“There were no watermarks on her invite,” said one of the security helmets who was holding an infrared authorization-gun. Nobody wanted to know what would happen to counterfeiters, once inside the tent. After being given a mild round of antibiotics by the medics for a minor sinus infection I didn’t know I had, the leather hood was thrown over my head and I was guided into the Cavern of Festivities, located, we guessed, in an underground shaft, beneath the big white tent.

“This is worse than my initiation into the Masons,” said a very rich man in a black suit. “This is worse than my initiation into the O.T. level of Scientology,” said another very rich man in a black suit. All nodded in solemn assent, knowingly.

Everyone over 50, whether they looked it or not, (and most of them didn’t) were kept in a separate tent. There were tables featuring goblets of opalescent, tiny plastic capsules of prohibitively expensive under-eye cream. Waiters crushed Viagra into fine powder with mortars and pestles and sifted it into the punch, a top-shelf milange of pure white alcohols — eau de vie, aquavit, grappa — kept steamy-cold with a reign-of-Napoleon, triumphal equestrian ice sculpture. Some of the women were already topless, comparing flawless artificial breast textures.

The crucifixes were burning in the primitive Conquistador-era church Brad Pitt had transported stone by stone from the Yucatan Peninsula and reassembled. Incredible Eastern European prostitutes, naked except for thin white muslin robes, were “vestal virgins,” guiding guests to their pews, French-kissing strangers as they sat down.

Brad descended from the rafters in a blaze of singing light, which turned out to be a golden birdcage woven with fiber-optic cables. An Anglican boys choir filled the cavern with haunting falsetto harmonies. Our skins shivered at the spectacle, especially when bubbles began pouring out of the mouth of Christ.

Aniston emerged and rode down the aisle on an albino ocelot that had been declawed and groomed by Frederick Fekkai for the occasion, wearing a Tang dynasty headdress, elaborately hennaed feet and Harry Winston nipple clamps. During the nondenominational ceremony, crisp, new money in large denominations poured from the top of the tent. Beautiful, sleek women laughed and chewed the bills like gum with their large and perfect teeth.

Once the rings were on the fingers, a plasma storm electrically cracked into purple veins above us in the rafters. A huge bass line thumped; the altar tore into sections and a large, tropical Busby Berkeley production number rose from the floor; soon, all was Cuban drums, potted palms and 19-year-old breasts. Demure, older women shrieked away the last of their inhibitions.

The entire buffet set up was absolutely tasteless; a perverse example of what people with too much money and no taste will do: the dwarf Negroes in powdered wigs, the quail within a chicken within a turkey within a pig within a boar within a moose within a polar bear, being turned slowly on the spit by Playboy bunnies, squealing in pain every time sparks of grease popped onto their skin.

The teens and young adults, the Comestibles, were all in the ballroom, naked except for body paint and lengths of silken twine and jewelry. Rock-hard abs sweated up against harder rock-hard abs. Human flesh was sampled, as a whim, on water crackers — just enough for a taste. “Orphanage luau,” explained one of the cooks, who agreed to be temporarily blinded for the occasion. It was piggy and overdone; too much rosemary. “You want to taste the gaminess. I don’t like babies, too much fat. I only eat adolescents. They’re stringier,” said a man wearing nothing but a woman’s silk-velvet cape and a small wig on his erect penis.

I was one of the first in on the orgy; Salma Hayek and I spilled hot wine all over each other and allowed it to be licked off by several Dalmatian dogs.

Brad Pitt began the fistfights. Everyone wanted a piece of the abuse. The drums filled the cave, rising in a maddening crescendo above the screaming. Several actresses claimed to be “possessed.”

We all killed a large Nubian ibex with our bare hands. It had been released, confused, into the midst of the dance floor. In a fury of euphoria, we ate its entrails. I was knocked unconscious by a flying Manolo Blahnik pump, awaking minutes later with blood down the front of my gown like a black bib. Men in cardinal costumes were chasing naked boys who were crawling on the wreckage of the floor on all fours, laughing.

