My Best Friend is the sort of fluffy, inconsequential comedic concept movie one needs to be in a set mood to enjoy. It's absolutely harmless, but then that's part of the problem; it's predictable and a tad slight, but then we pretend we don't realise exactly where it's heading from a relatively early point and just try to go with it. Its politics are all in working order, but it sticks so much to the straight and narrow that it's difficult to get involved in a film that's so adept to staying in neutral. It's the sort of film that feeds off a nonsensical quirk of fate during its finale purely for the dramatic effect and so that it's central character arc may reach a natural conclusion in the most un-natural of ways. It's trite and difficult to like but I'd be lying if I said I hated it; a film with one of those really Americanised concept comedy sensibilities in that depicts two ordinarily oddball people thrust together into a chain of cause and effect that you come away from feeling you should have disliked more. Not every film needs to bite from a particular cherry akin to that of Before Sunrise, but with no invention; little visual flair and that annoying cut-'n'-thrust approach to its material on top of a screenplay playing it safe, it's little wonder there is very little about which to get excited in this mainstream French comedy.
The film first and foremost revolves around a wealthy middle aged art dealer named François, played by Daniel Auteuil. I like Daniel Auteuil. We all do. Here, he plays someone who we're meant to entrust is ruthless enough to attend someone's funeral, not out of the fact he's grieving for the fellow, but because there is business and such surrounding said event, while failing to attend would be bad for business. The problem being that even if for a second we thought François was the kind of guy with a ruthless streak, who casually speaks down a cell phone during a guy's last rites, it's DANIEL AUTEUIL we're talking about here – that likable actor whose been in some pretty decent films in the past playing some pretty decent chaps. A similar issue was the bane of 1999's The Lost Son, wherein he played a private investigator who we were supposed to believe snapped Jack Carter-like upon uncovering a kiddie prostitute ring. Not for one SECOND do we believe Auteuil as the "ruthless art dealer", or some kind of opportunist with an eye on a cash prize at the end of a good business slog.
François, aside from anything else, is a loner when away from work. He loiters with some folks already in their social circles, but is so out of touch with them he wasn't even aware one of them was homosexual. While they're all out at dinner with each other, François' social situation of not really having any bonds with anyone is raised. Thinking that clients count as mates, it's pointed out that knowing OF people and working WITH people is not the same as being their friends. The funereal from the opening arises, and the straw that breaks François' apparent back is when he realises that very few people will likely come to HIS funeral. François agrees to a bet with his accomplices: that he can find and maintain a healthy friendship with someone within ten days. Not nine, or eleven – not seven days (one week). Ten.
The catalyst is a little weak, but the issue the writers face reads something like: why would someone of François' nature and stature agree to a bet of this nature instead of just laughing off what these people are saying to him and walking away to resume whatever successes he brings to himself? Meanwhile, meet the nicest damn cabbie in the world: Dany Boon's Bruno, a softly spoken; smiling trivia enthusiast who ferries people around without a fuss but bores his customers with his endless talk of fun facts and trivial information. Like François, he speaks and engages with his "clients" but it seems mistakes what they say to one other for genuine conversation and that sense of 'getting to know someone'. He is ultimately friendless all the same, and it is François who happens upon his taxi in the space post-bet. Throughout, there is supposed to be this ambiguity over whether François is genuinely interested in building a friendship or if he's just got his eyes on the large prize at the end of it should he blag a mate in a week and a bit. No worries, for come the end..... Well, need I go on?
Those who liked 2003's "Apres Vous", more than I did, wherein Auteuil proceeded down similar routes in loitering with someone under madcap circumstances, might enjoy it but that film was a pretty decent love story and lent its comedy more towards farce which worked better than it had any right to. We don't buy Auteuil as who he is, and we're not a hundred per cent on Boon as a Parisian taxi driver who hasn't been this madcap or scatty since Samy Naceri tore up said city's streets in his converted Peugeot all those years ago. The film is bland and harmless, and I did not take to it.
The film first and foremost revolves around a wealthy middle aged art dealer named François, played by Daniel Auteuil. I like Daniel Auteuil. We all do. Here, he plays someone who we're meant to entrust is ruthless enough to attend someone's funeral, not out of the fact he's grieving for the fellow, but because there is business and such surrounding said event, while failing to attend would be bad for business. The problem being that even if for a second we thought François was the kind of guy with a ruthless streak, who casually speaks down a cell phone during a guy's last rites, it's DANIEL AUTEUIL we're talking about here – that likable actor whose been in some pretty decent films in the past playing some pretty decent chaps. A similar issue was the bane of 1999's The Lost Son, wherein he played a private investigator who we were supposed to believe snapped Jack Carter-like upon uncovering a kiddie prostitute ring. Not for one SECOND do we believe Auteuil as the "ruthless art dealer", or some kind of opportunist with an eye on a cash prize at the end of a good business slog.
François, aside from anything else, is a loner when away from work. He loiters with some folks already in their social circles, but is so out of touch with them he wasn't even aware one of them was homosexual. While they're all out at dinner with each other, François' social situation of not really having any bonds with anyone is raised. Thinking that clients count as mates, it's pointed out that knowing OF people and working WITH people is not the same as being their friends. The funereal from the opening arises, and the straw that breaks François' apparent back is when he realises that very few people will likely come to HIS funeral. François agrees to a bet with his accomplices: that he can find and maintain a healthy friendship with someone within ten days. Not nine, or eleven – not seven days (one week). Ten.
The catalyst is a little weak, but the issue the writers face reads something like: why would someone of François' nature and stature agree to a bet of this nature instead of just laughing off what these people are saying to him and walking away to resume whatever successes he brings to himself? Meanwhile, meet the nicest damn cabbie in the world: Dany Boon's Bruno, a softly spoken; smiling trivia enthusiast who ferries people around without a fuss but bores his customers with his endless talk of fun facts and trivial information. Like François, he speaks and engages with his "clients" but it seems mistakes what they say to one other for genuine conversation and that sense of 'getting to know someone'. He is ultimately friendless all the same, and it is François who happens upon his taxi in the space post-bet. Throughout, there is supposed to be this ambiguity over whether François is genuinely interested in building a friendship or if he's just got his eyes on the large prize at the end of it should he blag a mate in a week and a bit. No worries, for come the end..... Well, need I go on?
Those who liked 2003's "Apres Vous", more than I did, wherein Auteuil proceeded down similar routes in loitering with someone under madcap circumstances, might enjoy it but that film was a pretty decent love story and lent its comedy more towards farce which worked better than it had any right to. We don't buy Auteuil as who he is, and we're not a hundred per cent on Boon as a Parisian taxi driver who hasn't been this madcap or scatty since Samy Naceri tore up said city's streets in his converted Peugeot all those years ago. The film is bland and harmless, and I did not take to it.