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Sure, here is a more detailed paraphrase of the text:The first film adaptation of one of Colleen Hoover’s best-selling novels focuses mainly on the three main characters' names.
The movie follows Lily Bloom, a woman passionate about flowers whose self-confidence and capacity for love will one day blossom again.
(Her middle name is 'Blossom.
') Her first relationship was with a boy named Atlas, who figuratively mapped her heart and was probably her soulmate.
She ends up married to a man named Ryle, who is rich and charming but has anger issues that explode when he gets upset.
The whimsical names are overshadowed by the film's didactic eccentricity and melodramatic elements.
The film cycles its characters through typical romantic-drama tropes and a relentless barrage of abuse, sticking closely to Hoover’s plot to satisfy fans of the book.
Blake Lively is serviceable in the lead role, giving Lily a sturdy, guarded core that makes the character relatable, though she’s never as convincingly deluded by her husband’s lies about their physical altercations as the script requires.
In a scene with Lively’s real-life husband Ryan Reynolds, the actress is all giggles and wry asides; she can be deathly dry, too.
Elsewhere, the film reflects Lively’s connections in the business: her best friend Taylor Swift contributed songs to the soundtrack, and her other best friend Gigi Hadid lent clothes to her character’s wardrobe.
However, the film isn’t the astute exploration of womanhood’s woes that it presents itself as.
The brief conversations about why women stay in abusive relationships are broad in their analysis of codependency and loneliness, lacking depth in understanding the characters’ decisions or motivations beyond their childhood trauma.
This is essentially a romantic drama with more gloss, a pricier wardrobe budget, and a few lens-flare-inundated sex scenes.
The film follows Lily in two timelines.
As an adult (Lively), she’s a florist in Boston with an overbearing mother she keeps at arm’s length and a meet-cute romance with world-class neurosurgeon Ryle (Justin Baldoni, who also directed and produced the film).
During their first conversation, Ryle asks if Lily will have sex with him, which she’s not particularly charmed by.
But she softens after seeing him sympathize with a young patient responsible for an accidental death.
Lily has her own baggage thanks to a physically violent father, from whom teenage Lily (Isabela Ferrer) hid her first love, an unhoused young man named Atlas (Alex Neustaedter), whose mother kicked him out when he objected to her brutish boyfriend.
The film uses flashbacks to this idyllic relationship to contrast Atlas’s gentleness with Ryle’s forwardness, Lily’s small-town roots with Ryle’s modernist-penthouse wealth, and the innocent sincerity of Lily’s first relationship with her more sexually charged bond with Ryle.
The tension comes to a head when Lily finds out adult Atlas (Brandon Sklenar) is living in Boston, too.
The film is cyclical; we had Danielle Steel, we had Nicholas Sparks, and now we have Hoover, whose works align with those predecessors in many ways.
The film bears a phenomenal resemblance to 'The Notebook': a woman caught between two men, one blue-collar and the other privileged; a tense mother-daughter relationship fueled by resentment and a warped sense of protection; one of the men even builds Lily a restaurant, similar to how Noah built Allie a house in 'The Notebook.
' But at least 'The Notebook' gave Allie and Noah interests and passions outside of their relationship and their jobs that didn’t neatly align with what we’d expect of them.
In this film, the primary risk is just Lily’s wardrobe, a mishmash of boho blouses, bodycon dresses, and enough Carhartt that you’d think you were watching a different movie.
Otherwise, there’s no texture, no lived-in quality, no sense of surprise to any of these characters—you know Lily and Atlas are the film’s one true pairing because they’re both creative types and had abused mothers.
There’s love-triangle tension between Lily, Ryle, and Atlas, of course.
But the film wants to be more than that, and so it can’t go more than a few minutes without reminding us of the characters’ damage—a cynical tactic that suggests we’ll only care about these three if we know how hurt they are.
Beatings and bullying and backhands across the face, sexual assault and shoving and gaslighting.
Admittedly, one of these scenes is so shockingly physical, and handled with such emotional acuity by Lively, that it cuts through the film’s tidal wave of misery and makes a legitimate impact.
Yet even that development is resolved in a manner so tidy that it reinforces the film’s innate conservatism.
The movie wants to be a form of comfort food, assuring us that everything would be all right if only women embraced their traditional roles as nurturers, mothers, and healers, but it all just tastes stale.