There was a meltdown. People rejoiced, thinking it was only part of the video. Several black Mercedes sedans were overturned and burning, tiny cubes of safety glass covered the walkway like an ice mosaic. Two large birds, a California condor and a blue heron, were released into the sky. As predicted, the condor grabbed the heron and tore into its neck with a piercing cry. Everyone laughed; an allegory of the marriage. The condor took the heron corpse up toward infinity; both birds seemed to explode with the first of the stunning pyrotechnics. Everyone knew that Brad and Jenny would live happily ever after.

Meanwhile, Simpson seems to be swelling up like a tick these days, but is keeping her lips firmly zipped. The New York Post speculated that Simpson — who has made a career of belching and flatulence on her reality show, and who on Tuesday tweeted a photo of herself on a toilet — might have discovered discretion in the hope of a six-figure payoff. Simpson, who’s engaged to former San Francisco 49er Eric Johnson, is allegedly shopping around her exclusive story – and access to the obligatory post-baby photo spread — to the cool tune of $500,000. Because why get knocked up if you can’t leverage the crap out of it? But regardless of her motives, Simpson appears to have committed the cardinal sin of waiting too long to make hay of her blessed event. When and if she finally grants that big tell-all, it’ll likely be the biggest “No duh” since Ricky Martin came out. “Is she or isn’t she?” sells magazines. But “Guess why I can’t see my feet, y’all?” is, with every passing day, considerably less of a tabloid bombshell.

Which brings us to poor Jen. Child-free and 42, Aniston is the reigning queen of baby speculation. Does a week go by without her face on the cover of some supermarket rag, the words “baby” and “drama” or “at last” or “heartbreak” blazing somewhere nearby? If I were Jennifer Aniston, I think I’d get pregnant just to shut Bonnie Fuller the hell up.

Maybe it’s because Aniston seems to have so much — she’s rich, successful and was just voted America’s “hottest body” in a new Fitness and Yahoo! poll – that the idea that she’s in fact a barren, miserable crone holds some public fascination. She can’t possibly be happy just being a beautiful movie star, right? RIGHT? I mean, Brad Pitt left her and now he’s got six kids – doesn’t that say something?

Maybe. Or maybe, crazy as this may sound to some, Jennifer Aniston is cool with not being a mother. It happens! All the time! But the frantic attention her stubbornly unpregnant body gets definitely says something about where we are as a culture that we continue to define women – powerful, attractive, wealthy women – by their ability to reproduce. That they can either parlay their fertility into a branding opportunity, or apologetically admit that the few extra ounces on the undisputed hottest body in America are not in fact an imminent bundle of joy. You’ve come a long way, babymakers.

We are all – the famous and the not, the MTV teen moms and the pampered housewives, the perfectly dressed  supermoms and the contentedly child-free – more than the contents of our uteri. That’s why I strongly believe the government needs to stay out of our wombs. And it’s high time Us magazine scrams as well.

I get complaints from some of you when I go off on irrelevant tangents about the Decline of Culture and the Meaninglessness of Everything that really don’t have anything to do with some very nice, very rich people from Los Angeles who are working as hard as they can to make the same movies over and over again that you may laugh. In recognition of those nice people and our shared admiration of their labor, let’s divide this review into useful and nonuseful portions. Here’s what you need to know: “Horrible Bosses” is a lot funnier in theory than in practice, but it won’t ruin your Saturday night. As the trio of put-upon nitwits who decide to rid the world of their respective employers, Jason Bateman, Charlie Day and Jason Sudeikis have an enjoyable and effortless comic chemistry. They even seem to like each other, and whether or not that’s faked it’s a key element of ensemble comedy. The cast of “The Hangover Part II” seemed massively irritated with each other’s company the entire time, and the bad vibes between Robert Downey Jr. and Zach Galifianakis in “Due Date” permeated the entire production with a funky, bad odor, like bong-water and old socks mixed with spoiled sweet-and-sour chicken.

