Although numerous sources have called this romantic dramedy a French, gender-reversed response to 1999’s Notting Hill, the comparison is superficial at best.
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| Despite the fact that ABel (Omar Sy) repeatedly behaves badly, like a spoiled child, he always apologizes ... and Marion (Sara Giraudeau) always forgives him. Too many times... |
Even so, Marion’s vulnerability is endearing, and Giraudeau plays her
well; she’d have been a great character in a different film.
Getting back to Notting Hill, Julia Roberts’ famed Hollywood actress is a nice person ... whereas this story’s similarly celebrated Abel Camara (Omar Sy) is an arrogant, self-centered horse’s ass who expects everything, including female companions, to be handed to him on a silver platter.
Sy, who has charisma to burn, can’t make this jerk appealing. Not even at his better moments.
As a result, this story — scripted by Noémie Saglio and Hugo Gélin, loosely inspired by the Israeli TV series A Very Important Person — never successfully sells its relationship of unequals. Sy and Giraudeau give it their best, and Rives’ film has some charming moments ... but accepting the telegraphed inevitability of where this will conclude, is a major eye-roller.
The story opens with a terrific tracking montage, as Abel swans his way through a TV commercial shoot for a perfume dubbed French Lover; once in the can, he angrily stalks off, believing himself “above” doing such twaddle. He lands in a bistro where Marion works as a waitress; after taking his order, she responds to a text on her phone, at which point Abel narcissistically accuses her of filming him, in order to post on social media.
The resulting brouhaha costs Marion her job, and she stalks off in a huff. Suddenly contrite, full of apologies, Abel slowly paces her while in his car, insisting — at the very least — on being allowed to drive her home.
It’s important to note that although Abel behaves as if his contrition is sincere, he never clarifies why he’s apologizing ... meaning, he never acknowledges his conceited assumption.
Although a character in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass insists on having believed “as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” I couldn’t even accept the first of this film’s many impossible things: specifically, Marion’s well, okay agreement to let Abel into her apartment. Not one moment of the subsequent brief encounter, or any of the dialogue therein, feels real.
Brief, because he’s late for an appointment, and reluctantly departs ... but not before helpfully intervening when Marion’s loutish, soon-to-be-ex barges in. (He owns the apartment, yet she still lives there, and is late with the rent. Uh-huh.)
So, okay: Abel has some redeeming qualities.
It turns out that Abel also is brooding over the recent break-up of his relationship with fellow film star Lena (Cindy Bruna). Believing it crucial that he have somebody at his side during media events, his long-suffering agent Camille (Pascale Arbillot) concocts a plan to “audition” some suitably attractive women to pretend to be his current companion.
Although Abel tolerates this scheme, he can’t stop thinking about Marion ... and, because the script demands as much, they begin an affair. (We know, of course, that she’ll eventually learn about Camille’s scheme, and jump to the wrong conclusion.)
Granted, their falling-in-love montage is sweet, flirty and fun; it works because Rives plays it against music, without dialogue. (Imagining their pillow talk is more successful than anything Saglio and Gélin might have scripted.)
Other subsequent bits and bobs are amusing, starting with Marion’s star-struck younger sister Estelle (Agnès Hurstel), who gets hilariously giddy in Abel’s presence. Her husband notwithstanding, she’d jump this guy’s bones in a heartbeat, given the opportunity. Hurstel is consistently funny; she’s also savvy as the lawyer handling Marion’s side of the divorce proceedings.
Abel’s reckless decision to do his own stunt work, when Marion visits the location set one day, has a droll outcome when a horse kicks him in a very delicate spot. Unfortunately, this scene’s comic elements are obliterated when Abel — appalled by having been taken to a public hospital — complains that he doesn’t want to be seen among “bottom feeders.”
Seriously, who’d want to spend another second with this self-centered asshole?
We also feel sorry for Camille, because Arbillot plays the role so persuasively. Although not exactly a door mat, Abel definitely takes advantage of Camille’s good nature, and thinks nothing of calling her at any hour, often with some inane demand. We genuinely ache for her, when — during Arbillot’s best dramatic moment — she explains why she has been content with her place for so long.
In contrast, poor Alban Ivanov is woefully under-utilized as Sami, Abel’s longtime best friend, constant companion and “handler.” Saglio and Gélin apparently haven’t a clue how to use this character.
Other moments are much too contrived, such as the totally hideous dress in which Marion is garbed, when she accompanies Abel to a red-carpet premiere. (Again, seriously?)
Even here, though, Rives shows signs of the much better film she might have made, given a better script. The running theme is that Marion’s shy, awkward country mouse never could feel comfortable in the spotlight that follows Abel everywhere, and there’s a marvelous cinematic moment — at the premiere’s after-party — that illustrates how Marion feels alone and isolated, in a crowded room.
Too often, though, tin-eared dialogue mars whatever flimsy hold the story delivers, at random moments ... such as when Marion responds to yet another of Abel’s childish temper tantrums with a mild, “You’re being a little entitled.” (Ya think???)
Give this one a miss.
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