Chéri

[June 24th, 2009]

Colette’s Belle Epoque novels Chéri and The Last of Chéri are packed with observations on French society, but the only lesson from Stephen Frears’ cinematic adaptation is that Michelle Pfeiffer makes a lousy sex teacher. She plays Léa, a Parisian courtesan who grants a favor to dearly despised colleague Charlotte (Kathy Bates) by agreeing to apprentice Charlotte’s frivolous son, nicknamed Chéri (Rupert Friend), in the ways of amour. Léa has two tasks: Make the boy a generous lover, and don’t fall in love. She fails at both. Considering they share a bed for six years, you’d think he’d have learned by his wedding night to Edmee (Felicity Jones) not to just jam it up in there—but no, that would undermine the subtext of the movie, which is that sex is only a beautiful act when it’s sex with Michelle Pfeiffer.

Chéri is intended as a comeback for Pfeiffer, and a reprise of her Dangerous Liaisons partnership with Frears. He’s a nimble director who rarely missteps (who else could have helmed both High Fidelity and The Queen?), but his good sense has failed him here. He even contributes an intermittent and jarring voiceover narration, which stresses both his commitment to the material and his lack of control over it. (The only performer who senses the books should be played for catty camp is Bates—who also contributes by donning a pollen-hued Little Bo Peep costume.) The movie bears a cosmetic resemblance to Catherine Breillat’s The Last Mistress, except it’s far less sensual or eventful—this is the sort of film in which what happens is not supposed to matter in comparison to how it makes us feel. It makes us feel nothing. The central problem is that it’s impossible to comprehend why Léa’s so smitten with this kid. He’s pretty—Rupert Friend looks like Robert Pattinson crossed with a baby Keith Richards—but he’s a bitch. To the bitter end, he calls Léa by childhood endearments that make him sound like a child crying for his wet nurse. This is not as erotic as the filmmakers would like it to be. And Frears compounds his trouble by quashing Colette’s proto-feminism, instead studying Pfeiffer’s face as a record of unbearable pain. A woman this sophisticated really should know better. A lot of people should have known better. R.