Nowadays, mainstream romantic comedies are a dying breed. Good ones, with real interpersonal stakes and sexual tension like those starring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, are even harder to come by.
That’s why, even if it doesn’t quite deliver the goods, something like the amiable but flawed “Book of Love” defies a sex-starved cinematic landscape oversaturated by sterile superheroes and icy franchises by employing a time-honored “sex sells” principle, defying a sex-starved cinematic landscape oversaturated by sterile superheroes and icy franchises. Book of Love is digitally available on the OTT platform of Amazon Prime. But before you invest your quality tie watching it here is an honest review of it.
Book Of Love: A Review
Despite its occasional storyline clumsiness and lack of chemistry between its protagonists, Analeine Cal y Mayor’s balmy little charmer couldn’t be more pleasant during the February winter. Rest certain that this opposites-attract romp of modest pleasures will leave you with the sweet aftertaste of a mini romantic holiday that you can enjoy from the comfort of your own living room.
The idea that “sex sells” is literally at the center of “Book of Love,” which follows stuffy London novelist Henry (Sam Claflin, who exudes an attractive mystique) as he battles with the embarrassingly disastrous launch of his first novel. Because the book is such a flop, shops are offering a crazy “Buy One, Get Three Free” promotion on it – oh, the shame! However, how could the novel sell if it is labeled as a romance but contains no eroticism?
It would be one thing if Henry’s corduroy-clad, stiff-upper-lips Henry kept quiet about his work’s complete celibacy. Instead, he single-handedly sabotages any potential inquiry by repeating the adage, “Chastity is having the body in the soul’s custody,” as many times as he can.
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So imagine Henry’s delight when his marketing-savvy publisher informs him that the book has become a Mexican best-seller. He finds himself on the next flight out for an overseas promotion before we can even ask when or why the work was translated into Spanish. Enter Maria Rodrguez (an attractively no-nonsense Verónica Echegui), a clever local who has been tasked with accompanying and translating Henry throughout his stay in Mexico, after also completing the chore of translating his book… To put it mildly, he took some artistic liberties.
In fact, the book has become a “50 Shades”-style sensation because to Maria’s generous changes, which include plenty of sex, different sexual orientations, plenty of naughty language, and a wonderfully sexy jacket.
Maria, a devoted mother and restaurant worker by day and a gifted aspiring writer by night, strives to keep her changes hidden from Henry, who speaks no Spanish. After a few of awkwardly humorous panels with oohing and aahing ladies flinging panties at Henry, Maria admits to making the scandalous edits to his dull book, and chaos ensues. Well, not quite.
All things considered, Henry, being the calm and cool English gentleman that he is, handles this “Bullets Over Broadway”-style plot admirably. So, with Maria’s grandfather, gorgeous young son, and obnoxious musician ex getting increasingly jealous of the duo’s love, the two continue their tour in front of a quickly swelling fan club of colourful romance addicts.
Not all of the supporting characters are successful, with the ex in particular being an irritating afterthought. “Book of Love” happily surges along like a guilty-pleasure page-turner, resisting the temptation to resort to cheaply unpleasant clichés about Maria’s Mexican identity, thanks to comfortable predictable story rhythms, bright costuming, and sunny cinematography.
To put it another way, you won’t leave the movie thinking of her as a feisty or angry cliché with little depth. (On the other hand, the extremely textbook-British Henry could stand to loosen up.) Instead, Maria, a realistic woman who is well aware of her talents and worth, is given a full-fledged character in “Book of Love.”
Unfortunately, neither Cal y Mayor nor co-writer David Quantick are very adept in screwball language, so we get exchanges that elicit more polite grins than true belly laughs. But, despite their strangely bashful hesitation to lean into something a little sexier (isn’t that the point Maria is making? ), their work is nonetheless worthwhile, tackling the inane and sometimes patriarchal concept that romance is minor and histrionic sexuality is lowbrow art.
(Wait until you hear Maria’s persuasive argument in favour of telenovelas as real entertainment.) “Book of Love” is here to honour these forms in its own modest manner, and the dedication can’t help but make you feel moved.
