John likes Savannah. Savannah loves John. But John is a soldier in the American army. Lasse Hallström threads her large shoes and embroiders with sorrow around the imposed topic.

Love, the war. Heat, cold. Red, black. That it is out of mirror one of the other to evoke the chaotic violence of the feelings (Gone With the Wind), or in opposition one to the other to exploit thoroughly all the romantic potential of a history (Atonement), the two topics often made good household with the cinema. And even more. How Dear John succeeded in destroying the power of this union remains a mystery close to the untellable one.

John Tyree belongs to the special forces of the American army. In permission in his father, in South Carolina, it meets named it well Savannah, as fair and soft as it is square and not very loquacious. Obviously, it is the love with the first glance. Long ballade on the beach, first kiss under a sudden and torrential rain, all the panoply of the Harlequin love is deployed. But two weeks later, John must set out again. Savannah, it, must turn over to the school. Will their love, from now on epistolary, survive the time which passes and the distance? The more so as in a few months place will have on September 11th. Cue tearing violins and sobs in the voice.

Adapted novel of Nicholas Sparks, Dear John aligned on paper the assets to gain the setting: Lasse Hallström, a producer with the licked and elegant style able usually to handle the emotion and the romantic fresco with precision and tact (What’s Eating Gilbert Bunch, Chocolate, The Cider Rules House); a screen in the form of contemporary chronicle of the loves in time of war which only required to resound; a young actress with the cat-like glance and the undeniable charisma able to carry on its pretty shoulders the breath of such an account (Amanda Seyfried). It is however the impression of a fine mess, and on all fronts, which carries the part.

Setting in transparent and lazy scene with the complete absence of speech on the war, the army or the geopolitical situation of the United States (put aside a scene of war, being used only to wound our hero, it could have been party one year in Club Med that it would be the same thing), of non-existent chemistry between the two lovers with the play missing as much charisma than of conviction of Channing “Ken” Tatum (we already saw Hallström much more inspired in his choices of casting), of the rate/rhythm softie to environment traditionalist scenario re-examined and corrected by Barbara Cartland, difficult to find only one element which functions. Only Richard Jenkins as an autistic father brings a pretense of heart and truth to this large marshmallow oozing of marsh mallow and insipid sentimentalism. What will not be enough nevertheless to save the company.