It’s a very good thing that those three guys cutting up, mocking each other and getting into embarrassing scrapes is fun to watch, because the script they’re reading (credited to Michael Markowitz, John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein) is miscellaneous nonsense, and implausible even by the standards of who-cares Hollywood absurdity. To me, Bateman is the star here as much as he was opposite Aniston in last summer’s mediocre rom-com “The Switch,” where he totally stole the show. He never overplays even the stupidest comic situation, delivers a deadpan comeback with the best of them, and never compromises his basic likability. He plays Nick, a financial professional who’s way more successful than his buddies but is being sadistically strung along by Dave Harken (Spacey), his manipulative, micro-managing boss.

If Spacey starts out deliciously, in full-on flaming-driven-asshole mode, before Dave dissolves into an unconvincingly dumb cascade of evil, Farrell and Aniston’s horrible bosses never remotely resemble real people. Maybe that’s not a bad thing in itself; it’s not like director Seth Gordon (who made “Four Christmases,” along with episodes of “The Office,” “Parks and Recreation” and “Breaking In”) is pushing toward ruthless realism in this relentlessly sitcommy picture. Farrell plays a cokehead degenerate who’s using the small-time chemical company where Kurt (Sudeikis) works as his personal ATM, and that’s a whole bunch of shtick that never goes anywhere.

Aniston, as you may have heard, plays a leggy dentist with a fetching brunette ‘do and a deep stem-to-stern studio tan who craves a little personal attention from Dale (Day), her nerdy, nervous assistant, and won’t take no for an answer. There are so many things to say about this that I don’t know where to start, but, oh yeah, we’re still supposed to be in the useful portion of the review: Aniston might not seem like an automatic choice for this kind of slutty, man-eater role, but she’s ingratiating, funny and medium-sexy, and seems to enjoy herself far more than she ever has playing an anxious, boring sweetheart in romantic comedies.

That said — and here’s where we cross into nonuseful territory — Aniston’s psycho-bitch DDS character is just one of the countless ways that “Horrible Bosses” flirts with troubling or forbidden subject matter while still reassuring its youngish male target demographic as to their masculine coolness. Of course it’s possible for a female boss to sexually harass a male employee. In fact, I’m sure it has happened — in, like, 0.1 percent of harassment cases — but the perpetrator has rarely (or more likely never) resembled Jennifer Aniston. I hardly need to point out that mainstream filmmakers aren’t going to cast a fat woman or a much older woman or a woman who isn’t conventionally attractive in that role, because it wouldn’t be titillating and it would make them look like sexist creeps. In fact, Aniston’s character in “Horrible Bosses” goes well beyond unethical or inappropriate conduct into felonious sexual assault, but it all stays within the realm of comedy because A) it’s ridiculous and B) she’s hot.

I suppose it’s true that Nick, Kurt and Dale hatch a homicidal plan, only it’s more like they have a bunch of Three Stooges misadventures on the road toward having a plan, which involve Kurt sticking a toothbrush up his butt while the other two accidentally ingest loads of cocaine. They also travel into a scary neighborhood (i.e., one where African-Americans live) and meet a guy with a shaved head, prison tattoos and a pseudo-intellectual goatee whose name is Motherfucker Jones (Jamie Foxx). It’s a throwaway role for Foxx, but he gets to play a racist caricature and subvert the white boys’ instinctive racism at the same time, while delivering life lessons drawn from Hitchcock’s “Strangers on a Train” and the 1999 Ethan Hawke vehicle “Snow Falling on Cedars.” (“I love that movie!” Sudeikis says brightly.)

This tiptoe-dance around racial attitudes is reflected in the film’s attitude about homosexuality, which is to dude comedy as that big-ass iceberg was to the Titanic — disastrous but also irresistible. (I won’t spoil a weird cameo appearance by Ioan Gruffudd, but it’s definitely on topic.) Sudeikis’ character is supposed to be an inveterate lady-killer who bags any chick he wants (which doesn’t seem likely, but never mind), but he catches himself checking out another guy’s butt in a big-box store, and becomes embroiled in a running debate with Bateman’s character about which of them will be more “rape-able” if they end up in prison. This is at least the fifth guy-comedy I’ve seen in the last year to mine the ever-hilarious topic of prison rape for laughs, and in its own screwy, accidental way maybe “Horrible Bosses” is taking on the ambivalent, narcissistic quality of post-metrosexual masculinity. No self-respecting straight guy wants to go to prison and become somebody’s bitch (except for the protagonist of David Mamet’s “Edmond”), but it would be even worse to go to prison and be ignored.

