Real estate can be a cutthroat business. And Marvin Gable loves it.
Not that Marvin is a cutthroat type of guy. Not in real estate, anyway. He smiles a lot. He bakes cookies for open-house events to give those showings that nice, warm scent of home. Marvin just wants to match his wonderful clients up with wonderful houses. Nothing wrong with making people’s dreams of home-ownership come true, right?
He’s one of the most successful real estate agents in Milwaukee—proof, it would seem, that nice guys can finish first. Sure, he’s not thrilled that someone’s drawing mustaches on all of his bench ads. But what is he gonna do—track down and kill the vandal?
Well, once upon a time, maybe he would have. But Marvin’s different now. The only killing he makes these days is through his very reasonable commissions.
But then a former colleague of his shows up, announcing his presence with a fist to the face. When Marvin comes to, he finds himself at his desk—one hand tied to his chair and the other harpooned to the desktop with a sharp, wide knife.
Seems his old life has returned. And it’s not at all happy.
Apparently, back when Marvin was mainly killing people for a living, his last hit was a purposeful miss. Knuckles, his boss and brother, told Marvin to kill a woman named Rose (Knuckle’s top lieutenant) for stealing from him. But Marvin secretly loved Rose, so he let her go.
But now, it seems, Rose is back. And she’s sending Valentine’s missives to all of her old pals.
And what unwelcome Valentines’ they are. Knuckles is none-too-pleased that Rose is alive. Merlo, Knuckles’ new top lieutenant, really doesn’t want Rose to start blabbing about who really stole Knuckles’ money.
And Marvin? He had hoped that Rose would stay hidden, that both of them could’ve started new lives free of crime and murder. Marvin had escaped: Why couldn’t she?
Plus, he’s got houses to show. Contracts to sign. And it’s awfully hard to do that when your hand is pinned to a desk with a giant Bowie knife.
Seems like Marvin will need to revert to his old self for a little bit—just until he can dislodge the knife and deal with The Raven.
Yeah, the real estate business can be cutthroat, all right—but nothing like Marvin’s old gig. And he’ll be giving a few folks a nice education in morgue-age rates before he’s done.
Marvin might’ve been a tough, ruthless dude at one point. But those days are well behind him (or so he thought). This former hitman had changed. And when his current boss, Cliff, gives him an award for being the best agent in the region, Marvin is touched almost to the point of tears. Not only does he love selling houses, but the honor is proof that he could move past his past and start again.
Cliff was instrumental in that turnaround. We learn that Cliff frequently invites Marvin to Thanksgiving dinner, and he considers the two of them to be “brothers.” When Cliff begins to hear inklings of Marvin’s old life, he takes the news in stride, believing Marvin needed a second chance. Even if the rumors of Marvin’s past misdeeds are true, Cliff expresses confidence that Marvin’s turnaround was real and sincere. “When push comes to shove, Marvin’s going to be all right.”
A couple of other characters also seem to change, at least to some level. Another hitman falls in love, potentially pointing him in a better direction. Yet another hitman—one who’s on the brink of a dangerous mission—calls his wife and apologizes for being kind of a jerk.
Marvin can sometimes sound a little like an inspirational refrigerator magnet. For instance, he tells his real estate assistant, Ashley, “Every day is an opportunity to change your life. If you’re not happy, do something about it.”
When Marvin is fighting with The Raven in his office and Marvin’s curious assistant knocks on the door to make sure everything’s OK, Marvin waves her away—telling her that he’s engaged in some high-intensity yoga.
Marvin has kept an amethyst crystal for years—a gift from Rose long ago. Rose mentions that amethysts are great for warding off nightmares.
Marvin finds himself in what appears to be, essentially, a strip club. We see dancers walk around on stage, wearing fishnet stockings and revealing (but, in context, fairly modest) bikini-like getups.
Men and women kiss, expressing their love for one another. Someone swoons over another person’s poetry.
For a while, I had hopes that Love Hurts might be a fatality-free affair. Alas, it was not to be.
Someone’s shot in the head, and the camera gives us a comic opportunity to stare through the hole as it if was a spyglass. Another character gets fatally blasted in the chest with a shotgun. A third fatality succumbs to, of all things, a drinking straw to the eyeball. (A piece of the eyeball is pulled out when the straw is removed.) One or two other folks are shot to death, and several more are stabbed into oblivion. At least one neck is snapped.
The nonlethal injuries are plenty painful, too. While Marvin seems surprisingly unfazed by his skewered hand, most of the rest of us would likely be howling in agony. The battery of bandages that he uses to wrap the wound always bears blood stains, as well. (One bandage is so saturated that blood seeps through and drips on the chair underneath.) A hitman slices and stabs two opponents with ferocity; they survive only because one final joke requires them to. Someone suffered a severed finger (we see both the disembodied digit and the stump from where it was removed). One character has clearly been tortured, losing a couple of teeth along the way.
People fight with guns, knives, darts, baseball bats, tasers, cowboy hats, cookie cutters, pencils, refrigerators, countertops and feathers. People get thwacked in the head, racked in the groin, as well as punched, kicked, tackled and thrown. A couple of combatants are rendered unconscious. Rose nearly drives her car into another passing vehicle. Houses are practically torn open via gunfire.
At least 70 f-words and about 10 s-words. We also hear “a–,” “b–ch,” “d–n” and “h—.” God’s name is misused at least a half-dozen times, most of which include the word “d–n.”
Rose works behind the bar of a saloon/strip club. Bottles of liquor decorate the wall behind her, and several patrons drink. One man is offered a glass of whiskey. He initially refuses it, but later he downs it in one swig.
A man is described as being “emotionally constipated.” Lies are told and illegal deals are made.
“I believe in absolution,” Cliff, Marvin’s best friend, says. “I believe in second chances.”
Had Love Hurts committed there to that message, it might’ve been a better movie.
Certainly, that message is here. Marvin got his second chance, and he made the most of it. He not only became a dynamite real estate agent, but a far better human being.
But when Marvin’s old life comes a-knocking, Rose insists that Marvin’s new life isn’t really living; it’s hiding. And even though Marvin hated the man he was, he’s suddenly conflicted about the man he is.
The movie doesn’t make it clear just where Marvin lands in the end. But perhaps that’s too much coherency and thought to expect from an 83-minute movie predicated on flying blades and crotch shots.
Love Hurts is a curious sort of a Valentine’s Day movie, a movie with a little heart and a lot of blood. Sure, it’s about change: changing bandages, changing addresses and even how people can change in unexpected ways.
But for a story predicated upon that sense of personal unpredictability, the content concerns are as rote as they get. Blood flies. Bodies drop. Profanities shoot through the air as often as the bullets do. No greater truths are unpacked, no cinematic artistry shared. This is a visual ride through the ludicrous, and where the destination is no great shakes, either.
Love hurts? Sometimes. And sometimes movies do, too.
Paul Asay has been part of the Plugged In staff since 2007, watching and reviewing roughly 15 quintillion movies and television shows. He’s written for a number of other publications, too, including Time, The Washington Post and Christianity Today. The author of several books, Paul loves to find spirituality in unexpected places, including popular entertainment, and he loves all things superhero. His vices include James Bond films, Mountain Dew and terrible B-grade movies. He’s married, has two children and a neurotic dog, runs marathons on occasion and hopes to someday own his own tuxedo. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @AsayPaul.
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