This really could be the worst movie I've ever seen. I went expecting nothing more than Heather Graham in her undies, and although that expectation was happily fulfilled, the emotional trauma I had to suffer during the rest of the picture outweighed the brief (ha) thrill that brought. This film fails on almost *every* level. The script is a ham-fisted, deeply derivative and appallingly unfunny hack job that seems to have been scribbled down hastily in point form on the back of a cigarette packet and then fed into a computer database of dire rom-coms in order to generate the necessary scenes. It's deeply offensive, to men, to women, to all of us as citizens of planet earth. It insults our intelligence by asking us to believe the most childish and it's also very badly shot, strange for a modern Hollywood film, where at least a degree of professionalism extends (usually) to the visuals. Hope Springs (a more agonisingly twee title (yes, the film takes place in a place called Hope Springs and is about a man whose hope... springs...) is unlikely to emerge all year, all decade) seems to have been shot in half-light, and the characters are often placed weirdly within the frame, isolating them from the emotional current of the visual narrative and making them appear to be lost and forlorn characters in some dystopian 70s thriller. NOT the kind of imagery one would expect in a rom-com!
The editing is also atrocious. Scenes are hacked together, strange non-sequiturs abound and plot points are left hanging uselessly, unresolved. But the true vitriol MUST be reserved for the script, which is the most trite, hackneyed, insultingly puerile and shamelessly contrived assembly of cliches yet penned by man. I shudder to think back to some of the atrocities committed onscreen, but no, no, I will not name them... Every time the pace flags (every 20 seconds or so) a new, equally vapid hi-energy rock track is blasted through the speakers, desparately trying to bring some energy to the lacklustre proceedings. How humiliating for the actors to have to engage in this nonsense. What absolute ****.
It's sad, then, to report that the actors in this tragedy are entirely blameless. Firth does his best to bring some amusing British understatement to procedings, Graham is always never less than appealing (even if her penchant for girl/women - this one loves butterflies and her bedroom could be that of an 8-year old - is beginning to wear a bit thin) and Driver preens and minces successfully enough. There's even the excellent comedienne Mary Steenburgen and underused Oliver Platt on hand to help carry out the bodies. But their efforts are wasted...
Half-way through the movie, Heather's exposure sadly over, and the number of painfully unfunny scenes accumulating fast, I resolved to leave the theatre in disgust. I found myself unable to move. What!? In that point of my awareness from which motive force usually sprang, there was only a gaping void. The movie's awfulness had eroded my will to live. I struggled, trying to force myself onto the floor so I least would not have to witness the rest of the horror! But it was no good. The lifeforce had been sapped from me, and I had to endure the nightmare to the end.
How strange and cruel life is, to have allowed this film to be released and seen by innocents...
The editing is also atrocious. Scenes are hacked together, strange non-sequiturs abound and plot points are left hanging uselessly, unresolved. But the true vitriol MUST be reserved for the script, which is the most trite, hackneyed, insultingly puerile and shamelessly contrived assembly of cliches yet penned by man. I shudder to think back to some of the atrocities committed onscreen, but no, no, I will not name them... Every time the pace flags (every 20 seconds or so) a new, equally vapid hi-energy rock track is blasted through the speakers, desparately trying to bring some energy to the lacklustre proceedings. How humiliating for the actors to have to engage in this nonsense. What absolute ****.
It's sad, then, to report that the actors in this tragedy are entirely blameless. Firth does his best to bring some amusing British understatement to procedings, Graham is always never less than appealing (even if her penchant for girl/women - this one loves butterflies and her bedroom could be that of an 8-year old - is beginning to wear a bit thin) and Driver preens and minces successfully enough. There's even the excellent comedienne Mary Steenburgen and underused Oliver Platt on hand to help carry out the bodies. But their efforts are wasted...
Half-way through the movie, Heather's exposure sadly over, and the number of painfully unfunny scenes accumulating fast, I resolved to leave the theatre in disgust. I found myself unable to move. What!? In that point of my awareness from which motive force usually sprang, there was only a gaping void. The movie's awfulness had eroded my will to live. I struggled, trying to force myself onto the floor so I least would not have to witness the rest of the horror! But it was no good. The lifeforce had been sapped from me, and I had to endure the nightmare to the end.
How strange and cruel life is, to have allowed this film to be released and seen by innocents...