I remember when the book was all anyone could talk about, though I never got around to reading it. Despite loving stories involving time travel and alternate realities, I somehow knew that if everyone else LOVED this book, it probably wasn’t about the kind of time travel I like. Judging from the movie, I was right.
(Spoilers from here on in, so consider yourself warned.)
It’s a pretty movie, wonderfully acted, full of angst and wonder. Eric Bana, as far as I’m concerned, can do no wrong. Rachel McAdams is beautiful and brings depth and soul to a role that could have been whiny and irritating if miscast.
But what was the damn point? Why does he time travel? What’s the purpose? Is he some kind of experiment? Is his existence merely to father a child who can time travel at will, the next generation with the traveling gene? I found it frustrating. Interesting, yes, but I was left wanting more. Some kind of explanation, at least a theory. I’m sure Henry and Clare must have had a thousand conversations on the whys and hows and whos and I confess: I’d have found those conversations more interesting than yet another scene of Clare looking forlornly at a pile of clothes.
Most irritating of all is Henry’s knowledge of his death. I saw the movie two days ago and the foremost question on my mind ever since has been: “When the fireworks started, why didn’t they just call the fucking paramedics?!” Gah!