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I imagine that the urbane French, being as they are at the self-professed forefront of civilization, must approach moviemaking in the same way they prepare their haute cuisine; with care and thought. Given our less discriminating palettes, we Americans typically view French films much like we do French haute cuisine—as a plate stacked with snails, frogs, and other unspeakably moist things we'd step around if we saw on the sidewalk while the French are busy broiling them in cream sauce. In other words, while Hollywood's purpose is to entertain, the French seek to—how you say? Ah, yes—enlighten. This adorably misguided perspective to film allows them to take a promising scenario like that of The Housekeeper—a lonely middle-aged man hiring a nubile young woman as his housekeeper—then be naive enough to tart it up with intellectual pretense and call it The Housekeeper. In America, a set-up this sexsational would be called Breastfest Summer Party, have several expensive-looking car chase scenes and star Martin Lawrence. But then again, the French idea of "art" (known as "pornography" stateside) is rather broad, and tends to include topics that would induce thirteen-year-olds in a theater to giggle and grab at their crotches. The more refined French, conversely, would dispassionately observe the same torrid love scenes as they smoked their Gauloises, analyzing the emotional subtext of the film before going home and grabbing each other's unwashed, perfume-redolent crotches. And with this callow baring of my soul, I turn to The Housekeeper, the newest film from Claude Berri (I know, I know—another one? When does this guy sleep?). Our trailer opens with the main character, Jacques (Jean-Pierre Bacri, notable for his appearance in Other French Films, apparently) getting left by his frumpy-looking wife. This is ostensibly supposed to make his character seem more sympathetic. However, since he's about two scenes away from getting his hands all over a bouncy twenty-something girl skipping around his apartment in her underwear, it's difficult to feel sorry for him. Yes, the poor fellow is cursed to live out every middle-aged man's most deeply held fantasy. This is, apparently, how it works in France. You get fired from your dull office job and then win the lottery, or you fall down a flight of steps and land face-first into the cleavage of the Dallas Cowgirls. This is also where the popular term "the luck of the French" comes from. As a culture, they are inordinately blessed with good luck in every instance except, of course, for having to go through life being French. Coming to the sudden realization that he's now both French and a bachelor, he wisely decides to get a housekeeper. (First, however, we get several scenes of Jacques cleaning his apartment—then he goes and gets a housekeeper. A bright bulb, that Jacques). He soon hires the sexy Lara (Emilie Dequenne) for the thankless task, most likely to involve cleaning veritable mountains of deeply-stained articles of clothing and half-eaten plates of unrefrigerated dairy. Cue the beat: Jacques and Lara start sexing it up proper. We watch several lusty voyeuristic scenes of Jacques checking out Lara while she goes about the business of cleaning his toilet and picking up a seemingly endless parade of trash from the man's floor. How they even have time to get naked is beyond me; she's clearly going to need to work overtime on his place, and Jacques should be plenty busy continuing to be shamelessly filthy. Scouring Jacques's crapper with a toothbrush, changing his crusty sheets and digging bowls of rotting food from under his mattress eventually drives Lara wild with desire, of course, and before long she sneaks into Jacques's room for some unclean activities of the non-housekeeping variety. Presumably she punched out first. Jacques quickly seduces Lara on his stained, filthy couch, and before long, mais oui, Jacques's getting his baguette buttered, if you catch me. Given that Jacques' balding, out of shape, in his forties, and living in a crappy apartment with absolutely nothing going for him, the fresh-faced, attractive Lara falls immediately in love with the doughy French bachelor. Does this happen often in France? If so, they've gone about their tourism advertising in completely the wrong way. Observe:
Soft piano playing tinkles in the background as love blooms for our young (and old—well, split the difference and round it off to thirty-something) couple. Or so we think! Or at least, that's what I thought. Instead of sticking with the delicious young Lara, however, Jacquess starts hanging out with another woman his own age. He doesn't stop seeing Lara, though, and we get a few more romantic shots of ride bikes and oil rubdowns. Divorce seems to be treating Jacques well, who's now juggling two lovers despite looking like a guy who double-bags groceries at a supermarket. But suddenly the trailer springs a plot twist on us with all of the subtlety one would expect of a French film. We see Lara lying on a beach towel with a new young male friend, laughing, talking, and generally grabbing at each others' crotches—which, as we've already established, the French do as reflexively as expelling carbon dioxide. As the piano flourishes fade out, Jacques looks down on them with a bitter, hang-dog look. Is this the end of Lara and Jacques' completely implausible romance? Will Lara continue to clean Jacques' place? If she doesn't, what sorts of interesting diseases will the slob inevitably contract? Are we going to get to see Lara's breasts, or what? We are left answerless on all fronts, since the trailer chooses this time to end.
It would be an uphill battle, however, to get any woman to begin fantasizing about Jean-Pierre Bacri sweeping them of their feet, then leading them away to a night of romance with the bald, mope-faced dolt in his smelly, dimly lit apartment. Partially for a
half decent yet wasted effort, but mostly for Emilie Dequenne, I give
a charitable rating of two Billy "Forget Paris" Crystals. RATING:
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I'll
be the first to admit my ignorance about French cinema. Here in America
we tend to devour our movies like jumbo-sized hot dogs, rat tails, pig
snouts, plot holes and all. And, much like our hot dogs, our movies
tend to make us feel nauseous (and, in the case of those starring David
Spade, give us the runs). 
To
be honest, I was a bit baffled about what to make of The Housekeeper,
other than if I decide to really let myself go in my forties and get
a divorce, I should immediately move to France. I admit the trailer
was somewhat curiosity-inducing, but certainly not enough so that I'd
want to actually see the film. The trailer wasn't bad, really—but
neither is the Mona Lisa, and I'm not inclined to fly to the Louvre
tomorrow. I
imagine a few pseudo-intellectuals and America's small population of
Francophiles might stop by. Undoubtedly, the trailer's best strategy
at this point would be to convince the American female demographic that
this is a "chick flick." Indeed, with a few pictures of Sandra
Bullock edited into the trailer, and maybe a cut-away shot or two of
Luc Wilson with moist eyes, this demographic might even turn The
Housekeeper into a respectable success. 