The Longest Ride (2015) • View trailer
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for sensuality, fleeting nudity, dramatic intensity and brief war violence
By Derrick Bang
You gotta hand it to Nicholas
Sparks: He certainly knows what sells.
Ten films have been made from his
novels, since 1999’s Message in a Bottle,
and most have been well received: absolutely indisputable date-bait. No. 11,
based on his novel The Choice,
already is waiting in the wings for release next year.
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Luke (Scott Eastwood) surprises Sophia (Britt Robertson) with a "dinner date" that's
actually an early evening picnic at the edge of a gorgeous shoreline. Could anything be
more romantic? |
Some of the more recent
big-screen adaptations, though, have suffered from a surfeit of predictable
Sparks clichés: the too-precious, meet-cute encounters between young
protagonists; rain-drenched kisses; the contrived tragedies; the wildly vacillating
happy/sad shifts in tone. Indifferent directors and inexperienced leads haven’t
helped, with low points awarded to Miley Cyrus’ dreadful starring role in
2010’s The Last Song, and the
on-screen awkwardness of James Marsden and Michelle Monaghan, in The Best of Me.
Which makes The Longest Ride something of a relief, actually, because its stars
— Scott Eastwood and Britt Robertson — share genuine chemistry. We eagerly
anticipate their scenes together, in part because they occupy only a portion of
their own film. In yet another Sparks cliché, this narrative’s other half
belongs to an entirely different set of lovers, whose swooning courtship and
marriage unfold half a century earlier, as recounted via — you guessed it — a
box filled with old letters.
Sparks obviously can’t resist the
impulse to cannibalize his own classic, The
Notebook ... which, come to think of it, also got re-worked in The Best of Me. Never argue with excess,
I guess.
Anyway...
Transplanted big-city girl Sophia
(Robertson), a senior majoring in modern art at North Carolina’s Wake Forest
University, is inches away from graduation and an eagerly anticipated
internship at a prestigious New York gallery. Romance is the last thing on the
mind of this serious scholar, until she’s dragged to a bull-riding competition
by best gal-pal Marcia (the adorably perky Melissa Benoist, who deserves her
own starring role, and soon).
Inexplicably caught up in the
suspense of these dangerous, eight-second battles between man and horned beast,
Sophia can’t take her eyes off Luke (Eastwood). He’s a former champ on the
comeback trail, following a disastrous accident, a year earlier, which left him
with A Mysterious And Potentially Fatal Condition.
As is typical of such
melodramatic touches, we never learn the exact nature of Luke’s affliction,
only that he courts death — more than usual — every time he now gets on a bull.
And that he pops pills, presumably pain pills, like peppermints.
Anyway...
Sophia and Luke have nothing in
common, and yet they’re drawn together; a hesitant relationship blossoms,
despite the certain knowledge that Sophia soon will depart for New York. These
early scenes are charming: scripted simply but effectively by Craig Bolotin,
and engagingly played by our two leads, who are quite good together. Sophia
can’t resist Luke’s polite Southern gentility; frankly, neither can we.
Heading home late one rain-swept
night, they come across a crashed car whose elderly driver, Ira Levinson (Alan
Alda), is hauled from the wreck just in time ... along with a box he begs
Sophia to retrieve. Later, in the calm of the hospital where Ira begins his
recovery, Sophia discovers that the box is filled with scores of his old love
letters to Ruth, his deceased wife.
Ira’s condition is frail, his
mental state approaching surrender. Perceiving that the letters bring solace to
this old man, even though his eyesight isn’t up to the challenge of enjoying
them himself, Sophia offers to read them aloud: a task she soon embraces on a
daily basis.
(I’m not sure how Sophia finds
the time for her studies, her relationship with Luke and her sessions with Ira ... but there you go.)
And, thus, we’re swept back to
the early 1940s, as a younger Ira (Jack Huston) meets and falls in love with
Ruth (Oona Chaplin), a European Jewish refugee newly arrived in the States with
her parents. Ira, besotted by this enchanting young woman, can’t believe that
such a sophisticated beauty would spare a second glance at a humble
shopkeeper’s son, and yet she does. Indeed, Ruth is unexpectedly forward for
the era, which certainly adds to her allure.