“And, yes, the bitter irony — Aniston’s husband Brad Pitt infamously left her for Angelina Jolie six years ago after falling in love on set — is lost on no one. ‘It’s amazing she would go for an attached guy after what happened to her’ (says Biven insider).”

I’m sorry: I’m all for female solidarity and not stealing another lady’s man, but how is this “amazing”? Jennifer got a divorce six years ago, and her only real statement when Angelina told the media how she fell in love with Brad while filming “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” (and while Brad was still married to Jen) was that it was “not cool.” While I’m sure the divorce devastated Jennifer, it was the tabloids that have kept her in the role of the perpetual victim for over half a decade, as the poor woman who can’t settle down and have kids because her husband ran off with that harlot/humanitarian. In reality, I doubt Aniston felt half as much self-pity as the average American did for her. But Theroux wasn’t even married and the difference between “wife” and “girlfriend” is still a big commitment leap, and the term “homewrecker” is usually reserved for someone who breaks up a marriage or a family.

As someone who has been on both sides of this homewrecking scenario — who watched her parents’ marriage dissolve because of infidelity and later went on to sleep with a married man herself – I feel for both Aniston and Bivens. Yes, mainly for Bivens, because she just got dumped after a decade and a half for a much more famous woman. And unlike Aniston in 2005, no one is going to be keeping tabs on the spurned lover’s various boyfriends for the next several years, wondering if she’ll ever have a baby with John Mayer, or Vince Vaughn. If Bivens later finds herself seeing a non-single guy in any capacity, the papers won’t ask if she should “know better than to come between a man and his longtime love” like they are doing with Aniston.

In that way, Bevin is probably luckier than Aniston, who just lost the nation’s support as the hottest spinster in America. Then again, maybe after six years of being known as the “ex-Mrs Brad Pitt,” an image change is just what the doctor ordered.

It’s tempting to suggest that Sandler makes such horrifyingly vacuous films, in which absurd gags float around in a killing void resembling outer space, because he is cynical or does not care. I think this is verifiably false. On the contrary, the marketplace has repeatedly proven that the public prefers Sandler in laid-back, recovering-doofus roles where he barely pretends to act, and where such minimal plot and characterization as exist serve only to get us from one ridiculous comic setup to the next. Occasionally Adam gets the drama-school bug and works with some director who isn’t his longtime crony Dennis Dugan, and the results, as in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Punch-Drunk Love” or James L. Brooks’ “Spanglish,” are hotly debated by film critics and ignored by everybody else.

Whatever about its froggy-theatrical-Ingrid Bergman roots, “Just Go With It” is a Sandler-Dugan movie all the way, which means it includes a hula-dancing throwdown between Jennifer Aniston and Nicole Kidman in a Honolulu lounge (officiated by sportscaster Dan Patrick), Dave Matthews picking up a coconut with his ass cheeks, and a small boy taking a crap on an adult man, who then screams about it in a fake German accent. I will not claim that none of those things made me laugh. But I cried too, partly at the realization that Sandler’s particular brand of evil genius lies in taking a painfully stupid joke and pushing it so far that it sometimes transforms into its opposite, like some quantum-physics particle or that Hall & Oates song you hated the first 800 times and now totally love.

You want an example? Damn right you do — I inflicted this movie on myself and now someone’s got to pay. For reasons that don’t even begin to make sense, the 10-year-old that Sandler’s surgeon character pays to pretend to be his daughter in the film (played by Bailee Madison) starts to do her “role” in an atrocious Eliza Doolittle English accent. You know, “Wo’ a bloody bovver” and all. It’s terrible and not funny and a total overload of toxic fake cuteness. But then a supporting character named Eddie (Nick Swardson) shows up, wearing Coke-bottle glasses and doing the aforementioned fake German accent (he is supposedly called Dolph Lundgren, but he isn’t that Dolph Lundgren). And listening to him is so intentionally sub-”Hogan’s Heroes” bad, so inducing-death-wish-in-the-audience bad, that it’s a positive delight to get back to Bailee Madison addressing people as “guvnor” and “mumsie.”

