MOVIE CONSENSUS Though beautifully filmed, the makers of Love in the Time of Cholera fail to transfer the novel's magic to the screen.
MOVIE SYNOPSIS Stone Village Pictures presents one of the greatest love stories ever told, based on the timeless masterpiece by Nobel Prize-winning author Gabriel Garcia Marquez �Love in the Time of Cholera. more...
MPAA RATING R, for sexual content/nudity and brief language.
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Would that Newell's visual panache were as robust as his understanding of the novel's romantic implications, but what the film lacks in brio it makes up for in reverence.
Mike Newell's version of Gabriel Garcia Marquez highly acclaimed erotic novel is one of his worst films: listless, poorly mounted, badly scripted by Ronald Harwood, and weakly acted, even by such pros as Javier Bardem.
Weirdly proposing sexual excess as the cure for unrequited love, the film has sad sack protag Bardem drowning his sorrows in an endless round of quickies with 623 faceless babes in heat.
Bardem, Elizondo, Bratt and Moreno bring enough to the banquet to make this feast worth sitting through, and best of all, make you want to read the book, Oprah endorsement or no.
Beloved book, lousy movie. He ages to 72, she stops at 35.
He stays virile, she crumbles. He cries while having sex with 600 women. He�s the only stud in the country.
No one ever said adapting Nobel Prize-winning writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez's densely layered 1998 novel for the screen would be easy, but given the level of talent involved the awful results are still a shock.
Despite its temporal range, the biggest pratfall of the movie is its outdated aura. Newell gives us fabulous scenery and a classic narrative, but none of it becomes involving in the present.
In the most incongruous mismatch of literature and movie treatment since Demi Moore in "The Scarlet Letter," a lyrical meditation on love, patience, devotion, loss, betrayal, and fever has been turned into a South American version of a Hugh Grant movie.
Doubtless it's an enormously daunting task to adapt a book at once so sweeping and internal, so swooningly romantic and philosophical, but it takes a lighter touch and a more expansive view than Newell and Harwood seem to bring.
Lush, extravagant, sad and touching, Love in the Time of Cholera still feels weirdly insubstantial when all the febrile passion has abated. Like a fever it breaks, passes and is forgotten.
Newell has done some fine work in all sorts of genres, from Four Weddings and a Funeral to Harry Potter, but in Cholera he seems to be chronicling a half-century of events, passions and desires as a tourist, not a native.
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