The parallels are deliberate:
Ruth is enchanted by modern art, particularly works produced by the
free-thinking students/residents at nearby Black Mountain College. Ira can’t
begin to comprehend her fascination with the likes of Willem de Kooning and
Robert Rauschenberg, but he’s willing to learn ... just as Luke can’t imagine
why anybody would pay thousands of dollars for “a bunch of black squiggly lines
on a white canvas.” (Nor can I, for what it’s worth.)
Scripter Craig Bolotin wisely
improves upon Sparks’ novel, by more elegantly integrating these two
storylines. In the book, the hospital-bound Ira’s earlier life unfolds via
“conversations” with his deceased wife; his actual interactions with Luke and
Sophia are minimal. Bolotin’s decision to grant Sophia a larger part of Ira’s
reminiscences, and to enhance their mutual bond, is far more satisfying.
Back in time, Ira and Ruth’s
whirlwind courtship is interrupted by World War II (a segment seriously
condensed from Sparks’ novel) and, in its aftermath, A Disastrous Battlefield
Injury that has left Ira ... less of a man. Can love endure?
Okay, my snarky tone isn’t
entirely fair. Although it’s more fun to spend time with Luke and Sophia,
there’s no denying the similarly endearing bond between Ira and Ruth, and our
genuine consternation when things go awry. Much of the credit belongs to
Chaplin — daughter of Geraldine Chaplin, and granddaughter of the legendary
Charlie Chaplin — whose Ruth is a force of nature.
Huston’s young Ira spends much of
the film transfixed by Ruth’s very presence, his mouth slightly agape: a mildly
amusing and not terribly deep reaction, and yet one we understand completely.
She is captivating, and her smile is
to die for.
Meanwhile, back in the present,
Sophia learns of Luke’s, ah, vulnerability: not from him, but from his worried
mother (Lolita Davidovich, calm and understated, which is just right). Cue the
usual stubborn response from the Man Who’s Gotta Do What A Man’s Gotta Do; cue
the tears, hearts and flowers.
All of which sounds hopelessly
maudlin, but ... funny thing: By this point, we’re well and truly hooked by
both storylines, and hopelessly invested in their outcomes.
Unless, of course, you haven’t a
romantic bone in your body ... which obviously was the case with the two
insufferably rude women sitting nearby during Tuesday evening’s preview
screening, who giggled derisively during the film’s entire second half. I get
it: This is syrupy soap opera stuff, so
if that ain’t your bag, don’t buy a ticket. Let the rest of us dreamy suckers
enjoy it in peace.
At unexpected moments, and
granted just the right camera angle by cinematographer David Tattersall,
Eastwood looks and sounds spookily like his old man, during his younger days. It’s uncanny, at
times, and this younger Eastwood takes full advantage of the heart-melting
smile and luminescent gaze that seem his birthright. The bonus is that he’s a
more expressive actor than Clint, if only by a slight margin ... but I’ve no
doubt Scott could become a star, given careful judgment of future roles.
The extraordinarily busy
Robertson has parlayed considerable television work (most recently the
adaptation of Stephen King’s Under the
Dome) and big-screen supporting roles into some recent starring vehicles;
between this and her high-profile turn in Tomorrowland,
due in late May, she’s certain to make this year’s “promising young starlet”
lists.
She’s just right here, giving
Sophia an initially reserved, bookish wariness that melts persuasively as she
throws herself, wholeheartedly and with the ill-advised impetuousness of young
love, into this relationship with Luke.
The bull-riding footage is
impressive, its authenticity overseen by the film’s association with
Professional Bull Riders, with additional heft supplied by cameo appearances
from a few PBR world champions. Tattersall and editor Jason Ballantine do
impressive work with the riding sequences, which look realistically dangerous
... particularly when it comes to a dread alpha-alpha bull dubbed Rango.
The
film’s melodramatic virtues notwithstanding, it’s too damn long; 139 minutes is
butt-numbingly excessive for this sort of romantic trifle. At the risk of
succumbing to the obvious one-liner, this “ride” would have been more
satisfying, had it been shorter.
