Jed is the organist at a funeral, and before you can say, “teacher's pet,” the two are out back in the church graveyard sampling the young lad's organ. All three are united in their belief that it is better to remain single than to settle for a mate who has “nothing wrong with him.” (Yet, one suspects that if they truly believed it's better to remain single, there would be no need for a Sad Fuckers Club and the gloomy resignation to their fortysomething status.) Things take a turn for the Douglas-Sirkian when Kate meets up with a former student half her age. Her Mutt-and-Jeff friends range from the statuesque and promiscuous doctor and the dumpy but sensitive policewoman. MacDowell's Kate is the kind of externally prim role model who harbors a passionate soul beneath her classic good looks. Apart from the cynicism and bawdy language, the Club is the fount of the female bonding experience that's so essential to movies of this sort. The three women gather in a weekly ritual they call the Sad Fuckers Club, during which they drink, cut loose, trash men, and lament their own sorry love lives. The heart of the story is the friendship between three professional, single women in their 40s: never-married schoolmistress Kate (MacDowell), cynical and multi-divorced physician Molly (Chancellor), and divorced single parent and police inspector Janine (Staunton). This gal-pal British import lacks the courage to follow through on its narrative implications, and plays like a wan romantic comedy that, alternately, might have been titled Two Near Weddings and a Couple of Funerals. Crush, by first-time writer-director John McKay, is the kind of movie that gives “chick flicks” a bad reputation.
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