Like thrift store pumps, the Girlpower via Gucci movement had already started to molder by the time the Sex in the City movie was released last summer. Director PJ Hogan’s adaptation of Sophie Kinsella’s wearisome 2000 novel (the product of a zeitgeist as distant as Babylon) is petrified of coming across as a celebration of overspending. A schizophrenic apologia for its own existence, Confessions tries to poise itself as a cautionary film against overspending, even as it pans longingly over rows of sherbet colored shoes. Shopaholism here is treated with the same amount of tsk-tsking secret approval as sexaholism is in Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke— it’s all guilty fun, right up until it isn’t. Isla Fisher, the redheaded wood sprite, is charming in an unlikeable role; her titular shopaholic is, frankly, an unlearned and incurious bobble head with a taste for wild outfits. Incongruously, she’s hired on by hunky publisher Hugh Dancy to pen a column in his financial magazine; thus ensuring that Hogan’s film is a complete fantasy where writers can still land publication jobs. Fisher and Dancy’s romance is blander than a pair of Kmart khakis. Yet, though Fisher has little to do other than squeal and stumble and fib and bite her lower lip, we no more blame her for the filmic disaster than we should blame Barack Obama for the financial disaster.