Love in the time of paralysis

A British weepy that tries to get serious.

The title -- Me Before You -- sounds like it might be describing a self-help book for the terminally selfish.

But Me Before You has nothing to do with getting ahead in a ruthless, Trumpian world where deal-makers think of themselves as killers, and turn their adversaries into prey.

Actually, I'd like to see that movie, but Me Before You comes from a polar opposite direction. It's a bona fide weepy, so intent on wringing tears from its audience that complimentary boxes of tissues -- in a promotional wrapping, of course -- were handed out prior to a recent preview screening.

This adaptation of a popular 2012 novel by Jojo Moyes might have gotten somewhere if it hadn't starred an unbearably cute Emilia Clarke and Sam Claflin, a guy who looks like a young Hugh Grant in a wheelchair. The story involves quadriplegia.

But that's just me. Clarke (Game of Thrones) and Claflin (The Hunger Games) are precisely the reason that the movie will work for those who are able to buy into it.

A glossy romance with a morbid twist, director Thea Sharrock's movie purports to deal with a few serious issues. Really, though, it's all about those tissues.

To prime the pump for a flow of tears, we're supposed to fall under the spell of the irrepressible Lou, a lower-class woman with a spiffed-up thrift store wardrobe and an unwillingness to appear in any two scenes wearing the same pair of shoes.

Lou's village also is home to a castle occupied by a wealthy family. Enter Will Traynor (Claflin), a hot shot investment guy who became a quadriplegic after being hit by a motorcycle while crossing a London Street.

Miserable that he no longer can be the dashing young man he once was, Will has sunk into a depression.

But wait ...

It's a sure bet that Lou, desperately in need of a job after losing employment at a local cafe, will try to reinvigorate Will's spirit when she's hired as his caretaker.

For his part, Will claims he'll never accept his new lot. If he can't be the man he was, he'd rather not be at all. He'll choose assisted suicide.

Will's parents -- Janet McTeer and Charles Dance -- give the movie gravitas. They're understandably concerned about their son.

McTeer and Dance also resemble drop-ins from another movie, reminders that this isn't a traditional rom-com, but a movie that wants to appeal to the same crowd that wept at The Fault in Our Stars.

Disability isn't the only obstacle to burgeoning love. Class issues intrude, as well. Will works to educate Lou, exposing her to subtitled films, books and Mozart. This isn't exactly Pygmalion, but you get the idea.

Clarke and Claflin develop some chemistry, but Clarke's Lou is bubbly to the point of overflow. She works overtime trying to persuade Will that he shouldn't travel to Switzerland, where assisted suicide is legal. She's a cheerleader for Team Life.

No self-respecting romance can proceed without glamor. Me Before You pours it on when Lou and Will visit Mauritius. He wants to give her a dream vacation, and she hopes that the trip will take his mind off any end-of-life plans.

To which I say: Assisted suicide should be a lot more than a plot device. It should be fully engaged as a subject.

A final fillip of encouragement turns the story into a tale of self-actualization for Lou; her relationship with Will may be just what she needs to leave the constricted confines of her village and make her way in the larger world.

Call me callous, but the little box of promotional tissues still sits on a forsaken corner of my desk. It remains unopened.

It's possible to argue that Me Before You is well done, but well done teary-eyed schlock is still teary-eyed schlock.

Those awful upper-class Brits

At an exclusive Oxford club, privilege and cruelty have become second nature.

Having never visited Oxford, one of the world's most prestigious universities exists only as figment of my imagination. In my mind's eye, I see bespectacled dons in flowing robes strolling across a fabled campus, beacons of erudition and discernment.

Like all fantasies, mine probably is way off base. And if I had any doubts about that, they were dispelled by director Lone Scherfig's The Riot Club, a big-screen adaptation of a Laura Wade play called Posh.

So what kind of place is the Oxford of Scherfig's movie?

Scherfig narrows her focus until she sees Oxford as a brutally uneven playing field that helps breed a class of privileged Englishmen whose money and/or blood lines establish them as men for whom ordinary rules don't apply.

Members of this detestable aristocracy have benefited from years of expensive education, learning -- among other things -- how to use money to cover their callous misdeeds.

These upper-class twits seem to believe that their lives have value way beyond those who dwell "beneath" them.

Moreover they know that someday soon, they'll be sitting behind big desks. They won't be part of the system. They are the system.

The Riot Club that gives the movie its title is so exclusive that its limited to 10 members. Each year, the club holds a dinner, a wanton mixture of drunkenness and cruelty that provides the movie with its core event.

Dressed in formal attire, members assemble at a country inn that will be wrecked before the night is through. The club's commitment to indulgence makes the fraternity brothers of Animal House look like teetotalers.

Among the stand-outs in this rancid group are Alistair (Sam Clafin). A legacy member, Alistair needs little encouragement when it comes to tapping into his worst self.

Then there's Miles (Max Irons), a student of more modest background, who can't resist the siren call of elitism. Sadly for Max, he still has a semblance of conscience.

An Oxford coed named Lauren (Holiday Grainger) offers Miles a chance at a more normal collegiate existence. Poor, deluded Max. He thinks he can maintain a relationship with Lauren and also be a member of the Riot Club.

Scherfig lets us know that the shield of privilege offers an enduring form of protection. One of the club's alumni (Tom Hollander) shows us where these young men are headed. Quietly and over drinks in clubs, they'll preserve the bond of privilege which they see as a birthright.

At first, I was put off by The Riot Club's lack of subtlety and nuance. There's little doubt about where Scherfig (An Education) stands when it comes to this kind of men-only preserve.

But if you're going to make a point, you might as well make it emphatically. Scherfig does. These British one percenters (actually, it's probably a fraction of one percent) are exposed, indicted and vilified.

They're in a class by themselves -- at least one hopes they are. They all deserve to be throttled.