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The bright, glossy world of Doris Day and Rock Hudson sex comedies gets a self-aware brush-up in
Down with Love. Pillow-lipped Renée Zellweger (
Chicago) plays Barbara Novak, the author of a bestselling book called
Down with Love that advises women to focus on their careers and have sex
à la carte--just like a man would. Determined to prove that Novak is just as vulnerable to love as any woman, dashingly chauvinist magazine writer Catcher Block (ever-charming Ewan McGregor,
Moulin Rouge) pretends to be a courtly astronaut who wouldn't dream of putting his hand on a woman's knee. This piffle of a story seems like nothing more than an excuse for ironic double-entendres and dazzling production design, until a sneaky plot twist suddenly raises the stakes for the movie's end. As he always does, the brilliant David Hyde Pierce (
Frasier) scores the most comic points as Block's fussy editor.
--Bret Fetzer
A lo-cal attempt at no-sex romantic comedy, a genre that was hardly substantial in the first place. Ewan McGregor plays Catcher Block, a writer for
Know magazine in 1962. Renée Zellweger plays Barbara Novak, a mannequin lightly disguised as a best-selling author. The plot stitches them loosely together, as Catcher, the unreconstructed Lothario, tries to force Barbara, the scourge of soft hearts, to fall in love with him. It is hard to divine the purpose behind this pastiche: is the director, Peyton Reed, making sport of the innocent froth that passed for romance in a more innocent era, or is he aiming to revive it as a straight exercise in retro style? Can one simply drop an outdated genre into the laps of modern moviegoers and hope that it still works? The gags wander between the sweet and the unconsciously filthy, and the project's principal appeal will be to devotees of early-sixties hemlines. Indeed, given the blinding array of colors on show, the movie may be viewed most fruitfully under the influence of early-sixties pharmaceuticals. With David Hyde Pierce as Block's editor, who really isn't gay. -Anthony Lane
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker