This review first appeared in The Colorado Springs Gazette. To read this review at its original source, click here.

Confessions of a Shopaholic starts off with promise but unencumbers itself of that burden fairly early on. Like the prototypical addict, the film continually falls off the wagon and repeatedly picks itself up again, before finally deciding that such maneuvers require far too much energy…and creativity.

Rebecca Bloomwood (Isla Fisher) has a disease. You won’t find it mentioned in any textbooks or reference manuals but it is debilitating nonetheless. Rebecca is a shopaholic. She can’t pass a clothing store without going in and buying something. She is powerless to resist the siren’s call of the storefront window. High end boutiques are her temples, complete with (talking!) mannequins as false idols. She may be constantly decked out in the latest styles, but her countless buying sprees have maxed out her life and left her deeply in debt.

Hoping to turn her addiction into something that will actually take a bite out of her many impulsive purchases, Rebecca tries to secure her dream job at a high-profile fashion magazine only to be unceremoniously pawned off to a financial publication owned by the same company. Rebecca knows nothing about money (except how to spend it), but sees the opportunity as a way to get her foot in the door. Ironically, she’s asked to write a column offering financial advice. Rebecca’s actually perfect for the job because she’s the ultimate insider. For her, financial (mis)management is hardly an abstraction. Her candid and straightforward column makes her an overnight success and attracts the attention of her handsome boss (Hugh Dancy). But is it enough to save her from bankruptcy?

Confessions of a Shopaholic, based on the books by Sophie Kinsella, is the latest in a long line of recent movies about materialistic vanity — the third cousin, if you will, to last year’s Sex and the City. There are only so many times you can use the word “formulaic” before your voice becomes nothing more than white noise. But at the risk of critical laryngitis, it must be said that there’s nothing original to be found in Shopaholic. It would be bad enough if P.J. Hogan, who directed the enjoyable My Best Friend’s Wedding, cobbled together a movie from far superior material, but instead he seems satisfied to include all the clichés, pratfalls and main-character-absentmindedly-crashes-into-waiter fare we’ve seen a hundred times from equally mediocre sources.

Isla Fisher tries her hardest and her effervescent vivacity (think a more ditzy Amy Adams) certainly takes the film farther than it would otherwise have gone without her. But neither she, Joan Cusack, John Goodman or Kristin Scott Thomas (Kristin Scott Thomas!?) are enough to save it.

Confessions of a Shopaholic pretends to be a message movie. It is chalk full of conscientious platitudes: cost and worth are very different things; objects don’t define you; etc. However, Shopaholic’s message is unconvincing and half-hearted because it can hardly bite the topical hand that feeds it. After all, without all that Prada and Gucci to bedazzle the camera, what’s the point of making the movie in the first place? At some point Shopaholic may pretend that a Target wardrobe is better for you, but it’s a foregone conclusion that you’ll never see a movie named The Devil Wears Target. Shopaholic, which was in production long before our current economic woes began, may be a hard sell. Will audiences living through the worst economy in more than half a century tolerate such barefaced avarice, feeble message or no?

© Copyright 2009 Brandon Fibbs. All rights reserved.