Life Itself

There’s an unfortunate irony in the title of Life Itself, in which very few thoughts, words, or deeds seem to spring from real life.

Indeed, what’s meant to be clever and profound instead feels pretentious and manipulative in this treacly ensemble drama about how fate brings people together, and how tragedy sometimes breeds hope as it resonates through generations.

Set in New York’s cultural melting pot, the episodic story centers on a tragic accident, the effects of which are detailed from the various perspectives of those impacted, both past and present.

The first of five chapters starts more than 20 years later, focusing on a widower (Oscar Isaac) detailing his grief with a therapist (Annette Bening). He’s long since lost touch with his daughter (Olivia Cooke), who was raised by her wise grandfather (Mandy Patinkin) after the death of her mother (Olivia Wilde).

Another vignette takes place on an olive plantation in Spain where a foreman (Sergio Peris-Mencheta) starts a family with the daughter (Laia Costa) of a wealthy landowner (Antonio Banderas). They also have a son (Alex Monner) whose life changes dramatically during separate trips to New York as a youngster and, later, as a college student.

The sincerity rings hollow in the woefully contrived screenplay by director Dan Fogelman (Danny Collins), which feels like an attempted cinematic spinoff of his hit television show “This Is Us.” It juggles fantasy and reality through a variety of eye-rolling narrative gimmicks and plot devices.

Within its cycle of despair and dirty laundry, the film squanders a top-notch cast as it drowns in layers of heavy-handed sentimentality.  Generating only minimal sympathy, it provides no insight into contemporary relationships, or in the case of Isaac’s sad-sack character, possible mental illness.

Life Itself sprinkles in random pop-culture references, such as the characters’ shared affinity for Bob Dylan (which at least bolsters the soundtrack). A few of its intimate character-driven exchanges hit the mark, but they don’t connect together in any sort of emotionally meaningful way.

Fogelman’s dime-store philosophizing and aggressive tear-jerking might be more palatable on the small screen. However, in this case, it obliviously lacks the necessary delicate touch, as if its ambition exceeds its grasp. The intended lump in your throat might be projecting upward.

Rated R, 117 minutes.