"Nights in Rodanthe" is an insult to audiences. The filmmakers assume that audiences for romance films are so stupid that they will accept amateur schlock made with as much care as a local-access, late-night television commercial for a mattress warehouse. "Nights in Rodanthe" got abysmal reviews, but I decided to check it out anyway: Richard Gere, Diane Lane, a gorgeous setting, and a romance, all attracted me.
The movie is so awful its awfulness overwhelms even Gere's manly sexiness, and Lane's sweet perkiness. This movie is to romance what motion sickness is to gourmet food.
The setting is a house whose pillars are set in the Atlantic Ocean. It goes without saying that this is, um, slightly risky. It's painfully obvious that the interior shots are NOT the interior of the ocean-bathed exterior. Since the house is a main character, this disconnect and complete lack of verisimilitude is painfully obvious. The owner of the house, an artist and descendant of slaves, would not store her family's heirlooms and her artwork in a house that's about to fall into the Atlantic Ocean.
The interior is the hell for tchotchke collectors. In place of a coherent plot or sincere dialogue or romantic heat, the filmmakers offer us a set crammed to the gills with beaded curtains and retro kitchenware and embroidered pillowcases and carved little boxes and colorful vases: I thought I was walking around inside Martha Stewart's brain. The combination of shoddy film-making, shallow script, and overstuffed house communicates loud and clear: the makers of this film decided that romance film fans are such chuckleheads that they will accept vapid, cinematic drek as long as there is a garage sale collectible in every shot.
The film is so rushed it feels more like a filmed rehearsal than an actual film. Gere and Lane appear to have been given no direction, no coherent scheme within which they could connect. The special effects, of a hurricane and a mudslide, are so ostentatiously subpar they could have been replaced with lights turned on and off by a stagehand and a shaken piece of tin roof material for sound. I don't know how a filmmaker could have directed a scene starring one of the sexiest men alive, Richard Gere, cute and adorable Diane Lane, a house half in the Atlantic Ocean, and a hurricane and created not one candle-power of fear, romance, sexual tension, or meteorological oomph.
Shame on the makers of this film for having so much contempt for their audience, and for their material.
There's one great scene, and performance in this movie, though. Scott Glenn, who was himself a poor Appalachian lad, plays a poor Southern man whose wife died. Glenn's performance is genuine and powerful. That he managed to work that performance into this movie is testimony to his power as an actor. I have a new respect for him. The rest of the film should have been better if only to honor Scott Glenn's incredibly fine turn.
The movie is so awful its awfulness overwhelms even Gere's manly sexiness, and Lane's sweet perkiness. This movie is to romance what motion sickness is to gourmet food.
The setting is a house whose pillars are set in the Atlantic Ocean. It goes without saying that this is, um, slightly risky. It's painfully obvious that the interior shots are NOT the interior of the ocean-bathed exterior. Since the house is a main character, this disconnect and complete lack of verisimilitude is painfully obvious. The owner of the house, an artist and descendant of slaves, would not store her family's heirlooms and her artwork in a house that's about to fall into the Atlantic Ocean.
The interior is the hell for tchotchke collectors. In place of a coherent plot or sincere dialogue or romantic heat, the filmmakers offer us a set crammed to the gills with beaded curtains and retro kitchenware and embroidered pillowcases and carved little boxes and colorful vases: I thought I was walking around inside Martha Stewart's brain. The combination of shoddy film-making, shallow script, and overstuffed house communicates loud and clear: the makers of this film decided that romance film fans are such chuckleheads that they will accept vapid, cinematic drek as long as there is a garage sale collectible in every shot.
The film is so rushed it feels more like a filmed rehearsal than an actual film. Gere and Lane appear to have been given no direction, no coherent scheme within which they could connect. The special effects, of a hurricane and a mudslide, are so ostentatiously subpar they could have been replaced with lights turned on and off by a stagehand and a shaken piece of tin roof material for sound. I don't know how a filmmaker could have directed a scene starring one of the sexiest men alive, Richard Gere, cute and adorable Diane Lane, a house half in the Atlantic Ocean, and a hurricane and created not one candle-power of fear, romance, sexual tension, or meteorological oomph.
Shame on the makers of this film for having so much contempt for their audience, and for their material.
There's one great scene, and performance in this movie, though. Scott Glenn, who was himself a poor Appalachian lad, plays a poor Southern man whose wife died. Glenn's performance is genuine and powerful. That he managed to work that performance into this movie is testimony to his power as an actor. I have a new respect for him. The rest of the film should have been better if only to honor Scott Glenn's incredibly fine turn.