“I did not come here for some stupid summer romance,” Miley Cyrus croaks at the midway point of The Last Song , “with some stupid local boy who’s done this a thousand times before.” Sister, I’ve got at least three kinds of bad news for you. In the second Nicholas Sparks adaptation in as many months ( Dear John has the sole distinction of knocking Avatar from its first-place perch), another young lady finds herself on Georgia’s powdery beaches for the summer, balancing a shirtless suitor with hackneyed class conflicts and a passage to adulthood via untimely death. Luckily both the audiences for Sparks’s corn pone weepers and Cyrus’s Liquid Drano rasp don’t share her character’s distaste for cliché: whether they can overlook The Last Song ‘s sucking charm and chemistry voids is another story.
Read more here:
In Theaters: The Last Song
