Anne Hathaway hath a way with us, once she’s done with the “bookish” tight hair and glasses. She turns radiant but remains a moody, patronizing twerp with the masochistic guy (Jim Sturgess) who dotes on her. He is shallow (appears on bad TV), she is deep (reads Milan Kundera). For obscure reasons, they meet every July 15, which becomes like bad dinner theater, then like a sour Bastille Day hangover. The whimsies are flat, sexual chemistry is meager, and director Lone Scherfig never finds with Hathaway the feminine magic she got from Carey Mulligan in An Education. There is a small, touching performance by Rafe Spall, son of Timothy. (2011) — David Elliott
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