Few films follow their source as closely as this one: not really a surprise, since scripter Patrick DeWitt has adapted his own 2018 novel.
Add a director — Azazel Jacobs — who clearly studied at the altar of Wes Anderson, and French Exit becomes a slice of absurdist eccentricity: a character study filled with people who (mostly) seem to exist slightly out of phase with the real world.
Newly arrived in Paris, having fled Manhattan ahead of creditors, Frances (Michelle
Pfeiffer) and her son Malcolm (Lucas Hedges) wonder what they're going to make
of this new life.
The degree to which they’re likable or sympathetic — as opposed to annoying and contemptuous — will depend on your ability to laugh at their foibles. In fairness, moments in this unhurried narrative are laugh-out-loud funny … but they’re few and far between.
To cases:
Despite years’ worth of warnings from her accountant, Manhattan socialite Frances Price (Michelle Pfeiffer) has exhausted the inheritance left when husband Franklin died 12 years earlier.
“My plan,” she insists rather vaguely, “was to die before the money ran out.”
Which means that she gave no consideration to leaving anything for her directionless adult son, Malcolm (Lucas Hedges), who has put his own life on hold, in order to be her faithful companion for the same 12 years. (Nice mother, eh?)
Given the way Pfeiffer swans condescendingly through every scene, we immediately realize that this is typical of Frances, who rarely (never?) considers anything — or anybody — beyond herself. She’s all appearance and no substance, given to grand gestures of generosity — such as inappropriately huge tips — solely because they call attention to herself.
Acting on her accountant’s advice, she quietly (and quite illegally) sells everything in her lavish home, converts the proceeds to Euros, and accepts a suggestion to move into a Parisian apartment owned by best friend Joan (Susan Coyne, as one of this saga’s “normal” characters).
Where Frances supposedly will “figure things out.”
Malcolm somehow has accumulated a fiancée along the way: Susan (Imogen Poots), a nice young woman who quite reasonably cannot understand why he’s abandoning her in order to follow his mother. Their parting does not go well; Malcolm pauses outside the restaurant, looking back inside at her, clearly having no clue how to do the right thing … or even what that might be.
Frances and Malcolm take a cruise across the Atlantic — the better to mingle with the aristocratic class — accompanied by their preternaturally alert black cat (in some ways, this story’s most intriguing presence). Malcolm meets the shipboard fortune teller/medium, Madeleine (Danielle Macdonald), who can tell when people are about to die.
Once in Paris, Frances, Malcolm and their cat set up in Joan’s apartment; Frances carefully places the stacks of Euros in three piles on an upper closet shelf.
We anticipate, in that moment, that Jacobs will have us watch those piles rapidly dwindle.
Mother and son are invited to a “party” that turns out to be a dinner shared solely with Madame Reynard (Valerie Mahaffey), a lonely American widow who fleetingly brushed elbows with Frances, years earlier in Manhattan, and desperately hopes to translate that into a friendship.
Due to a “crisis” shortly thereafter, the roster expands to include Julius (Isaach De Bankolé), a dignified private detective dispatched on a seemingly impossible mission.
All these folks — including Joan and Susan — eventually congregate in Frances and Malcolm’s apartment, at which point the story evolves from a “tragedy of manners” into full-blown supernatural fancy. This is where viewers who’ve thus far been patient, may decide to abandon ship.
And, honestly, I wouldn’t blame them.
We’re probably not supposed to expect reasonable, real-world behavior from characters this precious, but — even so — some issues can’t be ignored. It’s impossible to imagine a set of circumstances that would have prompted Susan to fall in love with Malcolm, who — as portrayed by Hedges — spends the entire film in a somnambulate haze.
Indeed, Hedges has been squandering the fame he deservedly earned from his Oscar-nominated performance in 2016’s Manchester by the Sea. Between this and his clumsily ad-libbed work in Let Them All Talk — a similar role, in many respects — he’s in danger of becoming irrelevant.
Madeleine and Julius aren’t really characters at all; they’re superficial constructs present solely to advance the wafer-thin plot.
Coyne does much better as Joan, a grounded, kind-hearted individual who truly cares about Frances (who, truth be told, probably doesn’t deserve so loyal a friend).
Other incidental bits notwithstanding, this film rises (or falls) on Pfeiffer’s handling of Frances. While we occasionally enjoy how her haughty behavior allows delightful minor victories — such as her handling of a rude restaurant waiter — such moments are overshadowed by her default rudeness, condescension and selfishness. Pfeiffer works hard to make her provocatively flirty and fun — her eyes sparkling mischievously — as if spontaneous foolishness is something to be admired.
In fairness, the woman simply doesn’t know any better; she hasn’t been trained to do anything but take up space. But does that make her an object of pity … or of scorn?
Your call.
On top of which, DeWitt’s ambiguous final scene doesn’t help matters. (His book is much more specific.)
I’m an avid fan of whimsy and eccentricity, but this one’s simply too unsatisfying.
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