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.
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| 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?
