Susan Granger’s review of “VALENTINE” (Warner Bros.)
You’ve seen this movie before. You may not have the ticket stub in your wallet but – trust me – you’ve been there, seen that. There’s this guy, Jeremy Melton, who remembers when, back in sixth grade, five girls teased and taunted him mercilessly, causing him to wind up in reform school and a mental hospital, and he’s out for revenge – in a Cupid’s mask. There’s Denise Richards as sexy, smart ‘n’ sassy Paige; Jessica Capshaw as Dorothy, the plump, insecure, shy girl from a dysfunctional family, someone who always feels like an outsider; Jessica Cauffiel as the quirky, indecisive Lily, who has a penchant from the wrong kind of men; and Marley Shelton as Kate, an aspiring journalist who is being courted by a boozy sports writer played by David Boreanaz, TV’s “Angel,” who’s just along for the ride, serving as a shoulder to cry on. They’re all caricatures, rather then characters, from a stale, misogynistic screenplay by Donna & Wayne Powers, Gretchen J. Berg and Aaron Harberts, based on the novel by Tom Savage. Anyway, these four women are reunited at the funeral of another friend (Katherine Heigl), who’s been brutally murdered in a morgue. And then each receives a mysterious Valentine, cryptically signed “JM.” Director Jamie Blanks (“Urban Legend”) manages to create no terror and zero suspense. It’s not grisly, not gory. There’s not even nudity. Marley covers her torso in a pink towel after a shower and Denise is shown in a black swimsuit in a Jacuzzi. So whodunit? Who cares? The only intriguing question about this dreadful dirge is how Jessica Capshaw, the daughter of savvy Kate Capshaw and step-daughter of Steven Spielberg, ever got mixed up in it. On the Granger Movie Gauge of 1 to 10, “Valentine” barely scores a 1 – my first candidate for WORST picture of 2001.
