“There’re only two kinds of love stories. Boy loses girl and girl loses boy. That’s all there is.”

Justin’s Rating: Near, far, wherever you are… my heart will go on. Probably without the rest of me.

Justin’s Review: If there was such a thing as adult Care Bears — including Cuddly Bear, Designated Driver Bear, Blog Bear and Wal-Mart Bear (now on sale!) — they might be called over to do a major Care Bear Stare on the saccharine mess that is Autumn in New York. And even after that rainbow disinfectant set in, it’d still be contaminated with mediocrity.

The first venal sin of Autumn is that it — without a pause — runs down the romantic movie cliché checklist from top to bottom. Sappy title best suited for a $1.25 paperback? Gay best friend? Unlikely meeting and seduction? Tragic twist? Dying girl who has a better insight into life than the rest of us? No characters who actually work? Long walks through Central Park with nary a beggar or drug addict to be seen? The big fight and sad aftermath? The man who discovers that he can be as sensitive as a girl, if he really tries? The tearful reunion? Death that teaches a valuable life lesson?

All of the above: yes. And I apologize for the nausea.

AINY’s second sin is the utterly tragic pairing of supposedly 48-year-old Richard Gere (who, for the purposes of romance movies, will never cross that 50 year mark until he’s about 83) with supposedly 22-year-old Winona Ryder. It’s as if some elementary schoolgirl was playing MASH with her little paper origami thing, ended up pairing unlikely movie stars together, and her producer daddy said “Let’s make it happen!”

Gere is supposed to be a heartless playboy who sleeps around but never commits (this is probably the biggest demographic of males in the romance genre, by the way), yet he isn’t roguish enough or sleazy enough to pull it off. Instead, Gere crinkles his eyes up in that oh-so-charming way he does to take our eyes off those silver locks of hair, and he coasts on the fumes of Pretty Woman, Runaway Bride, and Dance With Me.

Ryder… oh, Winona. You know I love you, right? You know you’re an incredible cutie, a waif that would have my heart if I stepped into a fairy tale and you happened to be the pixie in the deep woods who asked me to run off with her forever? As that may be, you are just not cut out for romance flicks. Or, possibly, the movie industry. Now, now, shh. Too many words on your part may hurt your pretty little brain. I know we’re supposed to feel for your character, a “free spirit” with a bad heart (which happily has no obvious side effects until the final scene calls for it), but I feel more for the material which is clearly far above your ability to grasp. You’re supposed to be a big Emily Dickenson fan, as a character trait, yet you never quite convince us that you have the ability to read anything above Sesame Street books. Wide-eyed and gulping air through your gaping mouth does not constitute a romantic conquest. I think it constitutes a fish.

The two of them together is just pain in every part of your body. The conversations fly back and forth, never once connecting together but instead just waving at the other as the words sail by. What’s worse is when geriatric Gere and jailbait Ryder liplock, especially after they implant the suggestion dozens of time that he’s old enough to be her father (grandfather?) and could have been, save for Ryder’s mother’s chastity belt. Oh yeah, didn’t I mention that Gere and Ryder’s mom used to date (in the film)? Because that’s not insanely creepy or anything. I bet she’s just up there in heaven, all peachy keen watching the ex-boyfriend who got away make the moves on her terminally ill fish-daughter.

The final sin of Autumn in New York is that absolutely nothing connects with the viewer. It doesn’t connect as a comedy, because unless you find heart disease funny, you ain’t going to be intentionally laughing. It doesn’t connect as a romance, for the above reasons. As a drama? The bad acting and rushed plot try to bully you into shedding a few tears, but those are only going to be tears of joy that the end credits have arrived. So what is left? Autumn? New York? Both are fine things, but not the stuff that movies are made of.

Pluck my eyeballs out before you pluck my heartstrings, that’s all I’m asking.