I witnessed about 30 minutes of this atrocity on TV today. This is the epitome of my least favorite movie. As a matter of fact, I'm seriously leaning toward forming an argument that Nicholas Sparks is bad for the world, that he influences youth in terrible ways and that he's an objectively worthless writer.
Thanks, Dan Gilroy, for firmly (of course, unintentionally, too) lodging a loop of Tool's Keenan's Vicarious lyrics into my brain with this film, and thus assisting me in expunging from my mind that of those (awful ones) of Bruno Mars' Uptown Funk.
("Eye on the TV
'cause tragedy thrills me,
It happens to be like;
Killed by the husband;
Drowned by the ocean;
Shot by his own son;
She used the poison in his tea
And kissed him…
I loved this film within seconds. The first shot is an immediate representation of the magnificent cinematography that is on display throughout the subsequent hour and forty-five minutes. It is clear that every single shot in the movie was scrupulously positioned and executed, as though it were specifically contrived to parallel the meticulousness of the protagonist therein. Melville's and Decaë’s bravura is evident throughout, and I particularly admired their impeccable use of symmetry.
The first twenty minutes of the film…