I kept waiting for this film to improve, but, alack, this is the worst kind of escapist movie: a spun-sugar confection that sinks under the weight of its own ponderous self-importance. The pace stumbles on like a legionnaire stranded in the Sahara. The absence of good dialogue leaves the appealing stars with little to do other than look good in white linen. Irons plays yet another moneyed charmer who's had a touch of the sun. Kaas is a pleasing singer but not much of an actress. Luckily, the script does not often call on her to emote away from the jazz club microphone. All the enviably relaxed, pretty, unnecessary characters take turns masticating the scenery with an air of weary sophistication. The whole exercise comes across like an interminably long Ralph Lauren ad. <br /><br />If you're past forty and believe Francophilia is the key to sophistication, you may well mistake this piece of cardboard for a baguette. Well, if you liked this movie you probably felt smart for appreciating Godard's leaden Éloge de l'amour, and you may even have sat through Le Divorce without cringing.