| 'V-Day'? More Like D-Day James Rocchi, Special to MSN Movies
Imagine briefly that some island castaway lives in isolation, having never
met or spoken to an actual human being. The only cultural artifacts to divert
the solitude are a copy of Richard Curtis' 2003 London-set Christmastime
ensemble comedy "Love Actually" and a map of Los Angeles. This person
then writes a movie. That movie is "Valentine's Day." As a friend of mine noted,
shell-shocked after the press screening, "I kind of like 'Love Actually' as a
guilty pleasure, but compared to that, it's 'Nashville.'" That's a convoluted set of analogies,
but, trust me, they offer you far more mental stimulus than all of the sloppy,
shabby, sentimental, shot-through-dishwater 125 minutes of "Valentine's Day."
Directed by Garry Marshall, whose slight, shameless "Pretty Woman" looks like "The Apartment" in comparison to the candy box of
sticky-sweet sappiness and frothy-light nougat chunks of empty ethical dilemma
of "Valentine's Day," the movie follows a group of Los Angeles residents
through, yes, Valentine's Day. The young florist (Ashton Kutcher) who's just proposed
to his flinty, all-bidness girlfriend (Jessica Alba). The teacher (Jennifer Garner) whose too-perfect
doctor boyfriend (Patrick Dempsey) is just that. The
lifelong lovers (Hector Elizondo and Shirley MacLaine) who still have
surprises for each other. The young lovers whose two-week-long budding dating is
disrupted when he (Topher Grace) forgets the big day and
she (Anne Hathaway) hides her work as a
phone sex operator. The soldier (Julia Roberts) seated next to a
suit-clad smoothie (Bradley Cooper) on a flight back to
Los Angeles. The randy teens (including Taylors Swift and Lautner). The anti-romantic sports
reporter (Jamie Foxx) working with the
romance-hating publicist (Jessica Biel) as an NFL quarterback
(Eric Dane) makes an important
decision. The towheaded kid (Bryce Robinson) whose somber circumstances have
made him need to believe in love to a degree far beyond his years, just like
Thomas Sangster in "Love Actually," right down to the haircut.
And now you may be thinking, "Wow, that's a lot of people to care
about." True, but Katherine Fugate's script never really gives you any reason
to, which is a big time-saver. Will Kutcher find his bestest pal was, in fact,
standing there waiting to be loved? Will Roberts and Cooper's single-serving
friendship culminate in not one but two completely obvious twists? Will the
people who hate Cupid's holiday be struck by his arrows when they least expect
it? Will it be assumed that people from other cultures are funny in and of
themselves, especially when they screech insults in high-pitched phrases?
"Pretty Woman" is a piece of trash, but it at least: a) had the cold starkness
of cynicism to give it some backbone; and, b) let us spend time with two people
who were spending time with each other. "Valentine's Day" leaps bonelessly from
character to character like a caffeinated octopus, flailing fleshily in an
effort to touch every base.
"Valentine's Day" isn't just shabby, it is vaguely racist and a bit
homophobic. When two men share a tender moment, it's the one caressing the cheek
of the other with a flower. God forbid they should actually touch and weird out
the suburbanites lured in by the promise of love as they know it, and as they
know it alone.) It's also clumsy and badly-made. I've seen 30-second ads that
make Los Angeles look more attractive than every grimy, clammy shot
cinematographer Charles Minsky throws between sitcom-level wackiness and phony
arguments and cheap reconciliations. Love, it is said, makes fools of us all.
But movies like "Valentine's Day" try to fool us: that easy endings are happy
ones, that sex is something to be afraid of, that activity is a substitute for
story, that bigness excuses blandness, that Los Angeles is made of wealthy
white people with some occasional ethnic comedic relief. The real St. Valentine
was stoned and beheaded; would that the same fate fell on the people behind this
shallow, shabby fraud.
James Rocchi's writings on film have appeared at Cinematical.com,
Netflix.com, SFGate.com and in Mother Jones magazine. He lives in Los Angeles,
where every ending is a twist ending.
