Today I saw Love and Other Drugs, starring Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal.
Maggie (Hathaway) is a 26-year-old artist suffering from Parkinson's Disease. Jamie (Gyllenhaal) is a pharmaceutical salesman, peddling antidepressants who meets her one day as she's getting her breast examined. Seriously.
They banter back and forth about why he shouldn't have been in her exam room (he really shouldn't have) then consummate their attraction after their second encounter (this time, a coffee shop).
The sex is so good that both partners, who are anti-relationship, begin to crave more from one another. This scares Maggie, who doesn't want to tether anyone into being her caretaker for the rest of time, so she pushes Jamie away.
The two lead actors are phenomenal and share a very believable chemistry. Watching them become these two characters (forgetting they played a married couple in 2005's Brokeback Mountain) isn't remotely boring, and their spicy scenes keep us paying attention, if only for the skin.
What's wrong with the movie is everything else: the 'rich' brother that for some reason has to crash on Jamie's couch when his marriage falls apart; the waste of Hank Azaria (as a slimy doctor) and Oliver Platt (as a slimy salesman); the script discrepancies that throw us from a slapstick comedy to a depressing drama without warning.
I went into the theater thankful that this wouldn't be just another chick flick and came out disappointed that the result was almost worse.
At least Hathaway wasn't the only one who had to take off her clothes.