While I still haven’t seen the allure of Ms. Johansson to the extent of other more erudite (or at least more frequent) filmgoers, her presence in a film with an actor with the potential (and when you’ve been in both Pulp Fiction AND Look Who’s Talking II, you’re still banking on potential) of John Travolta requires that you unclench your knotted hands, at least to see if the car crash is as frighful as it sounded.

I don’t need to see this film any more or any less after reading this review, but daaa-mn.

After attempting to read both Sports Illustrated and the writing tutorial I’m engrossed in while bombarded by (my wife’s and Lifetime’s) Julia Roberts’ vehicle “Steel Magnolias”, I’ve gotta mouth a silent “amen” to Holt, and his antagonism towards the creative types willing to spend money on producing a picture like this, a picture that isn’t willing to invest 45 minutes to get a handle on what the South (especially the Earth-2 Southern-ness of Louisiana) is like.

So, in a display of ultimate compliment towards a film reviewer, I will state that I will emphatically not view A Love Song For Bobby Long, no matter what inebriated affection for, well, everyone, might visit me in the cable-viewing months ahead.