The Truth About Love

The truth about love is keep it zipped. The philandering barrister gets his go downance and the celibate solicitor gets his end away (off screen) in the final reel. The moral of the movie is, don’t make a sex comedy unless it is sexy AND funny. This is neither.

Alice (Jennifer Love Hewitt) is married to Sam (Jimi Mistry). Sam’s best friend is Archie (Dougray Scott). Sam is having an affair with Katya (Branka Katic). Archie is in love with Alice.

Alice’s sex life has gone to pot. She takes up gardening. Sam is constantly randy. Archie spends every minute of his spare time repairing his yacht and trying not to think about Alice. Katya paints large canvases in her studio and is jealous if Sam looks/thinks at/about any other woman.

There are two additional characters in this tale of rampless lust. The first matters; the second doesn’t. Felicity (Kate Miles) is Alice’s friend. She is the only erotic human being in a movie that should be gagging for it and she doesn’t even take her clothes off, except in the beauty spa. She is the confidante, who’s done it all and has a thoroughly emancipated attitude – have fun and don’t let guilt into the bedroom.

The second add-on is Dan Harlow (Simon Webbe), a famous footballer, accused by his wife of indulging in a three-in-a-bed sex romp. At the trial, his barrister is Sam and his solicitor Archie. This subplot is of little relevance and only of passing interest and can be ignored.

Through a series of misunderstandings and with Felicity’s enthusiastic support, Alice impersonates a mysterious nymphomaniac, named Anonymous, who seduces Sam on the telephone and entices him to a hotel room for blindfold pumpy, which Katya finds out about. By this stage in the proceedings, you have lost the will to fantasize.

The script never leaves the starting block, the sexual touch paper fails to ignite and the acting has no lead in its pencil. Hewitt has learnt her English accent well, but, in every other respect, is pure Hollywood. Her self-conscious, big smile, apologetic flirtiness feels insecure and false, and in every scene with Miles, she is outperformed to an embarrassing extent.

Mistry is worse. As the male lead and apparent superstud, he lacks charm, sex appeal and social chemistry – and makes an unconvincing barrister to boot. As for Scott, the so-called rising star of British cinema, what on earth is he doing in a support role that demands nothing but solid Scottish decency?

The Truth About Love has been dusted off the shelves to fit a slot for Valentine’s Day. Big mistake. It is cynical about relationships, dismissive of women, emotionally damaged and bad in bed. Also – if you need an also – the romantic ending is dishonest.