Courtesy of I-moviechannel.com
Same as it ever was, the only thing more dishonest than a clumsy remake is a clumsy remake that pays no credit to its meritable source. It used to just be the case for film classics (or would-be classics) of yesterday churning into the oft-yawn-inducing mass market versions of today. Now it’s reached a new low: carbon copying films into book form, then throwing it back onto the cinematic gravy-train and letting it ride off the rails.
Lone Scherfig’s One Day, which must’ve had the temporary subtitle “Soon to Be Made a Motion Picture” the moment its manuscript reached Random House’s doorstep, is such a case. It’s the story of two friends, a boy (Jim Sturgess) and a girl (Anne Hathaway), who meet in college and then continue to meet periodically until they finally fall in love (I didn’t spoil much – just look at the poster). Sounds familiar right? If you guessed When Harry Met Sally, you get a gold star and a lollipop. But instead of New York, love comes to foggy Londontown.
To avoid confusion, it should be stated that One Day is unlike Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise (and especially not like Before Sunset). The “one day” referred to is St. Swithun’s Day (which, as every couple knows, means boning, boning, and more boning), the day they first hook up and continue to encounter annually. And of course, since it’s a movie, every monumental moment, good or bad, magically occurs on this day annually. Things are awkward at first, then friendly, then needy, then repeat, until whatever you see on the poster starts happening.
I suppose, to the credit of David Nicholl’s (who based the screenplay off his novel of the same name), that he altered the story until it became his own. I mean, they’re British! And instead of automatic mutual disregard, their eventual love seems written in stone since the dawn of time. And uh…wait, there’s also…hm. Nope, that’s pretty much about it.
To further complicate matters, the stylization of characters is thinner than their archetypes, previously personified by Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I don’t buy Anne Hathaway when she plays “British lass.” The accent never quite materializes into something remotely authentic. Worse yet, I hardly buy Jim Sturgess (who actually is British) as a British man-child, who has as much subtlety as a Union Jack condom. Even as he ages on screen, it’s all surface. Character development is paint-by-numbers to the point where they become disappointingly predictable.
Nicholls has a tin ear for British dialogue, quite problematic if you’re an established British writer. It’s the same blunder that makes Woody Allen’s films from 2005 onward so unbearable: everyone speaks as though their speechwriters are giving them notes before jumping into each situation. Everyone goes along for the sake of creating clever tragic escapism, and One Day has the look of a more sophisticated WHMS, but ultimately it patronizes its audience. It’s dressed nicely, shirt tucked in, cufflinks snapped, but hangs loosely.
