Bullock's decision to play Kate as a morose kill-joy is particularly inexplicable. She's getting letters from some hot architect through a hole in the time-space continuum, and yet her expression remains impassive, her voice flat, her outlook maudlin.
As soon as Kate lets drop that her favorite author is Jane Austen and the Nick Drake songs kick in on the soundtrack, you know this movie won't be taking any prisoners. Don't fight it with logic, because you'll lose.
Kleenex won't be necessary for watching the wannabe weepy The Lake House, but some sort of pain reliever is essential - because trying to determine whether this time-travel romance functions logically will seriously make your head hurt.
Even for those who buy into the basic ideas, there are credibility gaps that The Lake House cannot surmount. And for those who attempt to apply logic to this movie, everything will come crashing down like a poorly balanced house of cards.
More a valentine to Chicago's architecture than the aching love story it purports to be, The Lake House is a slow-moving, never-igniting tale of calendar-crossed lovers that grows less convincing as it proceeds.