Now, it’s not that the parts of this movie are more significant than the whole, it’s more like there is no whole (unless you take off the “w”). Sure, there’s kind of a plot: Sandler’s lizard-like Dr. Danny Macabee convinces his saucy single-mom assistant, Katherine (Aniston), to pretend to be his almost-ex-wife, so that he can explain the presence of a wedding ring in his jeans pocket to Palmer (Brooklyn Decker), his hot new pile of barely legal hotness. In a scene where people are confessing things that make them sad, Palmer bursts out: “Why did ‘N Sync have to break up?” And let’s show some love for screenwriters Allan Loeb and Timothy Dowling, because that’s pretty funny! If you’re guessing that Danny will start to have feelings for the more mature Katherine he can’t possibly have for bodacious Palmer, you’re on the right track, of course — and those shards of adult emotion, along with a winning and unassuming performance from the oft-dissed Aniston, make “Just Go With It” feel like the work of Ernst Lubitsch, at least compared to such previous Sandler-Dugan fare as “Grown Ups.” (That was my personal worst film of 2010. This one won’t even be close.)

But I can feel Sandler peering over my shoulder saying “Ernst Lu — what did you just call me?” And he’s right. “Just Go With It” is more than a nonsensical title for a haphazard romantic comedy, it’s almost a divine injunction. Watching Nicole Kidman shtick it up in full ice-bitch mode, wearing a hideous dress that seems to have been assembled from the machines that crush Charlie Chaplin in “Modern Times,” or Swardson (as not-that-Dolph Lundgren) giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a sheep, is ever so much more the point of this movie than waiting for Sandler and Aniston’s characters to reach the perfunctory happy-ever-after. I’m not even going to tell you what Kidman is doing in the movie, or why her character’s first name is a euphemism for feces, or why Dave Matthews has to pick up a coconut with those rock-hard glutes. Not because I’m protecting spoilers, or because I’m claiming it’s not funny, in an awful way. More because I choose to start the long process of forgetting right now.

Here’s the thing: Simply by trying to break free of the hoariest situations and archetypes, and to create characters who talk and behave somewhat like actual young (or at least youngish) middle-class Americans, director Nanette Burstein and her cast have made the year’s best mainstream rom-com. But seriously, consider the competition: Two “comeback vehicles” for fading stars named Jennifer, both of them self-fulfilling prophecies about the difficulties faced by American actresses over 40, both of them encouraging the media to be both observers and enablers of Hollywood sexism. (Yeah, mea culpa on that one.) “Sex and the City 2,” a genuinely idiotic film that got beaten up out of all proportion. “Eat, Pray, Love,” which of course doesn’t really qualify as a rom-com, but would have been a lot better if it did. And I can’t go back to February and revisit the fact that I actually spent a little bit of my life watching “Valentine’s Day.” I just can’t.

So awarding a prize to “Going the Distance” in this context is a little like giving an A for effort to the only student in your class who isn’t dropping out to take a job at Chick-Fil-A. It’s the only romantic comedy to emerge from Hollywood this year that doesn’t feel completely defensive and cynical. It doesn’t condescend to its audience or shamelessly yank the emotional chains of middle-aged female viewers. It isn’t set in Romcom USA, that mysterious alternate universe where the clothes and cars look convincing but everyone’s apartment is three times too large and the conversations and situations all seemingly belong to the Mary Tyler Moore era.

Most impressively, Burstein and screenwriter Geoff LaTulippe do not seem to share the widespread assumption that romantic comedy is a contemptible if economically necessary phenomenon, based entirely on feeding over-35 women a steady drip of the dumbest possible clichés about guys and gals and that joyous-yet-painful thing that happens between them. (Besides home mortgages, I mean. And pubic lice.) “Going the Distance” doesn’t always click but has a distinctive, sardonic voice and vision. It at least tries to capture the social world of Erin (Barrymore) and Garrett (Long), a couple of smart but underemployed post-collegiate types who meet over the Centipede machine in a New York bar, smack dab in the middle of a shrinking economy.

