Paris Can Wait

It's all very seductive.

Lane possesses a wry, self-deprecating grace that can invigorate the lamest cliche. But she's really up against it this time.

It has its moments, but mostly it feels like being stuck in the backseat on a long car ride.

Paris Can Wait may be a film clef of sorts -- there's a hint of the autobiographical in it, the suggestion of something experienced -- but even that angle doesn't make the movie terribly appetizing. What it needs is a little salt.

"Paris Can Wait" isn't exactly a feast, but it's a snack worth having.

Anne doesn't drive her own journey. She spends scene after scene passively letting Jacques tell her what to do, eat and think. And there's no detouring around that.

In away it bookmarks nicely with her husband Francis Ford Coppola’s film Twixt, which similarly sees the director working through the long held grief over the accidental death of their son Gian-Carlo.

I grew tired of their monotonous conversations and the utter lack of dramatic tension. I found myself annoyed at Jacques’ cloying banter and Anne’s wistful obedience. And I kept wondering who would ever fall for this guy?

As an ad for the French Riviera Tourist Bureau it works. As a big screen movie experience it's a good ad for the French Riviera Tourist Bureau.

Some may balk at Paris Can Wait's fusillade of extravagances but Coppola is aware enough to acknowledge how special they are while Lane balances Anne's enjoyment of and familiarity with creature comforts.