The problem with Nights In Rodanthe is not that it’s a schmaltzy romance. There’s a time and a place for a good pass-the-hankies weepie love story, and you won’t go to see this unless that’s what you’re after. No, the problem here is that this is so intensely overwrought and manipulative that there are moments where you’ll want to throw your shoes at the screen. It’s a BAD schmaltzy romance, and in movie terms there are few things more irksome.
It starts off okay. Lane’s dealing with a cheating husband, a Kelly Osbourne-type rock brat daughter and a son who is clearly a pre-Hogwarts Harry Potter. She trots off to tend to her friend’s hotel on the Rodanthe beach and in swans an orangey, but still clearly pretty dashing, Gere, with the smell of aftershave positively emanating from the screen. He’s not here for fun but for some other mysterious, stressy reason. Intriguing. Then the courting starts, and it’s all you can do to stop your toes curling.
There’s middle-aged dancing, tinned food basketball, cuddling in a storm, one of Gere’s proper Officer And A Gentleman bear snogs and – clang! clang! clang! – a string of syrupy one-line howlers. Then Gere disappears to see his son, Lane goes back to ditch her husband and look after ‘Kelly’ and ‘Harry’… and the love letters begin. Then something bad happens. Then there’s howling and tears. Then there’s a preposterous bit involving horses. Oh f**k off, this is just stupid.
Even fans of The Notebook (written by the same novelist) will find this a struggle. It’s a date movie for stupidly lovesick 50-somethings with zero taste in films. If that sounds like you, enjoy. Everyone else should take their other halves out for a nice meal instead.
