![]() ![]() Despite its shallow nature, this is one of the more enjoyable trash films Netflix has put out in a hot minute. OK, but let’s concede to watching for the eye candy alone. And anyway, the principal actors in Purple Hearts are far too made up, too polished, too statuesque to make any kind of statement about the struggles of the common person, even if that’s what the film is supposed to be about. She finds an energetic pulse, yet can’t get the sparks flying. #PURE HEARTS REVIEW SERIAL#Director Elizabeth Allen Rosenbaum (whose work on the Netflix serial Dead to Me is magnitudes better) doesn’t wield any sharp tools. #PURE HEARTS REVIEW HOW TO#This isn’t to imply Carson or Galitzine lack talent, but talent shines brightest under a director who has perspective to offer, or at least a working knowledge of how to extract something real from their performers. Think of it as part of the Disney-Channel-to-record-sales pipeline and know that Purple Hearts remains a bureaucratic film. Take, for instance, Cassie’s band: She sticks to covers because she lacks confidence in her own ideas, but as she gains the ability to believe in herself because a dude came along, she writes the bland pop-anthems that propel her to superstardom (while miserably failing the Bechdel Test). Purple Hearts lacks even a hint of innovation and instead favors pre-determined love story plot beats. Lessons learned kisses kissed roll credits. Lo and behold, though, despite the two bickering over just about everything, their antagonism blossoms into eventual romance. ![]() ![]() When a handful of conservative Marines with supermodel-good looks enter her bar one night, however, she hatches a plan to marry one (Nicholas Galitzine, The Craft: Legacy) shotgun-style for his health insurance-if she can hang with his, shall we say, white male leanings. In Purple Hearts, Netflix’s newest based on a Tess Wakefield book by the same name, Cassie (Sofia Carson, whose resume is heavy with Disney Channel stuff) can’t afford insulin and is constantly on the verge of death, when she’s not, y’know, slaying hard-rock versions of “Sweet Caroline” with her cover band. The American health care industry doesn’t exactly conjure up images of sweet romance, but leave it to YA lit and Netflix-two mass-market industries designed to throw romance-adjacent, undercooked pasta at the wall and see if any sticks-to wade into deep systemic problems with little interest in examining their shortcomings. ![]()
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