Boston-set ‘Love of Your Life’ is a stinkah

     Minus some exquisite shots of her native Boston, Rachel Morrison’s “Love of Your Life” would be as dead as her protagonist’s schmarmy husband, a genial asthmatic felled by the COVID-19 virus wifey likely passed on to him. The rest of the director’s failed attempt at building a better, more syrupy “Eat, Pray, Love” is pure, sleep-inducing drivel, ladled in feel-bad treacle.  

    Doing her best imitation of Julia Roberts, the incredibly photogenic Margaret Qualley is tasked with breathing life into a stoic ER nurse at Mass. General Hospital, who spends her spare time refinishing distressed furniture in her chic, seemingly above her means Beacon Hill condo. Her name is Laya, the product of a one-night stand that left her growing up without a daddy and with a laissez-faire mommy who rarely had time for her. It was a lonely childhood that has left the now 26-year-old health-care worker jaded about both marital and maternal love.  

     Natch, Laya is about to be transformed by the magic of amour, summoned by the impossibly nice, annoyingly square Charlie, played by Gabriel Basso, last seen pretending to be J.D. Vance, sans beard and eye shadow, in “Hillbilly Elegy.” He lives across the Charles in a modest Cambridge home, where Laya comes to buy a battered night table she spotted on Craigslist. It’s been a rough day in the ER, but Laya still looks radiant, which inspires Charlie to ask her out.  

     Their dream date goes swimmingly, filled with existential talk and googley eyes. More romantic rendezvous ensue. Charlie doesn’t mind that Laya has a bizarre, celibate relationship with Jason (Patrick Schwarzenegger) that’s been going on since they were teens. He also doesn’t protest that Laya never removes her bra during sex, signaling to us that “this guy is a keeper.” Might a trip to coastal Maine to meet his granola bar moms, Ruth (Catherine Keener), come next? But only if Charlie can first convince Laya to shed her indifference toward family of any kind. Although it’s odd that among his “close,” extended kin, Ruth is the only one remotely interested in getting to know Laya.  

     Next up, a surprise 30th birthday party where the added “surprise” is an impromptu candlelight wedding in Laya’s expansive abode during a winter storm as shivery cold as Ruth’s reaction to their “from the heart” I dos. But wedded bliss can only last so long, especially with COVID just weeks away. Cue the musical montage of Laya in hazmat gear surrounded by sick and dying people. Soon, one of them is Charlie, a goner mere seconds after he’s hooked up to a respirator.  

     This three- or four-year whirlwind is tightly packed into the first 15 minutes or so, leaving us about another 90 more to spend watching Laya mourn. Not in Boston, mind you, but sunny Lisbon, the ideal spot for an exotic, four-year grieve-cation. The trouble is, she doesn’t tell anyone where she’s gone. Not even Jason, because, you see, for Laya, life is all about Laya. Screw everyone else. This is her me, me, me time. And it’s insufferable. As in, check your watch every two minutes insufferable.  

     Laya mopes as she strolls the cobblestone streets like a zombie, hopelessly searching for someone or something to make her want to live again. Then, like a godsend, she meets Felix (Aaron Pierre), a suave, sweet-talking tourist with an adorable daughter and a congenial ex-wife back in the U.K. He’s a perfect specimen, and in no time, Laya starts to loosen up. Might love be possible again? I won’t say, but trust me, it’s not worth wasting your time finding out.  

     Part of the problem is Qualley is so excellent at playing a selfish prig that she renders Laya impossible to like. But she looks fabulous! As does the entire picture, as you’d expect from a director whose day job is as an Oscar-nominated cinematographer (“Mudbound”). The locations, including New Orleans and London, are all Chamber of Commerce-approved in their visual appeal courtesy of director of photography Todd Banhazi (“Hustlers”). Ditto for Qualley, Schwarzenegger, and Pierre, looking to-die-for in the breezy fashions costumer Jill Taylor dresses them in.  

    The film’s coup de grâce is the shallowness of Cox’s characters. None appears to possess an inner life. They are types more than people. And Morrison doesn’t help by letting scenes drag on, with unnecessary pauses and actors required to look perpetually pensive and/or perplexed. None of it is engaging or thought-provoking. Just boring. It says a lot that the Boston backdrops draw more interest than the people. 

   The city never looked more scrumptious, with Morrison (“The Fire Inside”) capitalizing on scenic sites like the Charles River Esplanade, the quaint shops along Charles Street, and the stately Beacon Hill brownstones. Even a brief scene aboard the hated Red Line scores points. If only the story had shown that same attention to detail. It offers no new insight into the devastation COVID wreaked or into the grieving process in general. It’s just one woman’s martyrdom used as an excuse to mount a travelogue full of sights and sounds sans substance. Sadly, in this day and age, I guess that’s what passes for amore.  

Movie review 

Love of Your Life 

Rated: R for brief nudity and some sexuality 

Cast: Margaret Qualley, Patrick Schwarzenegger, Gabriel Basso, Catherine Keener and Aaron Pierre 

Director: Rachel Morrison 

Writer: Julia Cox 

Runtime: 109 minutes 

Where: In theaters and on Prime Video 

Grade: C-