may be rendered Warmer and Fuzzier), the following concerns wafted
through: “Hey, I didn’t know Benjamin Bratt got any work after Catwoman…oh…wait…that’s not Bratt…that’s that guy
who pounded the hell out of randy-ass Meg Ryan in In the Cut, isn’t it?” and “Oh, I get it -- they’re fighting over who
belongs in that expensive San Francisco apartment, except she’s not corporeal, so she compensates by being totally
irritating, which gradually causes him…to fall in love with her?” and “I wonder how much they had to pay for the
Ghostbusters theme?” That sort of thing. If it’s any consolation, I thought that the Joy Luck Club joke was actually very
funny (mind you, at the expense of its speaker). And the line about a woman’s ass-tattoo reading, “All Aboard.” I wrote
that down.
During a Q & A following his presentation of a fave movie (Groundhog Day), director Mark S. Waters divulged some of
his tricks of the trade. One of them was this: Cram in as much dialogue as possible, and instruct your actors to talk fast,
since people can receive dialogue faster than (most) people can deliver it. Well, such is the effect here -- a bit of comedic
Cukor, a bit of laughing Lubitsch, nothing new, but Waters (though now a million miles from The House of Yes) has a
fine sense of this technique, definitely elevating the by-the-(opening-weekend)-numbers screenplay by Peter Tolan and
Leslie Dixon, which is based, apparently, on a novel If Only It Were True (people really give novels titles like that?) by
Marc Levy…oh, who co-produced. Check.
Well, good on ‘em all. You can enjoy their movie. Hip-hooray for the home team. There’s nothing significantly
nauseating about Just Like Heaven -- unless, of course, you’re me. For starters -- no, you just don’t mess with that Cure
song. No, no, no. Bad Music Programmer! No bonus! While I am well aware that John Hughes somehow got away with
completely misinterpreting The Psychedelic Furs’ “Pretty in Pink,” and that The Cure has sold “Pictures of You” to
Hewlett-Packard, this is just wrong for a thousand reasons -- two of which being: A. That Cure song is much more
effervescent and promising than this whole movie; and B. I am totally sick of Generation Y stealing our ‘80s hits and
slopping out inferior covers of them. The cover here (by pixie-voiced Katie Melua, who delivers a Cleared for Display
and Sale at Starbucks-type sound) is actually surprisingly pleasant in its own right…but nonetheless, why?
Here, dig the other ways in which I am uncool: I cared not one whit about the Jon Heder stunt-casting (in the role of a
New Agey dork who says things like, “There’s this cancer-causing ray of spirit hate coursing right toward your body!”
then follows it up with that spine-shatteringly hilarious “co-la” line of his). To me, “Napoleon Dynamite” means Elvis
Costello, circa 1986 -- or maybe I shouldn’t have said that, lest a romantic comedy arbitrarily entitled “Tokyo Storm
Warning” come slipping down the pike. What else? Well, two major complaints, actually -- and then we’ll get to the plot
and performances and wrap it up.
I ask: Was anybody paying attention to how the shots looked while they were shooting this movie? No offense -- it’s all
generally very professional and “Hollywood” high-key in appearance -- but the blasted smoke! Smoke! SMOKE!
Everywhere! For the exteriors the cinematographer can almost get away with it, this being San Francisco, famous for its
romantic billows of fog but now also, apparently, making a bid for Craziest Smog-emitting Foliage. If you think that’s
distracting, wait until you visit the interiors, where the smoke visibly curls as characters flit and flap through the frame.
Perhaps there was some mention in the introductory minutes about the movie being sponsored by a smoke-machine
manufacturer.
But the primary problem with Just Like Heaven, alas, really is major. In this movie, hapless David starts to appreciate
(and ultimately adore?) his persnickety poltergeist -- even though she puts him through hell and makes him make an ass
out of himself at a bar in front of indie-fave Donal Logue, plus all manner of awkward things. His affection is definitely a
stretch, but for me it snaps early, once Elizabeth encourages David to knock on neighbors’ doors in hopes of discovering
her true, mortal identity (plus whether or not she’s actually dead, which I shall not spoil for you -- as if I could). A door
opens, et voilà! -- there stands Katrina (Ivana Milicevic), an überhottie of dubious mental abilities (“I’m, like, Osama --
hello -- Communism is so over. Give your people toilet paper!”) who nonetheless exists and shows great potential (the
effort behind the dolt shines through) and decides instantaneously that she wants to seduce the fellow.
Okay, dear male heterosexual viewers (and other interested parties), please ask yourselves: Is it gonna be Elizabeth, who
is nothing but a constant, chirping pain, and (as far as David knows) does not exist -- or Katrina, a bit of a knucklehead
who should probably finish her G.E.D. at some point, but is otherwise, like, living and breathing and totally hubba-
hubba? For some reason -- possibly because Milicevic easily eclipses Witherspoon -- there are no known publicity stills
of Milicevic for this movie. But here’s what she looks like (photo courtesy of TV’s The Mind of the Married Man).
See what I mean? Dude, lose the ghost!
And what else happens? Well, the screenwriters carefully position a ticking clock within their tale, that David and
Elizabeth must hurry to discover who and where she is. Um, and the leads run around a lot, and say snarky things to
each other, and blithely gloss over enormous moral issues, and eventually lie together on a bed for a few "touching"
seconds. I mainly saw some pretty colors and heard people saying kinda funny words kinda fast. I reflected more than
once on Tommy Wiseau's "San Francisco"-based "romantic" "comedy" The Room, and how amusing (and more meta-
honest) that movie can be, especially viewed with an obnoxious midnight audience. Heck, during Just Like Heaven's
mismatched couple's iconic park bench scene, it became clear that Must Love Dogs, while no more plausible than this,
somehow proved funnier and caused less queasiness. I also realized that there's a new stop-motion movie also concerned
with loving the departed and being forced to choose, and that it's much more engaging and moving than this despite
having no actual human beings onscreen. But mainly I just kept trying to figure out why David even likes Elizabeth.
With that settled, performances: You already know I don’t care about Witherspoon. Ruffalo’s stab at giddy romance may
appeal to female people seeking a whiff of “rogue-lite,” providing that they are either under fifteen or extremely sheltered.
Logue is pretty funny in a couple of scenes here, offering a sense of gravity and grounded comedy the movie mainly
lacks. Likewise Dina Waters, who is very amusing and relatable as Elizabeth’s sister, particularly in the scenes involving
maternal and sisterly panic. Oh, and Milicevic deserves an Academy Award.
Just Like Heaven
Entertainment Value: 6/13
Style: 6/13
Philosophical Insight: 4/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, 12 September, 2005
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