More of the same from Nicholas Sparks
Oh my. What is there to really say about The Best of Me, the latest adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks story to hit the screen?
Coming from the same man who gave us such sloppy romances as Nights in Rodanthe, Dear John, The Notebook and A Walk to Remember, you already know The Best of Me will revolve around the very worst the universe has to dish out, somehow made palatable by the redeeming power of love — sadly, unrequited love.
So heave a heavy sigh should you be brave enough to climb aboard the latest float in Sparks’s saccharine parade, because the movie opens with our hard-done hero, Dawson (James Marsden), sitting on an oil rig pondering the stars only to be blown off the platform moments later.
He survives the explosion and near-drowning, only to wake up to terrible news: His old mentor passed away, forcing him back to his childhood home in the backwoods of redneck USA.
No sooner does he step on the front lawn of the woodsy cottage, than he sees a woman. And this is where the movie really lives up to its soap-opera soul, because director Michael Hoffman (Soapdish, One Fine Day) surrenders to Hollywood cliche with such commitment, he almost pulls it off.
Dawson stops in his tracks when he spots Amanda (Michelle Monaghan), and she, too, hesitates before offering a single expression that might betray her feelings. Their eyes meet across the wildflowers.
We know there’s a lot of history there, and right on cue, the flashbacks begin, although it might not be immediately apparent because the part of Dawson is suddenly occupied by a younger actor who bears no resemblance to Marsden.
It’s a jarring moment, but director Hoffman distracts his audience away from the obvious by getting Luke Bracey to remove his shirt and show off his abs. We’re lost in the Men’s Fitness centrefold moving before us, and wondering why Bracey looks familiar. To save you the search: he was in November Man, and GI Joe: Retaliation, as well as starring in an Aussie soap.
Bracey is eye-candy, and so is everything else in this movie. Even the cars are gorgeous, which will no doubt prove something of a salve to any poor schmuck who agrees to see this movie to keep a date happy. They even tell us how the Oldsmobile 442 got its name.
Everything about the movie is so laughably laboured, every emotion so distilled and sickly sweet, that it’s like sinking into a mud bath: not entirely pleasant at first, and definitely something that will make you shower later, but while immersed, not so bad — if you like that kind of thing.