Save us from romance novels

The romance novel craze, which has already taken over Italian literary supplements, is now making its way to the cinema. This trend is widely regarded as a scourge: wherever it appears—for example, in the pages of Tuttolibri, La Stampa’s literary supplement—readers of more demanding fare tend to disappear. It is difficult to make headway in a jungle of novels that are all the same, and almost all of them are daft; it is hard to deny it.

A couple of years ago, It Ends with Us was released in cinemas. A film by Justin Baldoni starring Blake Lively, based on the novel of the same name by Colleen Hoover. An uplifting story in which Blake Lively, having left her husband, meets ‘the hottest bloke around’ – played for the occasion by Justin Baldoni himself, looking absolutely smashing. Everything goes swimmingly; he’s even rich. Until the handsome chap has a fit of rage and, from that moment on – after having courted her so ardently – keeps her captive. So, girls: watch out for the early warning signs and get a move on straight away. As implausible and contrived as all educational films.

Regarding Verity, another film adapted from a Colleen Hoover novel that has just been released in cinemas, Richard Brody writes in The New Yorker – right in the headline – “A criminal waste of talent”. A massive waste of talent. He is referring to the actresses Dakota Johnson and Anne Hathaway, who star in the film but fail to make it watchable. Not even remotely. Not even for the sake of mockery. Perhaps just for a few laughs, as happens with certain films that are so badly made they become memorable.

Brody writes (a critic with whom we do not always agree; he likes serious cinema, but is relentless when dismantling banalities dressed up in finery): the transition from "It Ends with Us" to "Verity", which features a crime plot, requires a more rigorous logic. In short, we’re not talking about romances that work on a whim. But neither the screenwriter Nick Antosca nor the director Michael Showalter have grasped this.

Dakota Johnson, a little-known novelist, has an appointment in New York. Whilst waiting at a traffic light, a delivery boy on a bike is hit by a car. A young man escorts her into a nearby bar; in the commotion, she is covered with blood, and he, acting as a gentleman, undresses her and helps her clean up—using his own shirt: now he should be the one covered in dirt, but the viewer pays no heed to such details. She then leaves the scene of the accident and hurries to the publishing house, where she encounters the young man once more; he is the husband of a famous writer who, following an accident, is unable to finish her own books.

That is sufficient for Dakota Johnson—who is also responsible for writing the missing endings—to end up in Jeremy’s arms. However, the lead writer, Anne Hathaway, has a manuscript tucked away in her drawer. Is it an autobiography full of murky secrets, or the outline for a novel? The decision is yours; we lack the courage.