You know exactly what you're getting with a Richard Curtis film, which is precisely the problem with Love Actually. Behind the camera for the first time, the Notting Hill man sticks to what he knows best: `comedy' swearing (""Where the fuck's my fucking coat?""), gruesome sentiment and the usual round of weddings/funerals. The trouble is, we've been down this road too many times before and Curtis' Altman-lite narrative (eight muses on the theme of love, unfolding on the run-up to a predictably white Christmas) only shows up his inability to see past the cosy, middle-class world he shares with Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson and the rest of his Oxbridge chums.
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