Langley -- emotive actorly intensity flaring -- tells Max he has no idea what he's getting himself into; Max responds that he's come all this way to find him, and that he needs his help. Langley is supposed to be his protector, for God's sake. Langley (and now we get a close-up of his expensive-looking, frameless, wussy designer glasses) informs Max that he does not wish to be called "protector." Well, yes, says Langley, I was indeed put on your ship to protect you, but that was fifty years ago, and I really don't appreciate you barging into my sweet LA producer lifestyle, full, I'm sure, of cocaine and hookers, and telling me I have to watch out for your sorry ass. Sort of -- this little expository exchange is so mind-numbingly boring that I must resort to poetic license or die. And then Langley puts out the fire with his special hand.

Max coughs again, politely, and Langley calls for his boys -- two beefy security types, who must have been lurking outside the door, listening to the whole film-endangering fracas. So they must know that Langley is an alien. So he must be about to kill them. Good. More death. Alas, it is not to be, as Langley tells Max to scoot his butt out of town -- or die -- and directs the bouncers to escort him "to my airplane," emphasizing the "my" so we know it belongs to him, and that he's a very powerful man. In case we hadn't caught that before. It hurts to be hit with a board like that, and we haven't even made it to the credits. A long, torturous experience spreads itself before me. The boys drag Max from the room, who protests like he's just swallowed five Vicodins.

Thank God that's over. Or maybe not, since Isabel's on the screen. At a wedding-to-be. Having a conversation about her desire for a country wedding -- something simple, just like her -- with a wedding planner. Ewww -- a very scary wedding planner, who looks like the spawn of Reese Witherspoon and a conehead. This woman is all about pointy angles, which probably well equips her for wedding planning. She uses the word "brainstorming," and refers to Isabel's mother as "Mom," without any pronouns, like that's her actual name, both of which immediately mark her for elimination in the universe where I reside. Isabel's mother pops in to deny that she's has any part in planting the country wedding notion in Isabel's addled mind, adding that she can hardly get used to the idea of Isabel getting hitched. Isabel takes umbrage, reminding Mom that she promised to be supportive. Her mother replies with a shrug and a throwaway line that says, "Like hell I did," and the wedding planner delivers some prim, patronizing response that I'm sure they include in the training manual, before spouting some hooey about languishing lilies and galloping off to be officious elsewhere.