It's nobody's fault
One day a girl Hazel met the boy Gus, knightly Augustus. Love spun - sparks in her eyes, fingers in her hair, sweet to hear hearing alerts, kisses at a picnic, jumps through the mid-height barriers of testing, and as a result, the palms are woven together again to the sweet song of the nightingale. And although the doors have already cracked under the pressure of conquered female bodies, oh sorry, hearts, the author turns the lever of the machine printing bills with enthusiasm, oh no, sorry, glowing atmosphere, and dokruchivatsya to the final station - cancer. Everyone is sick, everyone poetically and tastefully dies within two hours of screen time, and Mr. Boone crawls in the cinema between the rows of chairs and in a golden bowl collects a little girl's tears.
Cap, cap, cap - dripping from the capillaries of the pockets into someone's box office. Klak-klak is a couple of thousand gifs in a tambler and a whole epidemic of quotes about life. Dzin-dzin - cash registers ring, announcing to the world about the purchase of hundreds more books of John Green. These sounds accompany a new teenage craze, decorated with proud “millions” and, besides being forced, to be in trend. And if Twilight was shameful to watch, and the Hunger Games hurt, here the cynical antidote does not work, because before living with one foot in the next world, threatening fists fall a priori, glance clouded with empathy, criticizing voices lower the tone to indulgent whisper amidst evolving speculation itself morbid of emotions.
Leaving the book original the right to originality, the viewer will inevitably encounter deja vu on the screen. After all, the topic of incurable diseases saw the best of times and incarnations - “Autumn in New York”, “Stepmother”, “Fountain”, “Reaching the Heavens”. For the little ones, there is also a tearful content, starting with “Hurry to Love” and ending with the hit “Keith” and “Now is the time” breathing in the back of the head. But it is without guilt that the guilty stars are declared to be the cause of the seimological activity of sentimentality, which can be understood, but hardly taken seriously. Josh Boone's second film with Eat. Pray. “Love” has taken a very specific niche for those melodramas that can clearly and affordably provide psychological assistance not worse than specialists or pamphlets of varying degrees of suspicion. But the mutated theme of cancer modestly plays the role of the background rumble of quite predictable rock, which cannot drown out both the naive motifs of the soundtrack and the annoying cranberry of affection with a banal love story with a bad ending.
The girl rolls her fate in an inconspicuous trolley bag, the boy - hides under the leg, and the rest - just like people: and a healthy complexion, provided with a generous layer of lyuminayzer; and stylish interiors, ghosts of glossy pages; and a new car in every fifth frame; the genie is always ready to sponsor a whim, and any writer will forget about fame and deeds and readily expose his literary secrets. Here you have a bohemian garland over the bed - the dream of all the girls, and the contented prince to everyone - also straight from the girlish dreams, and love to the grave will also suddenly come true. Only it is not real, it is “like in a novel”. This whole teenage instagram environment, overlaid with cushions, the fashionable well-being of romantic wilt, doesn’t touch the soul at all, but they are very annoying. The cheerfulness stretched on the back of his head and some stiff grin of Shaileen Woodley, with poorly imitated patience withheld for the black eye of the camera, and more humane but uncouth beauty of Ansel Elgort give out a two-hour (and it seemed endless) vanity-doomed romance from a jagged record, the needle constantly slides off the track and buries itself in sensitive places of the ladies who are buried in snotty literature.
Generous on the stamps of the stage, acutely felt staging, artless dialogues and sour self-irony are hardly interrupted by the short animation that causes the appearance of the nuggets Defoe and Dern and the melodies of the magic M83. This is the most ordinary tasteless love chewing gum after fast food and bicicle walks on a weekend day. Cancer here hardly smells like real, sincere drama, and similar abuse of serious topics in favor of reproduction unfortunate handiwork is very upsetting. Fortunately, there are still standing films, such as the brilliant tragicomedy "50/50" with Gordon-Levitt, next to which the "Stars" are losing their cheap shine.
6 out of 10
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