The Last Letter From Your Lover Review: Netflix’s Light Romance

Your lover’s last letter is part of a long tradition of romantic films based on novels often referred to as “chicklit”. The film could just as easily be dismissed by viewers suspicious of anything that shamelessly competes for the female audiences who made the adaptations of Bridget Jones Diary and To all the boys that I loved before these huge successes. Of course, there is nothing wrong with being shameless femininity or indulging in romantic conventions. It all comes down to execution.

The English journalist Jojo Moyes is one of those writers regularly denigrated with the label “Chick Lit”. Her romance novels – most of them centered on young white people with perfect faces, bound by gasping sexual desire and soapy tragic twists – don’t reinvent the wheel of romance. But while not to critical acclaim, these page turners are very popular. Me before you, for example, sold millions of copies, before inspiring a hit box office adaptation starring Emilia Clarke and Sam Claflin. This is the kind of success Your lover’s last letter hope to reproduce. Directed by Augustine Frizzell, best known for her 2018 indie stoner comedy Never come back, the film is based on Moyes’ 2008 novel of the same name, which, unlike some of his other work, did not pose a problem the New York Times bestseller list. What the adaptation has for it are two charismatic young stars, Felicity Jones and Shailene Woodley, taking the plunge to tell an enjoyable but extremely conventional story.

The film covers two timelines that end up intersecting. Jones plays Ellie Haworth, a London journalist recovering from a messy breakup who discovers a series of secret love letters from the 60s with the help of her handsome colleague Rory (Nabhaan Rizwan). Woodley is writer Jennifer Stirling, an extraordinarily glamorous housewife trapped in a loveless marriage who develops feelings for the reporter tasked with writing about her wealthy industrial husband. Lover cuts between the two women, with Jennifer falling in love and Ellie opening up to the possibility.

We can only speculate on what drew Woodley to this role, but we can’t blame her for doing it just for the incredible selection of hats she wears (especially after the internet’s reaction to those hits. in Big little lies). Jennifer’s wardrobe is a visual treat: dresses adorned with jewels, colorful tailored coats, perfectly coordinated accessories that rival the most beautiful expanses of the Corsican coast to catch our attention. Frizzell delves into this glamorous fantasy, with scenes of Woodley lying on yachts resplendent in beaded lemon cocktail dresses and waking up from nights of passion with perfectly stale false eyelashes.

Meanwhile, Felicity Jones’ Ellie has been hit at the level of Bridget Jones, wearing impressively shapeless cardigans and rejecting nice men who love her just the way she is. Jennifer’s love story is at the center of the film, but there are a few fun moments that contrast the two romances, with Jennifer writing heartfelt promises of undying love in exquisite calligraphy while Ellie agonizes over the correct number. of “x” to punctuate a text with. Aside from the artifices of the final act, it’s hard to justify Ellie’s contribution to the narrative. She primarily serves as an audience surrogate to amplify enthusiasm for Jennifer’s story. The film seems to forget that it is meant to unfold through the letters, only returning to this structural device when storytelling is practical.

Jones and Woodley do their best, forging a reasonable chemistry with their mundane love interests (although inanimate objects would be hard-pressed not to trigger with the latter, given how beautifully she is dressed here). Unfortunately, the romantic clichés of Your lover’s last letter accumulate at a disconcerting rate. Cars in the rain. Vigorous gazes across the dinner tables. Amnesia. Declarations of love under the balconies. The characters cross each other conveniently. If five more minutes were added to the length of the film, it would almost surely be spent on someone running to an airport gate or hugging a lover in front of the Eiffel Tower.

The whole production is undeniably enjoyable but also a bit lazy, with dialogues that sag under heavy exposure. The impression is that of a film reluctant to forge its own identity or subvert expectations, as it assumes that its target audience will be satisfied by well-worn conventions. Audiences should have no shame in chasing a little summer romance or enjoying the comfortable predictability of beautiful people falling into each other’s embrace. But they deserve a bold, amorous cinematic attempt that doesn’t start and end with hats.