Which do you think will happen first: Garry Marshall runs out of major holidays to exploit for the benefit of his lightweight comedies (Thanksgiving and Easter must be on his radar); or he burns through every willing A-lister as he stocks his star-studded ensembles? Until either occurs, expect more of the same bland sameness on an annual basis.
Eve wouldn't exist if Marshall's identical Valentine's Day hadn't crossed the $100 million mark in 2010, and those who powered the previous film's box office should show up in support (and appreciate the flavorless mush they're served).
While not technically a sequel -- recurring actors do not play recurring characters -- Eve shifts its action from Los Angeles to New York City but follows the same basic pattern of bright, shiny Hollywood stars attempting to play plain, ordinary citizens whose lives coincidentally intersect as they follow their story...well, "arcs" isn't an accurate term. More like story blips.
As with Valentine's Day, the Eve casting can best be described as a seemingly random but strategically calculated smattering of cinematic legends (Robert De Niro, Michelle Pfeiffer), bankable flavor-of-the-moment celebrities (Ashton Kutcher, Lea Michele, Sofia Vergara) and what-the-hell head scratchers (Cary Elwes, Jon Bon Jovi). The mixing pot of pretty stars is gently stirred by Ryan Seacrest, the poster boy for safe, palatable, homogenized entertainment -- all adjectives that fit New Year's Eve like a glove.
Screenwriter Katherine Fugate, who also penned Valentine's, imagines broadly predictable reasons for luring her familiar faces to Times Square, most tied to the luminous ball that drops over Manhattan at the stroke of midnight. Young Hailey (Abigail Breslin) hopes to receive her first kiss in the glow of the legendary globe. Old Stan Harris (Robert De Niro), who is hospitalized and dying, begs to see the ball drop one last time before he croaks. Self-centered yuppies Tess (Jessica Biel) and Griffin Byrne (Seth Meyers) dream of winning $25,000 for delivering the new year's first baby.
Part of me wants to hate New Year's Eve, yet mustering the energy to despise it hardly seems worth the effort. This isn't a travesty on the level of Al Pacino stooping to appear in the latest Adam Sandler flick. It's competently constructed and decently acted, though Bon Jovi somehow struts away with the most convincing performance. I guess all of those years pretending to be a bona fide rocker paid off.
Even by Marshall's usual fairy-tale standards of plausibility, though, 90 percent of what happens in New Year's Eve struggles to pass the sniff test. When Marshall and Fugate paint themselves into a narrative corner (which happens often), they weasel out of it with musty, tasteless, Borscht Belt humor about rectal examinations or watching pornography with a loved one.
Neither Valentine's or New Year's feel like complete movies. Instead, they resemble audition reels for Marshall's true passion...a corny reboot of The Love Boat franchise. Greenlight that pipe dream and we may successfully prevent Marshall from moving forward with Halloween, starring Meryl Streep, Justin Bieber and Elvira, Mistress of the Night.
