An earjerker, rather than a tearjerker

Rating: Null/10 (30 January 2010)

The life of a chick flick is hard in the post "Sex and the City" world: it is rather on the chick than on the chic side, unless we are talking about the chic commodities that at a certain point start stalking, to the detriment of people who are feeling un-chicly constrained. I mention this because the creative urge that appears in Holly, namely the creation of her own line of shoes in the end comes off like an advertisement, and not like, say, a scene where we witness her enjoying her work. I think this is crucial, because that would mean that we are witnessing the work of real mourning, not the work of a real product.
For the film, paved with good intentions (the French say that hell is paved with good intentions) smells like a product in the end. The "Sex and the City" vein was not brought in vain, if you will; and not for a trivial aspect. Combine this with another hit of the era, "Friends"; Lisa Kudrow does not appear here for nothing (unless one takes the reenactment of her usual persona as nothing); she is here for her usual brand of ludicrous, I would dare say dangerous, concoction of cynical-deadpan-slightly hurt female that comes of like some sort of absent-minded sprite, and is usually employed for releasing some tension. For this, as the film informs us, is a case of love and loss.
Who would want to lose Gerard Butler? He has an irresistible and subtle charm, above the average jolly Irishman consensus. Why is it that he is so popular? He portrays something of a really contemporary masculinity. Sargent, the 19th century painter, notes that a portrait is a picture where there is something wrong with the mouth. Look how twisted, boyish, wrong his mouth is at times; perhaps this is why.
Then, as soon as the two actors appear on screen, you cannot but wonder, even if it is for just a moment, if they actually match. At first it seemed to me awkward-but-why-not, then it shone on me: this actually begins like a gay movie. I am serious. Bette Davies, Judy Garland, gay club??? The climax of these three things in a widow's circumstances is blatant! Then I thought that even casting the of "Boys don't cry" reputation Hilary Swank, was taken into consideration by the producers. For I agree with some of the reviews here: she is not a terrific actor, and she lacks the charm the role should have been fleshed out with. Is it the strong jaws, the boyish looks?
And then the gist of it. How long could one go on sending letters from the grave, and how should he/she handle it? Here I think that the people involved in the scenario should have seriously thought what a letter actually is. At the point Holly visits Ireland after Gerry has arranged for it and she falls for a singer named William who goes on to unfortunately perform a song Gerry did perform for her, and she goes out in the street in panic, she asks a central question: why is he doing this? why does he want me to remember? it is cruel. The funny thing is this is the one instance it is not prearranged. So why this misplaced judgment? It is just that at that one coincidence the cruelty of memory arises in full gear, without prearrangements. Gerry actually is not cruel, he is humiliating. One cannot consider in advance another's mourning, so the whole endeavor, coming full circle at the end in the figure of the mother, seems like narcissistically motivated. Gerry is excruciating in his letters because it is actually about him mourning himself via another person. In no instance does he mention why he is writing the letters, what's in there for him. I would definitely say to a beloved, I am writing to you because I just want to talk to you and going on talking to you (and not decidedly help you get over me!). Wouldn't you? But one should have known better: love is not a mellow post-scriptum; it is written in the course of things.