The British-made "Mr. Right" shows one thing clearly (if nothing else): Americans do not have the monopoly on terrible gay-themed dramas. A collection of gay Londoners work out their miserable love lives: there's the TV producer with Tiger Beat hair; the skinny, sulky actor (who carries a purse!); the rugby player who spends most of his time playing babysitter; the directionless kid who always looks confused, et al. The directors, the sibling team of David and Jacqui Morris (working from David's wincing, facetious script), seem to be treading in alien territory. The static scenes of coupling have no focus, no rhythm, while David's dialogue seems culled from various bitchy television programs. Gays have had a hard time in the cinema lately; if they're not bitter and crabby, they are disinterested or distracted. Anything, one assumes, to keep them out of each other's arms and out of each other's beds. One waits in vain for an honestly-extracted bit of emotion, a caring touch or a sweetly-observed glance. The Morris' are oblivious to such things. They keep their characters busy on their cell phones, busy at their jobs, busy bitching to their girlfriends. Gay men apparently no longer laugh--or love. * from ****
Review of Mr. Right