Now, am I claiming that “Going the Distance” is a Zeitgeist-capturing yarn of love in our hookup culture, one that may capture the mood of an entire generation? I am not. It has a little of that ambition, which is admirable and all. In bringing together a documentary filmmaker (Burstein made the docs “American Teen” and “The Kid Stays in the Picture”) with an unknown screenwriter, this film’s producers seem to be splitting the difference between conventional rom-com and more “alt” fare, like the films of indie auteurs Joe Swanberg or Andrew Bujalski. But I strongly suspect the skeptics are right. Of course romantic comedy could come back, and it undoubtedly will. But at the moment it’s a moribund genre, with little appeal to the “Twilight” generation of girls and young women. All a pleasant, offbeat movie like “Going the Distance” can hope to do is swim halfheartedly against the ebbing tide.

I spent a little while after watching “Going the Distance” trying to puzzle out its flaws and limitations — the directing is better than the writing, the actors rise above a pedestrian plot, etc. — before arriving at the perfect summary: It’s kind of good, but not all that great! (Hear that sound? That’s the Pulitzer Prize for criticism, whooshin’ toward me.) Thing is, Barrymore is so terrific as Erin, a ballsy, physical, foulmouthed guys’ gal who’s universes away from your average neurotic rom-com heroine, that you keep thinking a movie built around her ought to be awesome. So the fact that is isn’t is continually surprising.

When Erin and Garrett go home together after their little contretemps at the Centipede machine — she was about to hit a high score before he screwed it up — neither one of them is exactly thinking about a great romance. He broke up with somebody else quite recently (OK, minutes earlier). They do bong hits and make out. She pretends to be outraged that Garrett’s hopeless roommate Dan (comedian Charlie Day) is “DJ’ing the hookup,” i.e., playing the “Top Gun” score through the flimsy apartment walls while they get it on. They actually have breakfast together the next morning, complete with sincere conversation — but when Garrett calls Erin later, she still doesn’t know his name.

This whole sequence of scenes around the couple’s first meeting is so charged with tenderness, toughness and combative, outrageous humor — and that brash, braying Barrymore laugh — that one can only wish the rest of “Going the Distance” lived up to it even halfway. But as Garrett and Erin fall in love, Burstein almost immediately resorts to a montage of, God help me, the couple frolicking on the beach or strolling Manhattan’s streets hand in hand. See, their idyll is to be short-lived: Erin’s a summer intern at a New York newspaper who’s heading back to grad school in California, while Garrett works at a record label that used to be hip and is now hoping to survive by finding the next Jonas Brothers.

Yes, the fact that they both work in crippled or dying industries is meant to be significant, but like a lot of other things in LaTulippe’s script it comes off as intriguing but a little half-baked. Why is Garrett and Dan’s other buddy, Box (Jason Sudeikis), so interested in finding a girlfriend over 45 who will, in some epistemological sense, not be a cougar? Why must we learn strange but irrelevant details about the sex life of Erin’s unhinged married sister (played by Christina Applegate, who is very funny)? I think the only reason is that screenplays in the post-Tarantino, late-Apatow era must garnish their supporting characters with all kinds of potentially symbolic eccentricities.

Inescapably, “Going the Distance” gets more flaccid and ordinary as it manages the highly predictable yuks emerging from Garrett and Erin’s efforts to keep their relationship going across 3,000 miles of low-budget separation. I never lost interest in this couple, who have a relaxed and natural chemistry together (as I guess they should). If Long’s no match for Barrymore, he’s still a genial comic performer, and even the most ordinary parts of the film deliver plenty of laughs. You never have the feeling that “Going the Distance” got made because of econometric projections; the people involved actually like it, and that counts for a lot. Can it save the rom-com? Definitely not, but I’m not sure anything can.