Julia Roberts takes a long time to find her centre in a glossy adaptation of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir, which sees her Manhattan columnist turn her back on her enviable lifestyle for a yearlong soul search in exotic climes.
Which roughly breaks down as carbs in Rome, meditation in India and romance in Bali.
As shallow as a Sunday supplement and as smug as Julia’s voiceover, Ryan Murphy’s pic serves up two hours plus of narcissistic, narcoleptic navel gazing.
It’s disheartening to find the likes of James Franco and Javier Bardem playing notches on the heroine’s bedpost.
