A young novelist writes a woman into real life in this sappy romantic comedy. The novelist is unlikeable, the woman is only partially realized, the setting is scrubbed-white, tastefully furnished and nouveau-riche, and everyone is slightly quirky. I think those things were supposed to be intentional, and the vapidity was supposed to be the point, but it's still insufferable. Thankfully, around the half-way point, Plastic Bertrand's 'Ca Plane Pour Moi' plays on the soundtrack during one of those cliched 'getting to know each other' montages, and that's a relief.
Wasn't that great? All he does is hop around against a typical 80s geometric pastel backdrop for 3 minutes, and it's so much more interesting than 104 minutes of Ruby Sparks. Then the lead characters go to an outdoor movie and watch Dead Alive, and I hoped that we wouldn't have to watch any more Ruby Sparks and watch that instead.
No such luck. Then someone said, "It's love. It's magic.", and I died a little inside.
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