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Nights in Rodanthe
Richard Gere and Diane Lane – together at last for the third time! And they still have next to no chemistry. They first crossed body fluids in Francis Coppola’s underrated The Cotton Club nearly a quarter of a century ago. He was 34. She was 18. Neither of them had enough pull to make the movie a hit. Cut to 2002. Adrian Lyne casts them as a married couple and this time moviegoers are all for it. But it was Lane’s dalliance with Olivier Martinez that sold Unfaithful, while Gere was left at home on his lonesome. Will Adrienne tell her worthless ex to go to hell and join Dr Paul in Central America where he’s healing the sick with his dedicated son (an incognito James Franco)? Or will their letters keep their love alive until her kids are old enough to leave home? (There may be no broadband in the middle of the jungle, but apparently the postal service is jolly good.)
Based on a short novel by Nicholas Sparks (The Notebook), Nights In Rodanthe is definitely not aimed at cynical male critics – though most blokes I know (critics too) will admit to a fondness for Diane Lane. She’s certainly the best thing here, in my estimation, if a little actorly in her strenuous efforts to locate the emotional truth in hackneyed scenes that might have been cobbled together from 1001 paperback romances. Gere flails around something rotten as Mr Plastic Surgeon. I get that he’s a heartthrob (though he’s beginning to look a little past his prime now) but unless he’s working with a strong director he can be an awful actor. For some reason he plays most of this movie with his eyes shut or near shut. I’m guessing this is supposed to indicate emotional stress or sensitivity. But it just makes a paper-thin character seem unnaturally opaque. In fact the acting honours go to Viola Davis – somehow funny and frank in the near caricature role of Adrienne’s sassy black friend – and to Scott Glenn as the litigious husband of the dead patient. He gives Dr Paul a long hard stare and it’s obvious he’s not impressed with what he sees. And why would he be? Paul comes off as shallow and self-centered.
Director George Wolfe is making his feature film debut here, though his TV movie Lackawanna Blues was well regarded. He seems (understandably) unsure of his material here. Scenes are cut pretty tight, there’s quite a lot of handheld camera, but maybe a slower, more lingering approach would have allowed us to sit back and savour the romance for what it’s worth. Then again, even though the movie lasts just a little over the 90-minute mark, it still felt like a long haul to me. Tom Charity 
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Trevor Johnston, Time Out