To whom the years have been less kind than to Sigourney Weaver, I suppose, but then, I was still only thirty or so when I saw Alien. Time in an everflowing stream bears all our looks away.
Which is sort of the plot of Thirteen Going On Thirty, except that the more I think about that, the more disturbing it is. When an evil thirty-something fashion editor is replaced by her thirteen-year-old self, at the moment before the rot set into her soul, what happens to her? Are we supposed to regard her as being snuffed out? And there were the weird sexuality implications - this was a movie in which it made no especial sense that everyone was as straight as they were supposed to be.
There was the very disturbing scene where the thirteen-in-thirty's body has a bunch of the local kiddies round for a sleepover where they play Pat Benatar loudly and dress in her clothes. I bet Michael Jackson wishes he had thought of the transmigration explanation - and what was Thriller doing in the film anyway?
And there was the deeply camp sensibility of the 'wholesome' photographs she gets from the outsider ex-boyfriend. Her gay boss asks the obvious question about them...
I wanted to write, but probably won't, the story where the whole point was that just after making the wish she and bitchy enemy-about-to-be-best-friend, who waits until they are thirty to betray her actually fell into each other's arms. Which would explain how they become inseparable for their teens and twenties and makes the awful boyfriends beards.
Jennifer Garner is cute in that movie, as is Andy Serkis, but there is something oddly and attractively unwholesome about the whole thing.