You know what, screw you guys. A hiatus from this website lasting three and a half years, bar one fleeting cameo, and this is the welcome back I get? P.S. I Love You? THIS is what you choose for me to review upon my return? Why? In the name of God, why? What the hell did I ever do to any of you, aside from inflicting you with five years of mediocrity? Yeah, okay, sorry about that. But surely I didn't deserve this? I mean, that's a bit like visiting my family on Christmas Day, and having them all take it in turns to fire a nailgun into my nutsack.

But a promise is a promise, no matter how sadistic with your choice I knew you'd be. So let's get this shit over and done with so that I can move onto reviewing the next film you've chosen for me...

... LEGEND? Bloody hell, pass me the frigging nailgun when you've finished.

Right, let's cut to the chase with P.S. I Love You; the "P.S" part stands for "Pretty Shit" and the "I Love You" bit actually means "We, the filmmakers have a burning and everlasting hatred for cinemagoers the world over, and have no moral qualms with subjecting you all to the most torturously bland romcom you wished you had never seen. And, furthermore, we're going to stretch out this pile of wank to over two bastard hours. And we're going to charge you for the pleasure too. Buuuuuuuuuuurn".

Now I normally try to reserve myself to criticising the film after I've given a brief rundown of the plot. But even typing a short synopsis makes my piss boil, mainly because everyone in this film is a complete arsehole: The film pretty much begins with Holly (Hilary Swank) mourning the loss of her husband, Gerry (Gerard Butler) who contracted a brain tumour after hurting his eye, or something. Understandably, she's a bit mortified by all this despite that fact that from the little we do see of Gerry, during the films opening scene, he comes across as a complete arsehole. And we can make that judgement because the one scene he is in seems to go on forever. And it mostly involves shouting. Seriously, it's the start of a romcom and these two are ready to tear off one anothers face. How wonderfully romantic.

But yeah, screw it, her husband is dead, she has unresolved heartache yadayadayada so let's buy into her mourning. Well, we would do if her entire collection of families and friends weren't complete arseholes who practically ridicule her for still grieving for, what, nearly a month. Like, OMG, get over it. Learn to lighten up, FFS.

Right, so eventually, she receives the first of a number of messages from beyond the grave. It transpires that, before he died, and in-between bouts of being a complete arsehole Gerry wrote a series of letters and arranged for them to be sent to her at different points in her immediate future. The deep and meaningful message in these letters? Hang out with your friends, travel a bit and go shopping. Inspired. Shame none of them was "divorce your family and get new friends".

Now, I've never read the Cecelia Ahern novel on which this film is based, but I would like to think that it handled its plot with subtlety, sensitivity and a certain degree of nuance. And I'd like to think that the characters are empathetic, relatable and well-rounded. And I'd like to think that it makes sense. But you won't get any of that from this hastily-stitched together barrel of monkey spunk. To call it ham-fisted would be a compliment. But I'm not going to call it that, because I refuse to compliment this film if I can help it.

Okay, all cynicism and snide comments aside, let's get down to the nitty gritty. I'll grant you that Swank is a good actress, no matter what film she's in. Sure, she breezes through her role without breaking sweat, but she makes many of the scenes, as cheesy as they are, seem somewhat believable. Yet as much as you try to like Holly she is so frustratingly one-dimensional it's difficult to give a flying frig after the umpteenth scene of her looking a bit upset. Her job seems to be to ever so slowly pluck on our heartstrings, to never let us forget that however much fun she is trying to have, she is in constant bereavement. She wants to fulfil the wishes of her deceased husband, but she also wants to move on with her life and it's uncomfortable watching her try to figure it out.

What I need help figuring out, however, is how writer/director Richard LaGravenese (responsible for scriptwork on the likes of The Ref) has suddenly forgotten how to tell a story; the narrative in this drivel goes absolutely nowhere, it's as if LaGravenese and co-writer Steven Rogers simply wrote down a series of random and arbitrary scenes and hoped that they would form a cohesive through-line during post-production. There didn't seem to be a chronological plan with the discovery of the letters, other than "Balls, the story is sagging, best move on to the next bit of the plot", so we spend most of the time watching Holly just sitting around and waiting to hear from her dead husband. Riveting cinema, ladies and gentlemen.

LaGravenese and Rogers can never seem to find enough time into Holly's search for Gerry's clues, so instead they inflict padding in the guise of Holly's friends - who are also searching for love, and GEE I WONDER IF THEY'LL EVER FIND IT? -, in the guise of Lisa Kudrow, the designated comic relief, who reaches an admirable career low in unfunniness, and Gina Gershon who looks like she's going to shit a brick in every scene she spouts her pseudo-inspirational crap ("You gotta be rich to be insane, Hol. Losing your mind is not a luxury for the middle class"). They're also supposed to be quirky which instantly makes me hate them. And, yes, that is as a detailed a criticism I can muster for these largely self-centred witches.

In fact, the more I think about the story, the more I get utterly psychotically angry. Let's break it down: We have a guy who knows that he is dying. He has constantly, almost instinctively, been a total douche to his wife throughout their entire marriage. He wants to make it up to her. So what does he do? Does he spends his last moments appreciating his own life, while making sure the last moments he spends with his beloved can be forever cherished? Of course not. No, instead he comes up with the incredibly moronic idea of spending the last few weeks of his existence writing her a series of letters! What the hell? He wants her to do all of these things, but can't be arsed to do them with her, so instead thinks "Nah, sod that, I'll wait until I'm dead before I suggest any of this, because I'll be buggered if I'm going to do any of this stuff with the bitch". I've said it a few times, and I'll say it again: complete arsehole.

I could mention many more details about this film I hated, such as the girly trio going on a fishing trip, whilst dressed like catwalk models; the boooooooooooooooooooring trip to Ireland in which Holly keeps bumping into the same goddamn person in every single bar she ventures; the constant flashbacks to scenes that we watched mere minutes ago; the wretchingly dire "romantic" sub-plot involving Harry Connick Jr that has about as much life and warmth as roadkill; or how much I wanted Kathy Bates' mother-in-law character to take a diving header off the nearest cliff, but you know what, I think you get my point (plus, this review is about three weeks late, and if I carry on whining I'm never going to get it posted). I hated P.S. I Love You. If I were to compare this film to a possible real life scenario, it would be akin to walking down a hundred mile road, whilst stopping every five seconds to smash myself in the face with a hammer.

So there we have it then. My first review since my return. Now, how did I do?

Recommended:
No

Viewing Format: DVD
Video Occasion: None of the Above
Suitability For Children: Suitable for Children Age 13 and Older