The thing that's particularly galling about his latest installment, The Choice, is that the script seems to think it delivers a sophisticated and witty battle of the sexes.
The puppies and babies become a key factor in distracting us from the fact that there's zero chemistry between the vibrant Palmer and the stiff Walker.
You feel manipulated, but not in the I-can't-help-but-be-moved way that these films usually work. By the time its finale rolls around, The Choice has completely undone its own spell.
As usual, love will be declared, tears will be shed, rain will fall, stars will be gazed at and dogs will be shamelessly anthropomorphized by their owners.
The Choice feels like Mad Libs with some of Sparks' laziest clichés - a romantic rowboat, a colorful small-town carnival, a jealous upper-class boyfriend - and the result is a predictable, recycled mess.
We the people deserve every nutty coincidence, beautiful disaster, luxurious grief montage, and supernatural final-act reveal. Garbage-entertainment is still entertainment. Why, then, does The Choice almost entirely opt out of its own game?
