Review: 'Confessions of a Shopaholic'

"Confessions of a Shopaholic" is a cleverly constructed catwalk of a romantic comedy that's a lot like that perfect outfit -- the swirl of a skirt from Miu Miu, the Marc Jacobs jacket, the Louboutin slingbacks and the $3,000 Gucci bag, or in my case, the Gap jeans, Free People T-shirt and Uggs. Regardless, if the blend of colors and textures, designer or not, fits your mood, fits you, you feel fabulous. (Yes, I know it's what's inside that counts, but still. . . .)

From the opening scenes, when we first meet Isla Fisher's Rebecca Bloomwood as a child, you can tell the film is feeling pretty fabulous about its frothy self; it just swaggers with confidence that everything is perfectly matched. Try as you might, that feeling -- buoyed by the silky flounce of Fisher and the Armani smoothness of Hugh Dancy -- is infectious.

Nevertheless, there will be those who ask, "Fabulous yes, but at what cost?" For there is the "aholic" in the shop here, and though the film is definitely about the romantic ups and downs of Rebecca, a money magazine journalist who absolutely does not dress the part, and Dancy's Luke Brandon, her editor, it's also about addiction. In this case, Rebecca's obsessive need to buy things she doesn't need with money she doesn't have courtesy of what as a child she called "magic cards."

Though there are consequences woven throughout, including a 12-step program that flashes in and out of her life, "Confessions" is no "Requiem for a Dream" of addiction accountability (though the way the storefront mannequins come to life to seduce her is a bit scary). When her father, played by John Goodman, essentially brushes off her excesses with "Your mother and I think that if the American economy can be billions in debt and still survive, so can you," you have to think the line might have played better 18 months ago. Now it's just a sad reminder of the dismal fiscal collapse that waits right outside the theater door.

All of which is to say, if you're looking for a serious examination of the staggering credit-card debt so many in this nation carry and the families and lives destroyed by it, watch the nightly news . . . don't look here. But if a knockabout farce of a thousand ways to outwit that persistent, pesky and downright unpleasant debt collector, played by a decidedly annoying Robert Stanton, while falling in love might amuse you, then feel free to indulge. For those who have read any of Sophie Kinsella's self-deprecating chick-lit books, which the film is based on, you already have a good idea of what you're in for.