The Fault in Our Stars is so relentlessly formulaic and pandering that by the end of it I was surprised that I didn’t forever lose my eyes to the back of my skull. Shailene Woodley, last year’s It-Girl for reasons unbeknownst to me, plays Hazel Grace Lancaster, a young woman with cancer who falls in love with Augustus Waters (these fucking names…seriously…), a young man with abs of steel who is also stricken with cancer. Woodley might be a capable actor, but you can’t figure it out here because the dialogue is so wooden and her character so shallow that not even Meryl Streep could elevate the material. The awe-shucks nature of Augustus Waters was particularly offensive, not because he was such a pompous cock during the whole thing but because actor Ansel Elgort couldn’t squeeze a drop of compassion out of me. It was around the time that the filmmakers framed our two lovers making out in the middle of Anne Frank’s attic that I determined this was an awful, toxic, mess of a movie.