Zellweger’s Anne is like a wild bunny. Cute, scrunchy-faced and immaculate in her white gloves, she’s far more Charlotte than Samantha, though she couldn’t give a hoot what the boys will eat for dinner if she’s got a date with a banker. She operates on panic and instinct. Director Richard Loncrain presents her as the most desirable woman in the world. We’re reluctant to buy it, especially since she’s no great shakes in the brains or conversation department. But halfway through when Anne starts to recognize that a younger generation of beauties now has first dibs on the wealthy bachelors, we’re afraid for her like we would be for Bugs Bunny before Elmer Fudd’s rifle. This is a trifle too sweet to dip as dark as despair—at worst, we know Anne will learn self-reliance. Writer Charlie Peters doesn’t think there’s any personal insecurity that can’t be shaken off by driving real fast with the top down in the Caddy. In the last month of blockbuster season, this is a bunt—a disaster-free date you won’t remember in a month.