This film is mercifully forgettable. In fact, I saw it just a couple of weeks ago and already almost all I remember is counting the ways I could have put my 11 quid to better use, such as staying at home with a take-away and re-watching Chicago, Moulin Rouge, My Fair Lady, or any other musical with actors who can actually sing and dance (not to mention act), lines which make you laugh, songs worth listening to, and characters not all of them bland yet obnoxious narcissists. To be rigorously fair, Emma Stone's performance, despite the dreadful script, does push the production up a notch (i.e. to notch one), together with quite good technical features. But the nauseous aftertaste you are left with as you walk - at last - out of the cinema is of the triumph of packaging over content. That so many people apparently loved this film is flabbergasting. Has postmodernism finally broken free of its stuffy academic niche and convinced a generation that life is nothing more than a shallow pretence to be self-referentially broadcast, or could it be that few are willing to decry the absence of clothes on this appalling mediocrity of a film?