Edwin Atilano

The whole movie is basically a sad orchestra for women who think they’re too good for the lives they signed up for. I didn’t mind watching it because it didn’t exactly demand deep thought, but come on - Suburban white woman with no job, no financial struggles, and no real responsibilities cries about her life. Then, she leaves her husband because she feels unfulfilled. Like, really? That’s the hill she wants to die on? If this were about a single dad, it’d get roasted into oblivion—nobody’s handing out pity points to a guy raising a kid while being a failed artist. Also, there’s no juicy scandal here—no cheating, no abuse, not even a shady secret credit card bill. The husband (poor guy didn’t even get a name) provided for his family, and was willing to help whenever she told him to. But nope, we’re supposed to feel bad for the struggling Picasso who decided it was everyone else’s fault her art career didn’t take off.