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FROM PRINT TO SCREEN

June 24, 2004

By Matt Savelloni

“IF I LOVE YOU, WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF YOURS?” – Goethe

I promised myself years ago I would no longer participate in the bestseller sweepstakes, but as a bona fide book hound, I keep getting pulled back in. The sweepstakes is actually a syndrome, the sucking void of immense popularity that compels one to discover what all the fuss is about. The entrants are those “must-read” shooting stars holding sway over millions. There are countless examples but some of the most noteworthy phenoms are PRESUMED INNOCENT (a classic), THE FIRM (overhyped), THE DA VINCI CODE (gripping if not formulaic) and THE BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY (nauseating). It was after BRIDGES that I vowed never to be suckered again. But here I am, once again feeling like a dupe for cracking open Nicholas Sparks’ THE NOTEBOOK.

People who know me know this much: I am not easily convinced or pacified. And while I am not drawn to the simplistic, contemporary mores surrounding dating, sex and marriage, I’m not a traditionalist, either. I can be swayed by a decent “love story” as long as the emphasis is on “story” not “love.” About the closest I get to this genre is Pat Conroy, who typically writes coming-of-age tales in which love is just one of many rites of passage. John Irving also details amorous travails but in a more cynical, grounded reality. Writers such as these treat falling in love as just another part of life’s journey and not the end-all be-all as most people mistakenly worship it. I say all this just so you know where I’m coming from. After all, forewarned is fair-warned…

“SENTIMENTAL IRONY IS A DOG THAT BAYS AT THE MOON WHILE PISSING ON GRAVES.” – Karl Kraus

THE NOTEBOOK is one of the worst books I’ve ever read. Seriously. The fact that this piece of sentimental trash spent over a year on the hardcover bestseller list is prime evidence that America has completely lost her sense of good taste. It bears no aspirations other than to repeat a tired love-lost, love-found formula. The characters speak in halting, Hallmark-styled monologues that no earthly being ever uttered. The plot is a hackneyed regurgitation of distilled ROMEO & JULIET minus believable trauma, challenge and consequence. There are sixteen year-old girls writing more compelling, more sophisticated, more persuasive confessionals between the pages of their chemistry notebook than in this fictional one. Anybody who derives the slightest jot of comfort, diversion, relief, insight, empathy or inspiration from this twaddle should give serious thought to lobotomization since that is obviously their most desired state of being. If you enjoyed THE NOTEBOOK, please do not bear children as our collective IQ is already doing a Titanic. If you enjoyed it and currently have children, please give them up because a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

So what is THE NOTEBOOK about, exactly, (besides the obvious inclination to sell as many McCopies as possible)? Well, there are the two young lovers from both sides of the tracks in good ol’ flag-wavin’ New Bern, Carolina (cue Rockwellian imagery). Noah is blue collar; Allie is high society (American rednecks substituting for Shakespearean aristocrats). Noah writes sweet nothings about Allie that her mother intercepts (sound Wicked Stepmother theme). Noah returns from The War and an engaged-Allie goes to visit him (perpetuating the romance novel’s beloved tradition of infidelity). Passion ensues (sentient reader contemplates taking his own life). All of this claptrap is contained within an unoriginal framing device asserting that love really does conquer all, man, even debilitating mental diseases (like the one nearly imposed by reading this book).

Look, I wish no ill will upon Nicholas Sparks. He’s probably a healthy, happy and wealthy family man with an express pass straight through the pearly gates. I begrudge him nothing. However, he has now soiled our bookshelves with three gargantuan chartbusters in A WALK TO REMEMBER, MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE and THE NOTEBOOK. I’ve never read anything else by the man, nor do I ever plan on doing so because I felt vigorously dispirited after reading THE NOTEBOOK, sad that this is what people gobble up during their reading hours. In an age when half of young Americans do not know what D-Day was, reality TV is a runaway hit and music sounds as if it was composed by a Microsoft program, the megasuccess of such lowbrow banality suggests we really are growing dumber by the hour. Popularity is now synonymous with class, status with excellence, glitz with heart. There is room for both pulp and art, absolutely, but nowhere does it say pulp must be mediocre. There are many eminent pulp writers who infuse their works with originality, wit and zeal. However, THE NOTEBOOK is neither pulp nor art and its widespread acclaim feels less like a pop culture phenomena and more like an all-consuming virus. Perhaps the scariest notion of all is not only do we seem unable to tell the difference anymore, we’re not even trying.

“PASSION MAKES IDIOTS OF THE CLEVEREST MEN, AND MAKES THE BIGGEST IDIOTS CLEVER.” – Rochefoucauld

What else is left to say, really? If romantic novels are a curse, romantic movies are blights upon civilization, the most shamelessly manipulative of all film genres. What is the most romantic movie of all time? CASABLANCA, no argument. Consider that movie closely. Not only does Bogart not get the girl, she flies off with another paramour in pursuit of a greater cause, supporting the notion that if you love someone, set him or her free. In CASABLANCA, love is treated realistically, not with the simpering sanctity today’s audience has come to expect. In Bogart’s day, love was viewed as a challenge, something to work at and honor even while acknowledging higher callings, duties that might take precedence over our own wishes. In this day and age where entitlement is not only reinforced but celebrated, the working aspect of love has been forsaken, most notably on the silver screen. From the time they’re knee-high to a divorced parents’ knee, children are told to be pretty, be great, be wonderful, so they can win a perfect mate. It’s a flesh trade, the barter weighed by selfishness. Ask yourself, how many truly happily married couples do you know? If it’s more than 55% of the total, you are above the national average. Despite such complete failure in the arena of love, the same old tropes are trotted out again and again in all their cinematic repulsiveness.

The director of THE NOTEBOOK is Nick Cassavetes, an apple that fell miles away from the tree of his father John’s genius. If there is a case to be made against nepotism in Hollywood, the director of UNHOOK THE STARS, SHE’S SO LOVELY and JOHN Q would be a prime defendant. The screenplay is credited to Jeremy Leven of THE LEGEND OF BAGGER VANCE and ALEX AND EMMA fame, two of the most ghastly movies of the last few years. Newcomers Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling should be properly pretty and aw-shucks earnest while Gena Rowlands, James Garner and Joan Allen will be summoning all of their considerable acting talents to lend as much dignity as they can to the project. Expect a lot of beautiful hues, swelling orchestral cues and anemic PG-13 sexual suggestion.

I really hate being negative and pessimistic. I do. I want to be pleasantly surprised by the film. However, that would require a complete reworking of the source material into something intelligent, honest and unforeseen. Hoping that Hollywood would screw with a known commodity like THE NOTEBOOK in the hopes of actually crafting an engaging story is like hoping for honesty on Capitol Hill. You can scream at the ramparts about the injustice of it all until you’re blue in the face, but at the end of the day, the status quo is just too damn easy.

“Objects we ardently pursue bring little happiness when gained; most of our pleasures come from unexpected sources.” – Herbert Spencer

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