Most critics are warmly disposed, if not unreserved. The praise gathers on the cast and above all on Michael Caine’s ether-addicted Dr Larch, named again and again as the reason to watch; Tobey Maguire, Charlize Theron and Delroy Lindo get their mentions too. Several reviewers call it the most successful screen version of Irving yet, and the New England locations and Hallström’s gentle, old-fashioned manner are admired for their simple integrity.
The reservations settle on shape and tone. Even admirers note the film wants more dramatic muscle, that the romantic middle section drifts, and that as a story it arrives nowhere in particular. The spread is wide: the two outright dissenters, Sight and Sound and The Guardian, find the gentleness closer to blandness and the sentiment glutinous, arguing that abortion, race and incest are handled so tearfully as to become incoherent. Nobody calls it ugly or dull to look at; the argument is whether it adds up.