George C Wolfe
But itís written as a romance, and you can blame The Notebook scribe Nicholas Sparks for that.
Because the script says so, Paul (Richard Gere) and Adrienneís (Diane Lane) crumbling lives are thrust upon each other. Adrienne is tending to her friendís North Carolina bed and breakfast, and Paul is in town handling business. And soon, the two are sharing diner, heartbreak, and regret over Dinah Washington.
In a few minutes, we learn who these shallow codependents are: sheís a chatterbox who isnít sure whether to let her husband back into her life, and heís a surgeon wracked with the guilt over a patientís death. Neither one knows how to keep their personal problems personal, and so their instability reads as borderline-insanity. But they fall in love anyway.
And like all great cinematic lovers, Paul and Adrienne spend the night taking shots of whiskey and playing basketball with canned sausage. Then the storm rolls in, which means candles, which meansÖwell you know what that means. But afterwards, they learn more about each other and themselves and all of that. Forty-year-old women will eat this up, just like their 14-year-old daughters ate up The Notebook.
So I am not the target audience, nor is anyone reading this review. They have already seen Nights in Rodanthe and are a-okay with the predictability, contrivances, and the fantasy of it all. Not me. But not because Iím not a 40-year-old woman; but because Iím no sucker.