It's not a movie, but it's probably the funniest thing about books ever written... the Blackadder Dictionary episode:
Baldrick: Something wrong, Mr. B?
Edmund: Oh, something's always wrong, Balders. (dumps all bottles and glasses from the drinks tray he is carrying into a barrel, where they all break) The fact that I'm not a millionaire aristocrat with the sexual capacity of a rutting rhino is a constant niggle. But, today, something's even wronger. That globulus fraud, Dr. Johnson, is coming to tea.
Baldrick: I thought he was the cleverest man in England.
Edmund: Baldrick, I'd bump into cleverer people at a lodge meeting of the Guild of Village Idiots.
Baldrick: That's not what you said when you sent him your navel.
Edmund: *Novel*, Baldrick -- not navel. I sent him my *novel*.
Baldrick: Well, novel or navel, it sounds a bit like a bag of grapefruits to me.
Edmund: The phrase, Baldrick, is "a case of sour grapes," and yes it bloody well is. I mean, he might at least have written back, but no, nothing, not even a "Dear Gertrude Perkins: Thank you for your book. Get stuffed. --Samuel Johnson."
Baldrick: Gertrude Perkins?
Edmund: Yes, I gave myself a female pseudonym. Everybody's doing it these days: Mrs. Ratcliffe, Jane Austin--
Baldrick: What, Jane Austin's a man?
Edmund: Of course -- a huge Yorkshireman with a beard like a rhododendron bush.
Baldrick: Oh, quite a small one, then?
Edmund: Well, compared to Dorothy Wordsworth's, certainly. James Boswell is the only real woman writing at the moment, and that's just because she wants to get inside Johnson's britches.
Baldrick: Perhaps your book really isn't any good.
Edmund: Oh codswallop! It's taken me seven years, and it's perfect. "Edmund: A Butler's Tale." A giant roller coaster of a novel in four hundred sizzling chapters. A searing indictment of domestic servitude in the eighteenth century, with some hot gypsies thrown in. My magnum opus, Baldrick. Everybody has one novel in them, and this is mine.
Baldrick: And *this* is mine (takes a small piece of paper from the front of his trousers). My magnificent octopus.
Edmund: (takes it) This is your novel, Baldrick? (unfolds it)
Baldrick: Yeah -- I can't stand long books.
Edmund: (reads) "Once upon a time, there was a lovely little sausage called `Baldrick', and it lived happily ever after."
Baldrick: It's semi-autobiographical.
Edmund: And it's completely utterly awful. Dr. Johnson will probably love it.
Willie