Romantic action comedies are supposed to be soufflés—light, airy, and just a little dangerous when the temperature rises. Jonathan Eusebio’s Love Hurts instead brings us the cinematic equivalent of a microwave burrito, piping hot in patches but mostly frozen where it matters. We’re promised a gleeful riot in the key of Jackie Chan, but what this film delivers is the sound of laughter caught in the wrong throat.
At center stage is Marvin Gable (Ke Huy Quan), a washed-out hitman reinvented as realtor—though this is less a character arc than an excuse for costume changes. Quan, so recently ablaze with kinetic possibility in "Everything Everywhere All at Once," is reduced here to little more than proof-of-life: it’s impressive he reported for duty at all. Marvin’s dynamic with Lio Tipton’s Ashley is supposed to be the film’s heartbeat; instead, it has all the voltage of a dying light bulb. Where their repartee should crackle, it fizzles—one suspects the prop department misplaced the chemistry set.
If the pairing of Marvin and Ashley is supposed to warm us, the love triangle with Mustafa Shakir’s “The Raven” chills the proceedings with its competitive blandness. Shakir seems asked to play not a rival love interest but a plot device that keeps jamming. Meanwhile, when Daniel Wu wanders in as the estranged brother “Knuckles,” family drama is promised, but all that materializes are confrontations as convoluted and empty as a rejected soap opera storyline. One watches these romantic overtures unfold with the same fascination reserved for infomercials: is anyone actually supposed to believe in these connections, or is it all just one long setup for a punchline that never lands?
The dialogue lobs feints toward themes of sacrifice and redemption, only to miss the entire target. The script addresses its audience as if we’ve collectively suffered a blow to the head—plot beats are underlined, circled, and repeated, their emotional content as shallow as a puddle. Instead of an exuberant homage to the slapstick of Jackie Chan, we get a half-hearted imitation: the action choreography is a mess of good intentions and stunted payoffs, like stumbling onto the remnants of a birthday party long after the guests have left. A couple of fight scenes briefly threaten to entertain, but this is more like the echo of fun than the thing itself.
Visually, Love Hurts is a study in beige. Even during the rare moments when the camera seems about to spring into life, it is yanked back by production values (math homework has inspired more spark). The supporting cast—Sean Astin and Marshawn Lynch, among others—are left to wander the periphery, looking as if they’re waiting for someone to hand them not just better lines, but a point. Not even Quan’s charisma, which has rescued lesser material, can salvage script pages that read like the world’s most dispiriting Valentine’s Day card.
And the romance? Calling it by that name is an act of chutzpah. The central relationship has less passion than a handshake at a family reunion. The film gestures towards connection but delivers confusion—this is the cardboard cutout phase of love, complete with a hollow knock if you dare tap it.
In the end, Love Hurts is not a misfire so much as a completely avoidable accident: a film so bereft of spark, sincerity, or invention that one wonders what whispered blandishments enabled it in the first place. There are brief, flickering moments—like the final brawl—where the movie hints at the wild, unruly genre collision it aspired to be. But ultimately, the experience is less a reminder that love can bruise than that mediocrity can wound us all.
Save your heart, and your patience, for something more deserving. Here, the only thing that hurts is sitting through it.
