Love in the Time of Cholera is the quintessential story of a young man, Florentino (Javier Bardem) who falls in love with a girl, Fermina (Giovanna Mezzogiorno), who is far above his social class. Her father (John Leguizamo) forbids him every to marry her and then proceeds to pine for her over the next 51 years, which gives a whole new meaning to the term "lovesick." Florentino's pining is hardly chaste, however; he decides to attempt to heal himself by seeking illicit encounters with every woman he can find (or nearly so), keeping count along the way.

It is Romeo and Juliet set in Cartegena, and in the wild terrain and jungles of Colombia, South America. It features an international cast which, in spite of the talent, never coheres or conveys any believable substance to their behavior.

The potential for this story to be potent and epic was completely thwarted by curious casting, bad dialogue (by screenwriter Ron Harwood, The Pianist), fake accents, bad makeup, and obvious prosthetics that called unwarranted attention to themselves, and stark, brash lighting that was weirdly unforgiving. Too often, Love in the Time of Cholera plays like an overwrought telenovela ... complete with hammy acting and cheesy dialogue.

For a movie rooted in a celebrated novel, there were only two lines that stood out as gems against many lumps of coal. At one point, Florentino writes in his journal about the anguish of his lost love for Fermina, "I am struck by the lightning of love and burned beyond repair." Wow. Must be a line from the book. Later, he realizes his pursuit of every woman he meets is damaging him: "Routine is like rust." Otherwise, the script veers from maudlin to silly.

The photography of Columbian vistas fails to balance the gritty composition of the rest of the film. And while it's not enough to redeem this mess, the music (by Antonio Pinto, with original pieces performed by Shakira) transcends the film's glaring failures.

The movie completely earns its "R" rating thanks to an abundance of nudity, bodice ripping, bare breasted women of every age and demeanor, and sexual content. It is a crude, lopsided love story told without finesse or subtlety. Even adding a little softness to the lighting, and a little more levity and humor to the story would have made a huge difference. But it was almost as if director Mike Newell (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Donnie Brasco, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, The Constant Gardener) and screenwriter Harwood were trying to visually shock us into believing that this was a rough town with roughhewn characters who deserved the bad dialogue and fake accents they were given. Perhaps they were thinking that if you put enough bare breasts in this movie, no one would really care what the characters are saying. So sad.

When Love in the Time of Cholera finally winds down (it felt like the entirety of Florentino's 51 years later), Newell and Harwood punish us for sticking around this long.

What is even more surprising than this awful adaptation of a Nobel Prize-winning author's work is the presence of Newell, an acclaimed British director known for a measure of refinement and vision in his movies. What happened here? There just wasn't a single redeeming thing about this movie. The story about love hoped for, love lost, love obsessed, and love perverted is distressingly unromantic and boring. Bad, bad, bad!!

My advice? Avoid this movie like a cholera epidemic. There's no cure for this strain. Consider yourself vaccinated.
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