The Merchant/ Ivory film factory usually dwells on the genteel angst of Victorians. With LE DIVORCE, they take a modern tale and turn it into a flawed but charming little film, long on the foibles of human interaction, a bit short on filling in the details. Never mind. Watching the subtle culture clash as American ex-pats deal with French sensibility and vice-versa makes for a comedy of manners that is as entertaining as it is minutely observed.
Kate Hudson, who has come up with goose-eggs since her breakout role in ALMOST FAMOUS, has finally landed in a film rich with nuance and texture. Shes Isabel, the not-so-innocent abroad who has come to Paris to see her pregnant sister, Roxanne (Naomi Watts). Alas, Isabel arrives on the very day, at the very minute, in fact, that her French brother-in-law is making his hasty and unexpected marital exit. With an “I’m sorry” and “I’ll call you” he’s out the door to a new life with his Russian girlfriend. Before you can say “Sacre bleu!”, Roxanne is coping with the labyrinth of French divorce law and Isabel the even more daunting labyrinth of French customs. Things like a pregnant woman can get divorced, but can’t remarry until the child is born, and it’s unspeakably rude to merely say “Bonjour”, it must be “Bonjour, Monsieur” or “Madame” or whomever one is speaking to. Eventually the families get involved, the sister’s parents (Sam Waterston and Stockard Channing) and brother (Thomas Lennon as the quintessential clueless Yank) fly in from Santa Barbara bringing with them that special California breeziness that so annoys the French, and the in-laws, led by a superbly condescending Leslie Caron, whose inbred sense of superiority so annoys the rest of the world.
Division of property, including and a painting that may or may not be a de la Tour, the jealous and progressively unhinged husband of the Russian girlfriend, and Isabel’s affair with her brother-in-law’s worldy uncle (the effortlessly debonair Thierry Lhermitte) that is the talk of the family whether they want to listen or not, all intertwine with a sprightly wit and a sharp eye for the little things that divide people and countries with their mutual incomprehension.
The film is populated by a gaggle of first-rate actors, each gifted enough to etch sharply drawn characters with the screen time allotted. Glenn Close is a wickedly arch American writer with bohemian sensibilities who helps guide Isabel through some of the more baffling cultural conundrums when she hires her to organize her papers. Stephen Fry, with only one full scene, is an art dealer delivering a scathing précis on why the Brits look down their noses at the French, and Matthew Modine, with little to do but unravel as the cuckold of the piece, manages to infuse some sympathy into his rantings.
The proceedings are hobbled by the dearth of background we get on Isabel. She’s come to Paris to be with her pregnant sister, but what of her life before? What of her plans after? And what of her plans during? Hudson has a sparkling screen presence that lends itself well to the bittersweet tone of the film, but there is little in the way of inner life for her to work with here. Its symptomatic of the films larger problem. While LE DIVORCE renders the details with care, the larger story arc is fuzzier. The six months of Roxanne’s pregnancy pass much as they would do in real life, haphazardly, even messily from a plotting point of view, and without a discernable flow towards a resolution and denouement. If the ending seems abrupt and just a little too tidy, therefore, what else is there to do but give a Gallic shrug and savor the small moments that work so well.
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