2 hours and six minutes. 2 hours and six minutes of uncomfortably shifting from one side of my seat to the other. 2 hours and six minutes of awkward clichés, zero chemistry and wannabe tearjerker moments that left me feeling anything but remorseful.
P.S. I Love You, an adaptation of the best-selling book by Cecelia Ahern, starts with a ridiculously drawn-out screaming match between the two polar opposite main characters, Hilary Swank and Gerald Butler, over having children and moving into a bigger apartment. Quick editing and noticeable lack of music leaves the audience confused and unsure of whether or not the movie has even begun. Not a good start.
While the rest of the audience has gone googley-eyed over Butler’s smoking bod and too-thick-to-understand accent the moment he takes off his shirt, I sat in disbelief watching most of the audience over 40 fall into the trap of all looks and no substance.
Of course the fight is resolved in all of five minutes, just short enough to stop the viewer from starting to experience any real feelings of awkwardness that come from a realistic fight – and just like in any chick flick these days, the heated fight soon turned into a heated romp.
Although most of the audience did know that the plot gets rolling when Swank’s husband, the event of his death still seemed to come as a surprise. All of sudden, bam, he has a brain tumor and dies.
Did I forget to mention Butler plays an Irishman? A very big Irishman? So much so that the music director and all those involved in the process of making this dime-a-dozen flick decided to throw in as much stereotypical Irish music as possible in nearly every scene. Throw on this soundtrack during a get-together and you get the instant pub-at-your-place vibe.
But that’s beside the point… The worst part of Butler’s manufactured ethnicity and roots is the fact that halfway through the movie, Swank and her corny gal pals decide to take off to Ireland because he demanded it in a letter.
Although I must admit some shots of the Irish countryside were beautiful, I do so without praising the director – it’s nearly impossible to make Ireland look bad on film.
During Swank’s large-and-in-charge grieving process, which is stunted by her husband’s never-ending, cheesy letters, she finally meets another man. Take it that he is obsessive compulsive and a little neurotic, Harry Connick Jr.’s role as a bartender at her husband’s funeral lends the audience hope that maybe she will find a new man and move the hell on…
But we are left disappointed as Connick Jr. is forgotten in the US as Swank flees the states in her mad rush to fulfill her husband’s creepy wishes. His potentially pivotal role as the next flawed man of her dreams is put on the backburner and Connick isn’t in another scene till the last fifteen minutes. By then, we’re dissatisfied anyway.
Watching this movie with a bunch of people who loved it was the worst part. I couldn’t help but feel awkward when the lights went up and everyone was wiping away stray tears and trying to hide their tissues.
Once everyone made their way out of the theater, the conversation began with the question on everyone’s mind: “what’s going to happen to her now?” My response – No clue, and P.S. why should I care?
