Like an irritating rash on the collective backside of
cinema, Nicholas Sparks always comes back. For some mind-numbingly stupid
reason, that I can assume involves some form of green paper, we’ve gone from
getting only one adaptation every few years to getting one every year. The fact that two more of these fit within my purview
for reviewing only makes that feel worse. I’ve discussed a couple of these on
here before, like the head-on collision between hackneyed platitudes about
destiny and accidental Freudianism that was The Best Of Me or the bordering-on-parody schlock of The Longest Ride. Given how I haven’t taken the time to check
out his one ‘good’ work with The Notebook, I am once again at the point where I
can only hope for unintentional comedy as my source of joy for this nearly two-hour piece of work.
