So an emotionally and psychologically screwed up poet and his gritty, filthy lover-of-life pal go to a porno and come out with the idea of writing a children's book called Marty the Beaver which becomes an instant nation-wide success but then the friend dies and the damaged writer has to find an illustrator to take his place and the intelligent and beautiful woman steps in but they can't possibly work together but then they do and then they fall in love and then it doesn't work out because she got a big bonus to work with him but then he goes back to the beach on a rainy night to find the rock he threw away and gives it back to her so they can love each other again even though she's engaged to an English writer who left her and then there's a nebula theme and some nifty blender-art-editing (throw it all in, cut it all up, reassemble, play) and then the filmmakers cap the drama with a screaming soundtrack and more preposterous details and plot points and and and. This film was a mess, it was ugly, it was loud, it was obnoxious, it was preposterous, it was stilted, it was egocentric and it was a waste of time.
I did, however, thoroughly enjoy the performances by Mandy Moore, Bob Balaban, and Dianne Wiest. Balaban and Wiest were grossly underused and unfortunately almost all of Moore's scenes were played opposite Billy Crudup who didn't seem to know when to be crazy, when to be cute, when to be pathetic, when to be sadistic, sarcastic or sardonic. Maybe it was blender-art-acting, too. Skip it.
