What is it about the chick flick that brings out the brute in male critics? The Jane Austen Book Club has certainly had a good kicking. The Telegraph's Tim Robey called it cinematic "hemlock"; The Guardian's Peter Bradshaw "icky, brain-dead, ya-ya-sisterhood sludge". Hey, boys, nobody died. I don't mind your lads' films where things get blown up - why can't you allow us our equivalent guilty pleasure?