2.5 stars. Rated PG, for no particular reason
By Derrick Bang
Call this one My Dinner with Andre lite, and on the
road. With an undercurrent of flirtatious tension.
When an ear infection prevents Anne (Diane Lane) from joining her husband Michael (Alec Baldwin, left) on a quick business flight, their friend Jacques (Arnaud Viard) offers to drive her instead. |
That’s undoubtedly what
writer/director Eleanor Coppola had in mind, with this unhurried, two-actor
travelogue. And she should be grateful for the presence of star Diane Lane, who
brings occasional charm to this sojourn through the French countryside.
Because, for the most part,
watching this film is like being stuck in somebody’s living room, politely
forced to endure vacation photos — and exhaustive commentary — for 92 minutes.
The experience may be well intended and handsomely mounted, but the result is
the same: restless boredom.
Along with a soupçon of mild irritation.
After awhile, watching two people swoon over a series of mouth-watering, haute cuisine meals feels less like
vicarious sharing, and more like smug showing off.
We meet Anne (Lane) in Cannes,
where her Hollywood producer husband Michael (Alec Baldwin) has been
deal-making; their next stop in Paris has just been derailed by his urgent need
to manage a location shoot in Budapest. We get a sense that Anne, all tolerant
smiles, has been neglected in the midst of all this chaos.
The quick trip to Hungary has
been booked on a small private jet, but Anne is suffering from a mild ear
infection; the pilot warns that cabin pressure could exacerbate this condition.
She dithers; Michael’s business associate Jacques (Arnaud Viard) generously
offers to drive her to Paris, where she can wait for her husband’s return.
It’s a marvelous idea; Jacques
tosses her suitcase into the rear of his aging Peugeot convertible, and they
embark on what should be a seven-hour drive. But Jacques, assuming the role of
self-appointed ambassador of All Things France, never met a restaurant,
cathedral, museum, roadside fruit stand, or set of Roman ruins that didn’t
demand a stop, a lecture and another excuse for eating.
Viard makes Jacques the epitome
of the cheerfully suave Frenchman: an unapologetic sybarite whom Anne — polite
to the core — has no desire to offend. On top of which, she definitely enjoys
the attention, and Jacques’ repeated insistence that she should indulge
herself. Where’s the harm?
Well ... when a one-day drive blossoms
into two, and then three, we can’t help viewing Jacques less as a congenial
host, and more as an amiable stalker. The fact that he keeps “borrowing” Anne’s
credit card — for both overnight lodging and a succession of incredibly
expensive meals, each with multiple bottles of high-end wine — further raises
eyebrows. What, precisely, is this guy up to?
That low-key mystery, along with
Lane’s effervescence, may satisfy foodie viewers willing to play along with
Coppola’s self-indulgent twaddle. Halfway through the film, though, everybody
else will roll their eyes — and think God, no,
not again! — each time Jacques insists on another “brief” stop.
The major problem is that these
two characters aren’t very interesting. Their “conversations” — he waxes eloquent
about yet another culinary masterpiece; she closes her eyes while savoring each
first bite and agrees that yes, it’s delicious — quickly become repetitious and
deadly dull. Mild lip service is granted to their respective histories, but not
to a degree that resonates.
Another issue is subtler. Despite
Anne’s affable willingness to embrace this spontaneous excursion with the joie de vivre that Jacques encourages,
we get a sense — due to Lane’s raised eyebrows and uncertain sidelong glances —
that Anne doesn’t fully trust him. As
a result, we don’t either. We also don’t buy the whole premise, which feels
increasingly contrived.
Anne takes loads of photographs,
not to share on social media — really, not to share with anybody — but just to
please herself. We see them, in the
time-honored manner of cinema: She frames and snaps a shot, and the image
freezes for our benefit. She has an eye for captivating small details, where
most people would record the grander tableaus: a talent that Jacques admires,
when he persuades her to grant him a look.
But this hobby doesn’t speak to
Anne’s character in any way that’s significant to the narrative; it’s merely a
detail, as two-dimensional as these characters.
Coppola has better luck with a
whimsical affection: occasional tableaus that evoke classic paintings by Cezanne,
Renoir and Manet, which we then glimpse fleetingly, such as the lakeside picnic
that suggests latter’s “Luncheon on the Grass.” It’s a cute touch, but it does
little to heighten our interest.
The dynamic shifts during a detour
to Lyon’s Lumière Museum: ostensibly so that Anne can experience this tribute
to Louis and Auguste Lumière, regarded as the fathers of cinema, but mostly so
that Jacques can enjoy a nooner with Martine (Elise Tielrooy), one of his many
casual girlfriends. This encounter fills time, but — again — doesn’t accomplish
anything.
To be fair, the three starring
roles are well cast. If the premise works at all, credit goes to Lane, whose
allure and graceful enthusiasm make Jacques’ interest in Anne seem entirely
reasonable. Baldwin is perfect as a relentless micro-manager who remains just
self-aware enough to recognize that he’s short-changing his wife. Viard, likely
unknown on our shores, is spot-on as the debonair, slightly rumpled Frenchman
whose dazzling smile can move mountains.
The production values are
top-notch, and cinematographer Crystel Fournier certainly does her best to
showcase the delectable treats: whether mouth-watering close-ups of Rouget Barbet, Carre d’Agneau and Crème
Brûlée; or the stunning vistas of the Pont Du Gard aqueduct, the Pyramid of
Vienne, Vézelay’s Basilica of Saint Mary Magdalene, or the bustling Halles de
Lyon open market.
But
it’s all in service of a narrative trifle which — one can’t help feeling —
never would have gotten further than a pitch proposal, were Eleanor Coppola not
married to a certain Francis Ford Coppola.
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