It’s been a long road back to Hollywood stardom for Ke Huy Quan, and while Love Hurts offers him a leading role on paper, it rarely lets him own the screen. The film, a Valentine’s Day-themed action-rom-com from director and stunt coordinator Jonathan Eusebio, aims for the sweet spot between John Wick-style carnage and the quirky, post-Pulp Fiction crime flicks of the late ‘90s. Unfortunately, it lands somewhere in between, never fully committing to either extreme. While it boasts slickly choreographed fight sequences and a certain offbeat charm, the film ultimately suffers from a thin story, mismatched performances, and a tonal inconsistency that makes it hard to embrace.
Quan plays Marvin Gable, a mild-mannered Milwaukee realtor with a dark past—one that comes knocking when his former boss, the menacingly nicknamed Knuckles (Daniel Wu), sends assassins after him. Years ago, Marvin was an elite enforcer, but he left that life behind after refusing to kill Rose (Ariana DeBose), a woman he secretly loved. Now Rose is back, making her presence known by sending ominous Valentine’s Day cards to Knuckles’ crew, a move that—while visually clever—feels like an oddly convoluted way to set things in motion. With his cover blown, Marvin is forced to dust off his old skills, though the film never quite sells the idea that he was once a ruthless killer.
That’s part of the problem with Love Hurts: Quan, as likable as he is, never seems like a credible threat. In Everything Everywhere All at Once, the absurdity of his combat skills was part of the joke; here, we’re meant to believe that he can trade blows with men twice his size, but the film rarely lets him take control of a fight. Instead, much of his action involves deflection and reaction, leaving him feeling more like a scrappy underdog than a reformed badass. And while Quan moves well, the choreography—impressively intricate but overly rehearsed—lacks spontaneity. Every fight plays like a dance number, meticulously blocked but rarely thrilling. At its best, Love Hurts offers inventive moments, like a battle filmed from inside a microwave, but more often than not, the action feels mechanical rather than exhilarating.
The romantic angle also falls flat. DeBose, fresh off an Oscar win, is given little to work with beyond stock femme fatale dialogue, and there’s little chemistry between her and Quan. Their relationship is supposed to anchor the film’s emotional stakes, but the script never gives us a reason to care. It doesn’t help that Love Hurts spends more time explaining its plot than letting it unfold naturally. Exposition dominates the middle act, with characters repeatedly rehashing past events instead of allowing the story to breathe.
The supporting cast fares slightly better in the realm of scene-stealing oddballs. Mustafa Shakir’s Raven, a poetry-reciting assassin, injects a bit of personality into the proceedings, as does Drew Scott (yes, that Drew Scott) in a bizarre but amusing role as Marvin’s overly aggressive real-estate rival. Meanwhile, Sean Astin makes a brief appearance as Marvin’s boss, sporting an inexplicable Southern accent that seems to exist solely for the novelty of it.
Ultimately, Love Hurts struggles to find its identity. It wants to be an action film, but its lead never feels dangerous. It wants to be a romance, but its central love story lacks heat. It wants to be a quirky crime caper, but the dialogue never crackles. While Eusebio’s experience as a stunt coordinator is evident, his direction doesn’t bring the same energy to the storytelling. And at just over 80 minutes, the film feels slight, as if whole chunks of connective tissue were left on the cutting room floor. The result is a movie that’s too slick to be scrappy, too light to be intense, and too scattered to be memorable.
For an audience simply seeking well-executed fight choreography, Love Hurts might scratch an itch. But for those hoping to see Quan solidify his status as a leading man, it’s more of a missed opportunity. Hollywood fought hard to bring him back—he deserves better material than this.
2/5
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