Nights In Rodanthe
As Diane Lane takes on projects that are worse and worse that continue to squander her talent, it looks like she may possibly have hit rock bottom here, playing in a romantic drama that brings nothing new to the table, with barely any kind of story to support it, which is a shame because it brought film work into the state of North Carolina where it was filmed in 2007. Lane herself continues to be beautiful and charismatic, and is normally a pleasure to watch even as she spews out the most hackneyed dialogue and finds herself paired once again with Richard Gere whom she still shares fine chemistry with. The story, which is based on the novel by Nicholas Sparks, has Lane playing a soon to be divorced mother who has given up on her lame, pandering husband (the always underwhelming Chris Meloni), who despite the fact that he has cheated on her seems to be an expert at manipulating their two kids to always take his side. Deciding to get away and work for a weekend at her best friendās beachside inn (the famous Serendipity House, gorgeous to look at but in such a dangerous location that its only inevitable that one day it will collapse into the ocean), she meets the only guest currently staying there played by Gere, a revered surgeon who has come to have a sitdown chat with the husband of a woman who died on his operating table. With no surprise to the viewer, the isolated environment along with the boredom of the characters (and us) leads to them talking and bonding and finally sleeping together in what has to be the most tasteful and tact sex scene in cinematic history (first a closeup of his face, then her face, ad nauseum). The idea that their relationship enables Gere to be āredeemedā and become a ābetter manā from his past mistakes is fantasy tripe of the worst level that only the most shallow of women out there could actually think is realistically possible, so much so that Gere leaves her to travel down to South America to assist his doctor son (James Franco, reportedly so embarrassed by the final product that he had his name taken off the credits) and bring medical aid to the impoverished natives down there. Needless to say, the unthinkable happens in classic Sparks fashion, leading to the excruciating last 20 minutes of little more than Lane weeping and sobbing, before making peace with her daughter when the girl realizes that her mom will NEVER take back her slimy father, and limping along to its āupliftingā conclusion. The only real conflict or paradox in sight is when Lane goads Gere to go have his talk with the grieving husband of the woman who died on his watch (Scott Glenn, looking older than Methuselah) along with his son (who can charitably be described as the inbred version of Adam Sandler), leading to a scene of the two men ābondingā before Gere breaks down and genuinely tells Glenn that heās sorry for what happened (and which weāre supposed to presume means Glenn will now drop his wrongful death lawsuit he has filed). The best that can be said about little known director George Wolfe is that he gets some good camera shots of North Carolinaās Outer Banks region where the story takes place, but since weāre not watching a travelogue, there seems little reason to watch it other than local pride and counting the clichĆ©s, as when Gere and Lane huddle together in the house during a hurricane (which ends due to one of the most abrupt edits this viewer has ever seen) before we have to sit through and endure them attending a hootenanny featuring some off-key singers performing bluegrass music. Overall, pretty much the most fake and manufactured assembly line romantic movie in a long time, and enough to make one wonder that if Sparks makes so much money for writing this crap, then maybe Iām in the wrong businessā¦
3/10