‘Lonely Planet’ Review: Romance is Dead and Netflix Killed It

Katherine (Laura Dern) is a writer on a fancy writers’ retreat in Morocco. This is made clear within the opening minute of the latest paint-by-numbers Netflix flick Lonely Planet, because the film opens with Katherine arriving at the airport in Morocco and immediately checking a voicemail from presumably her literary agent (a disembodied voice never named or featured again): “You’re getting to that retreat today, don’t forget you’re on deadline because you’re a writer writing a book.” Yes, I am taking slight liberties with the phrasing here, but barely.

Katherine arrives at the retreat, which is, of course, at a palatial resort in the country, with gorgeous views and somehow no personality whatsoever, since this is Netflix and they seem to think flavor might risk alienating some viewers, the same way you might worry about your whitest friend with spicy food.

But Katherine can’t truly appreciate the (overly sterile) beauty of it all—she’s facing terrible writer’s block, a new experience for her, and a general sense of ennui from being recently blindsided by a breakup with her longterm partner.

Meanwhile, the other writers also begin to arrive, most importantly Lily (Diana Silvers). She’s the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed youngster of the bunch, fresh off the critical and commercial success of her debut novel, elated but deeply insecure about her place in the literary world. Only, Lily herself is not really important here, in fact she’s barely a character, but she’s a crucial cog in this narrative machine because she’s somewhat inexplicably brought along her boyfriend Owen (Liam Hemsworth), a finance guy who really isn’t much of a reader.

From the jump, Owen and Lily’s relationship has all the wrong kinds of tension; to the extent where it’s hard to buy that these two people even became a couple in the first place. Even the plot device of the youngest attendee being allowed a guest at a retreat like this one is so unrealistic it’s difficult to look past—especially considering no one else appears to have brought a plus one. There’s no WAGs section here, just Owen. He feels out of place (because he is), and repeatedly confronts Lily about not prioritizing him enough and making him feel lesser than. Some of his accusations are valid; several others feel like inevitable results of being the only non-writer at a writers’ retreat. What exactly did you expect, my guy?

It doesn’t take long for Katherine and Owen, the two people least happy to be there, to cross paths, and their first conversation is perhaps the most uninsipred “meet-cute” this reviewer has ever encountered:

“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Water.”
“Cell service. Barely.”
“Right.”

Romance is dead, folks. Not only merely dead, really most sincerely dead. Let’s just give up now.

The way Katherine and Owen’s relationship progresses is hardly more inspiring. After brief initial protests, Katherine quickly leans into the chiseled distraction that Owen presents, while Owen clings to the attention from Katherine, the only person at the retreat showing any interest in him and not treating him like he’s functionally illiterate since he hasn’t read Proust.

Dern and Hemsworth try their hardest to sell the chemistry, and later in the film there’s the occasional glimmer of something if you look really closely and cross your eyes a bit like you’re trying to see the hidden image in one of those Magic Eye books. But overall, their dynamic comes across as neither pulse-pounding seduction nor heartwarming romance so much as two serial monogamists who happen to be in conveniently close proximity. At one point, Lonely Planet twists the knife by having Owen tell a waiter, in the blandest possible way, “I’ll have what she’s having.” Just in case anyone forgot that there used to be romance movies capable of making people actually feel something.

Lonely Planet is written and directed by Susannah Grant (Unbelievable, Catch and Release), but at this stage it feels like Netflix as an entity should be sharing credit. Their ability to creatively steer projects from a rolodex of different filmmakers towards the exact same uninspired shade of beige is remarkable. In a review of a film, it’s nice to be able to talk about the actual filmmaking, but as is painfully often the case with Netflix movies, it’s like trying to describe a void. Nothing here is bad enough to warrant particular critique, but nothing is good or striking enough to merit specific praise either. It is terminally functional and irredeemably boring.

I’ve previously described the standard look and feel of a Netflix film as “pasteurized filmmaking,” and that only becomes truer and truer with time. Clarity is incredibly important in storytelling, but at Netflix in particular, there seems to be a strong tendency to conflate clarity with oversimplifying. No scene, no conversation is allowed to operate on multiple levels—a necessity for great storytelling. The result is a steady stream of C- films that are consistently passable but little else. There’s no nuance rewarding the attentive audience, no subtleties to entice repeat viewing. Even Laura Dern, for all her talent and charm, can only do so much with a character and story about as dynamic as reading a phone book.

If you need something in the background to keep you company while folding laundry, there are worse options out there. But if you want to actually watch an age gap romance where the female lead is older and give it your full attention, The Idea of You or one of the other dozen or so such movies that have come out in the past year or so might be a better choice.

Lonely Planet is available to stream on Netflix.