Labor Day is no special delivery

Labor Day 1/2 (out of five) Starring: Kate Winslet, Josh Brolin, Gattlin Griffith Directed by: Jason Reitman Running time: 111 minutes Advisory: PG, mature subject matter Playing at South Edmonton, Galaxy, North Edmonton, Scotiabank, Clareview, City Centr

There are moments that really do feel laborious in Jason Reitman’s latest film.

A placental mess of romantic shmaltz, 1970s period nostalgia and dubious bondage fantasy, Labor Day does not work the soft, hazy magic its director so earnestly intended.

Much like a man holding a woman’s hand in the delivery room, bidding her to “push” with every contraction, there’s a complete disconnect between what’s happening and the spectator’s ability to remotely understand, let alone experience, the pelvis-shattering pain.

This gender chasm creates a fault line all the way through this film based on Joyce Maynard’s bestseller, eroding an already shaky narrative foundation about a single mother, her young son and a dark, mysterious stranger who barges into their lives.

Asking the viewer to suspend disbelief and suppress any understanding of Stockholm Syndrome, the film introduces us to lovely, frumpy Adele (Kate Winslet), a middle-aged mother taking care of her pubescent son Henry (Gattlin Griffith).

They live in a small town, drive a wood-panelled station wagon and survive the day-to-day trials and tribulations together.

But this is a Norman Rockwell painting without a single apple-pie smile because there is no man around the house, and without a man, Adele seems to be lost in a depressive state.

Like the charming clapboard house she calls home, Adele has great bones but she has fallen into disrepair. Her gutters are clogged. Her floors are dirty and her roof is leaking.

Henry fantasizes about fixing it all himself and asserting himself as the great masculine saviour, but he’s just a boy, and there is no way he would be able to satisfy the womanly needs of his fading mother.

Enter Frank (Josh Brolin), a musky stranger who threatens Henry at the local department store and demands shelter at Adele’s home. Frank has just escaped from the local penitentiary, and even though Adele is in a crowded store and capable of screaming for help, she agrees to let Frank into their home while he waits out the law in a bid to escape.

From this moment, the viewer has to surrender to the inanity and insanity of the situation, or walk out the door because Reitman doesn’t leave any room for disbelievers.

This is classic romantic sap distilled from a vat of Harlequin lust and sexist drivel, and if you aren’t going to embrace it for what it is, Labor Day will be excruciating as it plays out every single overcooked romantic cliché with condescending care, because despite the obvious threat to the health and safety of her son, Adele falls in love with Frank.

Seduced by Frank’s desire to scrub the floors, cook healthy meals and bake fresh peach pies before her eyes, Adele’s senses are rekindled by a forbidden fire.

Though the strains of Unchained Melody are never heard, it’s hard not to feel the ghost of Ghost as Brolin and Winslet get their hands covered in juicy peach goop. The only difference is where Ghost elicited a sloppy, but sincere tear, Labor Day’s peachy scenes elicit laughter.

Reitman’s moments are simply too contrived to work any genuine magic and the whole movie collapses into a clump of canned formula.

The only things that redeem this sodden insult to the senses are the performances from the ensemble cast, lead by the ever-sturdy Winslet who miraculously infuses Adele with quiet, female strength.

Though Maynard’s character is scripted as a complete moron, Winslet finds a way to make Adele sympathetic, despite her bad decisions, because she lets the character’s desperation define her.

As a result, she feels real and gives the greasy premise some traction.

Brolin does his best to make Frank threatening but gentle at the same time, but he still feels like a figment of female fantasy more than anything remotely human, while Griffith is left to bridge the gap between these two star-crossed lovers and the viewer.

The bulk of Reitman’s cinematic talents — his eye for detail and his emotional vulnerability — are vested in the character of Henry. But like the boy seeking manhood through responsibility, Reitman’s film lacks psychological maturity and focus, leaving the viewer unsatisfied yet gently amused by the effort.