It also doesn’t involve an actress named Maggie, and it certainly isn’t being presented to you by the Cookie Monster. Q is a time travel romance novel, a subgenre of which The Time Traveler’s Wife is apparently but the heart-wrenching tip. Buoyed by the
enormous critical and commercial success emotionally manipulative exercise in mediocrity of that adaptation of a beloved and beautiful novel, Columbia Pictures has decided to roll the dice on another.
Evan Manderly’s novel has this back cover description:
Shortly before his wedding, the unnamed hero of this uncommon romance is visited by a man, claiming to be his future self, who ominously admonishes the protagonist that he must not marry the love of his life, Q. The author doubts this stranger, but in time becomes convinced of his authenticity and leaves his fiancée. The resulting void in his life is impossible to fill. One after the other, future selves arrive urging him to marry someone else, divorce, attend law school, leave law school, travel, join a running club, stop running, study the guitar, the cello, Proust, Buddhism, opera, and eliminate gluten from his diet. The only constants in this madcap quest for personal improvement are the author’s love for his New York City home and for his beloved Q. Q turns the classic story of transcendent love on its head, with an ending that will melt even the darkest heart.
I have several thoughts about this news, most conflicting with each other. First, time travel makes for fantastic stories and there should be more of them. Second, well-regarded books are always welcome to try for a faithful feature adaptation in my opinion. Third, some of the outline of this story reminds me of All You Zombies, and if done humorously certain brilliant episodes of Futurama.
Then there are the things that the rest of my brain is growling. This does not sound like it plays to any of the humor so much as it resembles Eat Pray Love with the protagonist’s future selves literally standing-in for the demands of Julia Roberts’ rampant id. Oh, and I loathe fiction that worships New York City. New York City is to cities what the Boomers are to generations. Yeah I know, I just don’t understand, just like I don’t understand how Woodstock changed the world. And I’m okay with that.
Shake that all together and what do you get? Well, it’ll probably be better than whatever Bay vomits onto the screen that summer.