Yes, it’s difficult to believe, but One Fine Day was released 20 years ago today. Maybe it’s because I’m more hopeless than the most hopeless of hopeless romantics that I’ve been holding forth on this film and Addicted to Love for most of 2016. It’s been fabulous, and I want to thank everyone who has stopped by to read any of my posts, even if you thought I was a fool (which I obviously am). It means the world that my melodramatic opinions have touched anyone at all.
Michael Hoffman’s ode to the classic screwball comedies opens with a shot of New York that resembles how New York always appears in my mind. I’ve never been there, yet my imagination never fails to see it as a crime-free, affluent, skyscraper laden utopia that has probably never existed.
Watching Clooney and Pfeiffer’s beautifully-crafted Manhattan street scenes I find it impossible not to feel a sense of loss, a nostalgia for a time when anything seemed possible. When New York was a vision, filled with romance and hope.
One Fine Day might well be the perfect distillation of the modern rom-com – the perfect couple, the perfect scenery, and the perfect music (Ella Fitzgerald’s Isn’t It Romantic? especially). It also has the distinction of being something it wasn’t meant to be: the end of an era.
The release of When Harry Met Sally… in 1989 saw a re-birth of the art form, a glorious renaissance which peaked in the mid 1990s. The Meg Ryan Canon lit up the world’s cinemas for a decade, but the greatest of her films to follow, Addicted to Love was just a little too dark, too ambitious and too off-centre to fit into the oeuvre. Meg created and epitomised the female lead of the modern romantic comedy. But it was Michelle (and Clooney) who gave the genre a fitting farewell, with that last kiss, in One Fine Day.
Many thanks to Catherine from Thought’s All Sorts for co-hosting!