Saw "La Buche" last night. It's somewhat dull but pleasant and well-acted throughout. I enjoy the French tendency to feature artists and philosophically inclined persons as cinematic main characters (while we Americans get cops and the pugilistically inclined), and "La Buche" rewards on that level: the characters are lovely, intelligent, articulate and well dressed.
Underneath the surface trappings, however, the movie doesn't have much to say. It's a tribute to emotional cowardice dolled up as a celebration of familial devotion - all in the guise of a Christmas movie. Which would be genuinely funny if "La Buche" were at all cynical about its own motives. As far as I could tell, it isn't. I gather that we're supposed to buy bad decision-making redeemed by absurd coincidence as evidence that true love will out in the end.
P.S. I am beyond tired of the suggestion in French films that infidelity is the one true badge of masculine identity. Didn't this idea become boring in, oh, like, 1965?
Underneath the surface trappings, however, the movie doesn't have much to say. It's a tribute to emotional cowardice dolled up as a celebration of familial devotion - all in the guise of a Christmas movie. Which would be genuinely funny if "La Buche" were at all cynical about its own motives. As far as I could tell, it isn't. I gather that we're supposed to buy bad decision-making redeemed by absurd coincidence as evidence that true love will out in the end.
P.S. I am beyond tired of the suggestion in French films that infidelity is the one true badge of masculine identity. Didn't this idea become boring in, oh, like, 1965?