Symptoms of cholera include rapid dehydration, nausea
In this adaptation of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's masterful 1985 novel, all vibrant colour, unique ethnic flavour and moving depictions of love's many facets are muted, mutated then finally mutilated by Hollywood's anti-Midas touch.
The many flaws of the film do not arise from any efforts made, as the cinematography, costumes and Colombian countryside settings are stunning, with the re-creation of scenes, sequences and lines from the book following a strict checklist. However, one cannot feel the slightest sympathy or begin to believe in any onscreen characters, as their dialogue, interactions and even emotions are so surface-level that they lose all meaning
In Marquez's original 348 pages, Cholera tells the story of a man so entangled by his romantic affection that even after a 50-year-old rejection, he remains enchanted by the woman of his dreams. What makes it more than a ham-handed heart-warmer is that along the way both she and he explore their other hedonistic desires, making mistakes, learning valuable lessons and eventually transcending the ailments of love, life and death.
Then there's this dreck by director Mike Newell and screenwriter Ron Harwood. Both men have decent enough resumés (Newell directed Four Weddings And A Funeral, Harwood wrote The Pianist), but here they simply dash through the plot points with the deft subtlety of a small-town dinner theatre company.
Instead of linking events together in the complex web that is Marquez's narrative thread, this two-hour film tries too hard to include everything, glossing over many entertaining side-stories and integral signifiers in the process. In the novel, every affair and endeavour of protagonist Florentino teaches him something about finding lasting love. In the film, characters and crises come and go without consequence or meaning.
The casting is also a major point of contention, as Latin B-listers like John "The Pest" Leguizamo and the especially unlikable Benjamin Bratt brutalize the roles that should have been better filled by less recognizable actors. Maybe they could have even used cast members who are — oh, I don't know — actually from the continent where the story is based. What's next? Alfonso Ribeiro in Things Fall Apart?
Instead of celebrating and trusting the culture of the author, or even presenting the dialogue in his native tongue and the original language of the book, the filmmakers follow their own inappropriate agendas. Love in the Time of Cholera not only gives a beloved book a bad name, but comes up as vomit-inducing as its titular sickness.
