Feats of lust

Romantic drama leaves little to the imagination

NICK MACMAHON, STAFF

You can’t stop two people from falling madly in love . . . nor can you stop the same two dimwits from giddily swiping their debit cards at the movie theatre, punching in their four-digit pin number. OK? Yes, hit enter if you want to bawl your eyes out in a packed theatre next to other duped couples. Relax and let Hollywood cater to your base-level needs, offering you a light snack that you’ll regret once you realize how much fat is in that innocent morsel.

Feast of Love serves us a politically correct five-course meal, giving us a taste-test of all of love’s different forms, or the various routes to nakedness (semi-spoiler alert!): wife leaves husband for lesbian love, ex-heroin addict meets innocent girl love, interracial geriatric love, sexaholics anonymous love, and pity love. It’s a fact of life that most people’s Internet history folders have been graced by similar website entries; also a truism, this film probably has loose connections to an industry that shall go unnamed. Setting out to make glossy, soft-core porno (complete with an inebriated Eddie Van Halen providing the musical masturbation), the filmmakers were sidetracked along the way, when they haphazardly wove a plot connecting our flesh-happy couples’ escapades. Spooning, pelvic thrusting, hips gyrating — puritans will leave the theatre feeling filthy, adding insult to injury when recalling the film’s absence of Jesus’ infamous unconditional love. Ah yes, Dan Brownian Christ-bashing is still alive and kicking.

Morgan Freeman plays the wise elder professor, Harry Stevenson, offering counsel to friends in need. He delivers an opening monologue about the Greek gods and how they invented laughter for us so that we could handle the pains of love, setting the intended tone for the movie. Greg Kinnear plays Bradley Thomas, a sensitive, honest coffee shop owner, whose personality is as bland as his name. When his wife leaves him for another woman, the lovelorn Thomas begins his quest for new love. At this point, the film succeeds with its sweet and sour flavour — a drama with romantic comedy undertones. Rather than the exploring the depths of love, the film putters along on empty, opting for nudity (every time a new couple hooks up) and daytime soap opera dialogue. To loosely quote Stevenson’s wife, Esther (Jane Alexander), in one scene she spouts out the line: “We have to love as hard as we can”; laughable and embarrassing, this dreadful dialogue becomes a centerpiece. The film had many chances to redeem itself in other ways, but the cheap wine and smelly cheese was abundant — tray after tray, like an insistent hostess, imposing on your sobriety and ignoring your lactose intolerance. The final nail in the coffin was a scene in the “ex-heroin addict meets innocent girl” love story, where innocent-foolish girl, Chloe, (Alexa Davalos, The Chronicles of Riddick) sees a fortune-teller who predicts the death of her boyfriend, the ex-heroin addict, Oscar (Toby Hemingway, The Convenant). Poor, poor little Oscar. Actually, forget Oscar — shame on director Robert Benton for having the nerve to include a fortune-teller scene and not give a cameo to a certified psychic. John Edward, there’s always Premonition 2.

Despite the faults that dress this picture to the nines, some solid performances nearly “Band-Aid” the bloody mess, almost making up for the pathetic dialogue. Who can argue with Morgan Freeman? Although somewhat type-cast here, he strays away from his usual confident, collected persona, playing a more vulnerable character. It would have been nice to see to a Morgan meltdown — hysterical, with arms flailing and tears flowing. He’ll come around one day. Greg Kinnear is a natural, but he isn’t particularly a standout here; also type-cast, he doesn’t deviate much from “Mr. Nice Guy.” Alexa Davalos, on the other hand, gives the strongest performance in the film, as a free-spirited, desperate young woman. Audiences will fall in love with her childlike optimism and her . . . never mind.

Upon leaving the theater, double dates will go their separate ways — girls will blow their noses and re-apply makeup and guys will crack jokes to ease their discomfort. Singles will be aroused and film geeks will be throwing a tantrum, while the writer, like that bastard who brought us The Notebook, will be laughing all the way to the bank and maybe to Oprah’s Book Club.