Folks with a fondness for California’s scenic coastline will get a kick out of this film.
Writer/director Alexi Papalexopoulos’ accomplished feature debut is a road trip in both the physical and spiritual sense: a Golden State journey with well-chosen stops both scenic and touristy.
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| While pausing their California coastal drive for some quiet time on a beach, Madeline (Emanuela Boisbouvier) listens attentively while Paul (Blake Worrell) begins to acknowledge the mess that he has made of his life. |
The kind face in the screen obviously has urged Paul, repeatedly, to get outside and jog the nearby Runyon Canyon hiking trail: a modest 2.8-mile ascent with lavish views from Inspiration Point and Clouds Rest. (Papalexopoulos’ film was shot entirely on location, with Luka Bazeli handling the often majestic cinematography.)
This time, finally — annoyed by his expanding paunch — Paul goes for it. He manages a half-hearted jog/walk to the first lookout point; he arrives panting, as though he might pass out any moment. At which point (we heave a disapproving sigh), he bums a cigarette from the only other person present: a twentysomething French woman, sitting on a bench and chatting on her phone.
To his surprise, she isn’t put off by his appearance. Her gaze is playful, her smile amused; she explains that, in France, it’s customary to exchange small talk for as long as shared cigarettes burn.
She’s Madeline (Emanuela Boisbouvier), a free spirit who has come to California because, well, that’s what some Europeans yearn to do. Paul makes vague references to a former career as a photographer, and maker of low-budget movies. He surprises himself by impulsively inviting her to dinner; she accepts. He shares his address; they part ... and then he remembers what his apartment looks like.
Cue a droll montage of frantic cleaning.
Alas, his chosen restaurant unexpectedly is closed for the evening. Having learned that Paul knows how to cook, Madeline insists they simply return for a meal at his place. They eat, chat, dance, flirt and wind up in bed.
Paul’s expression of disbelief is priceless, upon wakening the following morning. But it gets better. He’s expected in San Francisco in a day or two; Madeline mentions having a friend there. He invites her along, and she accepts ... amused by the care with which he has maintained his 1996 sedan (dubbed Gertrude).
She requests the quintessential California coastline excursion, complete with an overnight stay at a seedy hotel with waterbeds and adult movies.
Their trip begins along the Pacific Coast Highway, passing the Santa Monica Pier — with its iconic Ferris Wheel — en route to breakfast at the Malibu Country Mart. Paul introduces Madeline to the gastronomical luxury of a breakfast burrito; she devours it. This meal is symbolic: Just as a day begins with breakfast, it also signals the initial stirrings of increased intimacy.
The subsequent northward trip bounces between Highways 1 and 101. Early on, Madeline explains that “If you fall in love with the journey, you’ll be in love forever.”
They stop at a beach near the Point Reyes Lighthouse, by which point Paul has begun to open up. Not quite ready for such candor, Madeline insists that this is her beach, declares it a nude beach, sheds her clothes, and runs into the water. Paul can’t follow quickly enough, carelessly shedding his clothes too close to the breaking waves.
Alas, his phone gets drenched.
That proves consequential, because — having later plunged his phone into a package of rice — he must borrow hers, to make what becomes a tempestuous phone call. Overhearing only his end of the conversation, Madeline makes a rash assumption; Paul loses his temper, she does the same.
By the time they reach the Harvard House Motel — with the aforementioned amenities — they’re both locked into silent anger.
But since the trip is only half-over, obviously the same is true of their personal saga.
Worrell is quite good in his role: deftly nuanced, as Paul gradually recognizes – and acknowledges — that he was responsible for his fall from grace. He too readily bought into the BS of the attention, adulation and high-profile access that resulted from his (for a time) fame as a professional photographer.
Now, chastened, Paul must pick up the pieces; Worrell’s growing resolve is suitably persuasive.
At first blush, Boisbouvier’s Madeline seems little more than a carefree sybarite, but that’s misleading. If Paul is trying to run back to a more honorable version of himself, she’s trying to flee a past catalogued in a little red notebook rarely out of her sight. It’s filled with somber sketches and hand-written entries.
Subsequent highlights include a soul-affirming stroll through Big Sur’s Redwood Forest, and a jazz montage that backs the initial overview of San Francisco. Stops include Tony’s Pizza Napoletana, in North Beach; the Richmond neighborhood’s Toy Boat Dessert Café; and Oracle Park, home of the San Francisco Giants, where something totally magical takes place.
Montana Newson does sensitive work in this third act, as Talia, Paul’s daughter. San Francisco restauranteur Boon Johnson has a brief but crucial role, as a long-ago friend who’s delighted to see Paul after so much time, and imparts crucial words of wisdom.
“I was searching among the branches,” Paul ultimately muses, “for something that only appears in the roots.”
Papalexopoulos’ story is laden with heartfelt little moments like that, and he cheekily concludes his film on an ambiguous note. At only 78 minutes long, I wanted more ... but, upon reflection, he delivers everything his story requires.
Give it a try.
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