It's the Woody Allen delusion, endlessly helpful in movies, utterly fraudulent in real life. But what makes this fabrication work is that the two have chemistry. I don't know. Chemists don't know. Producers, writers and directors know even less.
Critics know least of all.
The film then chronicles the ups and downs of the relationship and the clash of cultures necessarily involved. And it takes him into her dreariest reality, a press junket, where stars and scribes are mated lovelessly in hotel suites, each pretending to care about the other and communicating in a language so brutally lame and pointless that it boggles not merely the brain but also the soul. The film's observation of these ordeals by banality is quite acute, from the brittle energy of the overly peppy girl flack to the earnestness of the younger journalists who haven't seen through it yet to the dolor of the old salts, all seemingly frozen in an aspic of utter weirdness. He bends its plot around so the movie climaxes at such an event as well, and our hero and heroine communicate in a language that plays off the lingo of such events. But the movie is so smart that it toys with each star's image.