Whether or not you have read David Nichol’s novel One Day, do not see this movie. Losing all the charm, humour and – most importantly – the romance of the book, watching Emma’s (Anne Hathaway) infatuation with narcissist dandy Dexter (Jim Sturgess) is akin to observing a friend’s 20-year toxic relationship. First you’re sympathetic, then frustrated, before the endless drama and self-destruction forces you down a steep decline where you rapidly lose, in order, respect for her; faith in love; and finally, the will to live.

When they first meet on July 15, 1988, Dexter comes home with Emma only to reject her while lying in her bed. Instead of kicking him repeatedly in the shins, Emma feigns apathy and becomes friends with this insufferable, alcoholic, womanising fame-seeker who, when not standing up his dying mother to attend movie premieres, responds to Emma’s declarations of affection by offering to grace her with some meaningless sex. This co-dependent and borderline emotionally abusive relationship continues for 20 years and 108 excruciating minutes, in which time Hathaway’s accent slaughters every line she utters by taking an epic journey through Ireland, Britain and New York to sound like a bizarre love child of Ray Winstone, Dame Judy Dench and Julia Roberts in Michael Collins. It was also just enough time for me to pull out several clumps of my hair in frustration.

Sturgess and Hathaway are good actors working from a great book, but One Day loses every likeable aspect of its source material. The couple’s soul-revealing, friendship-cementing letters to each other are omitted, along with any redeemable aspects of their characters. They’re not funny, charming, or able to have a functional adult relationship with anyone, especially each other. The only good thing about the film is the trip it takes down musical memory lane.
Stay at home, read the book.