The Frustrations of Isla Fisher

I don't know a single person who was immune to Isla Fisher's crazed charm in Wedding Crashers, the movie that very deservedly lofted her to minor stardom. But as Julie & Julia opens this weekend, and after a Friday night spent decompressing from combat movies by watching Confessions of a Shopaholic, I've been thinking about how her career compares to Amy Adams', and I find myself displeased.

I like both Fisher and Adams a lot. They're both entertaining redheads in an industry full of monochromatic blonds and brunettes, women who aren't afraid to do a little physical comedy. But Fisher has a coarseness that I sort of enjoy. Unlike Adams, who I honestly can't imagine in anything less delicate than a princess dress, or period clothing, or some sort of quirky indie outfit, and who I really can't see cursing, or getting genuinely, frighteningly angry about anything, Fisher can be...less than perfect. She can smack Vince Vaughn's skinned knee, or stomp around and pitch a tantrum at Christopher Walken. She can dance awkwardly, or suggest a threesome, and despite that sort of frightening baby voice, it all seems plausible. I sometimes wonder if she has more potential range than Adams does.

Fisher hasn't always used that potential to her advantage. Confessions of a Shopaholic is an embarrassment, one of those movies that treats women who do hugely unprofessional things and get treated like they're cute for it. Even with the vibrating panties factored in, Katherine Heigl's character had more dignity in The Ugly Truth. Fisher's got a small child, so I can understand why she's not working more right now. But I also think she's something rare: an unusual brand, and a reputation independent from her very famous husband. She should do something with it.