I wasn’t able to catch a Manhattan screening of John Chu‘s Crazy Rich Asians (Warner Bros., 8.15). I can’t honestly say that I’m sorry about that, despite the excellent reviews. I realize it’s a big representation thing (i.e., the first all-Asian film to get a big opening since 1993’s The Joy Luck Club) but I have some issues. I have a problem with any film of any ethnic persuasion that sells itself with an image of an attractive young couple smiling and gently embracing. That image alone says “swoony girly flick.” I have a problem with any film that “takes you back to the greatest hits of Nancy Meyers, Richard Curtis and Nora Ephron” — aaggghhh! I have a problem with any film described as “two hours of romantic fantasy and real-estate porn, poured on so thick it’s almost lickable.” Anything wealth-porny makes me nauseous. And I have a huge problem with the critic who wrote “the only excuse you have not to see Crazy Rich Asians is because you hate love“…blecccch! I will see Crazy Rich Asians at the next opportunity, but I’m just saying.