Imagine briefly that some island castaway lives in isolation, having never
met or spoken to an actual human being. The only cultural artifacts to divert
the solitude are a copy of Richard Curtis' 2003 London-set Christmastime
ensemble comedy "Love Actually" and a map of Los Angeles. This person
then writes a movie. That movie is "Valentine's Day." As a friend of mine noted,
shell-shocked after the press screening, "I kind of like 'Love Actually' as a
guilty pleasure, but compared to that, it's 'Nashville.'" That's a convoluted set of analogies,
but, trust me, they offer you far more mental stimulus than all of the sloppy,
shabby, sentimental, shot-through-dishwater 125 minutes of "Valentine's Day."
Directed by Garry Marshall, whose slight, shameless "Pretty Woman" looks like "The Apartment" in comparison to the candy box of
sticky-sweet sappiness and frothy-light nougat chunks of empty ethical dilemma
of "Valentine's Day," the movie follows a group of Los Angeles residents
through, yes, Valentine's Day. The young florist (Ashton Kutcher) who's just proposed
to his flinty, all-bidness girlfriend (Jessica Alba). The teacher (Jennifer Garner) whose too-perfect
doctor boyfriend (Patrick Dempsey) is just that. The
lifelong lovers (Hector Elizondo and Shirley MacLaine) who still have
surprises for each other. The young lovers whose two-week-long budding dating is
disrupted when he (Topher Grace) forgets the big day and
she (Anne Hathaway) hides her work as a
phone sex operator. The soldier (Julia Roberts) seated next to a
suit-clad smoothie (Bradley Cooper) on a flight back to
Los Angeles. The randy teens (including Taylors Swift and Lautner). The anti-romantic sports
reporter (Jamie Foxx) working with the
romance-hating publicist (Jessica Biel) as an NFL quarterback
(Eric Dane) makes an important
decision. The towheaded kid (Bryce Robinson) whose somber circumstances have
made him need to believe in love to a degree far beyond his years, just like
Thomas Sangster in "Love Actually," right down to the haircut.
And now you may be thinking, "Wow, that's a lot of people to care
about." True, but Katherine Fugate's script never really gives you any reason
to, which is a big time-saver. Will Kutcher find his bestest pal was, in fact,
standing there waiting to be loved? Will Roberts and Cooper's single-serving
friendship culminate in not one but two completely obvious twists? Will the
people who hate Cupid's holiday be struck by his arrows when they least expect
it? Will it be assumed that people from other cultures are funny in and of
themselves, especially when they screech insults in high-pitched phrases?
"Pretty Woman" is a piece of trash, but it at least: a) had the cold starkness
of cynicism to give it some backbone; and, b) let us spend time with two people
who were spending time with each other. "Valentine's Day" leaps bonelessly from
character to character like a caffeinated octopus, flailing fleshily in an
effort to touch every base.
"Valentine's Day" isn't just shabby, it is vaguely racist and a bit
homophobic. When two men share a tender moment, it's the one caressing the cheek
of the other with a flower. God forbid they should actually touch and weird out
the suburbanites lured in by the promise of love as they know it, and as they
know it alone.) It's also clumsy and badly-made. I've seen 30-second ads that
make Los Angeles look more attractive than every grimy, clammy shot
cinematographer Charles Minsky throws between sitcom-level wackiness and phony
arguments and cheap reconciliations. Love, it is said, makes fools of us all.
But movies like "Valentine's Day" try to fool us: that easy endings are happy
ones, that sex is something to be afraid of, that activity is a substitute for
story, that bigness excuses blandness, that Los Angeles is made of wealthy
white people with some occasional ethnic comedic relief. The real St. Valentine
was stoned and beheaded; would that the same fate fell on the people behind this
shallow, shabby fraud.
James Rocchi's writings on film have appeared at Cinematical.com,
Netflix.com, SFGate.com and in Mother Jones magazine. He lives in Los Angeles,
where every ending is a twist ending. | |
