Nope and Noper

Profile: Romantic tearjerker about terminally ill, beautiful, magical, dying, live-for-today, dying, large-shoe-wearing woman who endeavors to change the life of an uptight, driven, workaholic ad exec by using such methods as hijinks, capers and whatnot. And she's dying. But funny. Think: Camille meets Bewitched,

carpools with Bringing Up Baby, offers timely advice to Love Story and objectifies ABC's Saturday Night Movie of the Week.

Symptoms: There's nothing like a good, weepy love story. And this is nothing like one. Love stories are all about character; the only thing that matters is whether: whether we care about these people, whether they get together, whether she dies. Nope, nope and noper. Sweet November's main characters aren't two-dimensional—that would be crediting them with a dimension and a half more than they possess. See, she's nutty because she runs on the beach and wears large shoes and knit caps and drinks cocoa and says things like “Wooo!” And he's not because he quotes The Art of War and lives in a really clean apartment and doesn't like cocoa and says things like “Now listen up, Moonbeam!” and “I'm two Cleos ahead of the game, Ray!”

Diagnosis: If these characters were any flatter, they'd be my eighth-grade girlfriend (nothing personal, Julie).

Prescription: If ever there was a time I wished this column was called Script Doctor Kevorkian, this is it. This is a horrible movie, but it's ultimately treatable given the few requirements for a decent doomed love story. They already have two of the most important ones: beautiful people and a beautiful setting. The latter is San Francisco, an absolutely enchanting place until some San Franciscans open their mouths. And that's what's wrong with this movie: what they say. “Time is money!” and “Wooo!” Always “Wooo!” They don't need to say a lot. Just sprinkle a few romantic pronouncements in between shots of them holding each other and make sure the woman wears less makeup as she starts to die more.

Prognosis: C'mon, this ain't hard. Robby Benson and Kay Lenz bought summer homes doing this stuff.

—Steve Lowery

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