This is the time
of the year when some bizarre form of snarky group-think manifests itself, and
a lot of people start trash Tweeting about Love,
Actually. So I feel compelled to reprint my original 2003 review of the
film — which, actually, I quite liked.
Richard Curtis,
the screenwriter of Notting Hill and Four Weddings and Funeral, graduates
to multi-hyphenate status with Love, Actually, and it's altogether
appropriate to grant him a passing grade for his directorial debut. An
affectingly seriocomic crazy-quilt of overlapping love stories in and around
London, Curtis’ hugely enjoyable comedy-drama strikes a delicate balance
between silliness and seriousness, sentiment and sardonic wit, even as it warns
that not every love story ends happily ever after.
It’s a given, of
course, that if we're dealing with a scenario contrived by Curtis, Hugh Grant must
figure into the mix. Sure enough, the nimbly self-effacing farceur is first
among equals in the ensemble cast, gracefully playing a newly elected, vaguely
Tony Blair-ish prime minister who's conveniently unattached as he moves into
No. 10 Downing Street. He's scarcely through the front door before he's
distracted by Natalie (Martine McCutcheon), a chipper household staffer who's
all the more delectable for not being supermodel-svelte.
Truth to tell,
there's a bit of meat on her bones. And while she wears it well, she’s more
than a little self-conscious, thanks to a churlish ex-boyfriend who made
pointed reference to “thighs the size of tree trunks” before his departure.
The PM, savoring
the pleasure of her company, graciously offers to punish the bounder: “You
know, being prime minister, I could just have him killed.” (Not for the first
time in his career, Grant seizes upon a mildly amusing line and, with
perfect-pitch timing, makes it sound flat-out hilarious.) Natalie – flashing
just a hint of a smile – responds: “Thank you, sir. I'll think about it.”
Elsewhere amid
the entangled plotlines, other romance-in-the-workplace stories proceed apace.
Harry (Alan Rickman) is happily married to Karen (Emma Thompson) – who just
happens to be the sister of the newly elected Prime Minister – but he can't
help responding to the none-too-subtle blandishments of Mia (Heike Makatsch),
his aggressively adoring secretary. Jamie (Colin Firth), a jilted thriller
writer, flees his unfaithful girlfriend to complete a novel at his villa in the
south of France, where, when he's not plotting some character's untimely
demise, he falls in love – slowly, sweetly -- with Aurelia (Lucia Moniz), his
Portuguese housekeeper. That she can't speak much English, and he can't speak
any Portuguese, is at worst a minor impediment to the blossoming romance.
Not all
storylines are created equal. The ironically shy and formal interplay between
two body doubles (Martin Freeman, Joanna Page) for stars in a sexy melodrama
never amounts to anything more than a lame running gag. Laura Linney is
pleasingly plucky as a transplanted American who pines for a hunky office
co-worker, but she's undone by a plot device – i.e., a choking family tie –
that's introduced far too late in the proceedings. A romantic triangle
involving Keira Knightley, Chiwetel Ejiofer and Andrew Lincoln is uncomfortably
closer to a stalker story. And while Liam Neeson hits all the right emotional
notes as a recently widowed stepfather who offers romantic advice to his
lovestruck 11-year-old stepson (Thomas Sangster), neither he nor Sangster can
do enough to encourage a rooting interest in either of their characters.
On
the other hand, Kris Marshall is uproarious as an unlucky-in-love doofus who
suspects (or, more precisely, hopes) that his Brit accent will be catnip to the
ladies in the nether realms of Wisconsin. (“I am Colin, God of Sex. I'm just on
the wrong continent, that's all.”) And Bill Nighy (Still Crazy) is
tremendously funny as he more or less unites the disparate elements of Love,
Actually as Billy Mack, a burnt-out rock star who shamelessly attempts to
re-ignite his stardom by doing a sappily Christmas-themed version of a golden
oldie.
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