Without Foster, ‘Private Life’ wouldn’t have a clue
It’s best to describe “A Private Life” as a curiosity, a wildly uneven mix of hypnotism, psychoanalysis, antisemitism, murder and screwball comedy. The only reason any of it works is its star, the incomparable Jodie Foster, flaunting her flawless French for the first time since 2004’s “A Very Long Engagement.”
Directed and co-written by Rebecca Zlotowski (“Other People’s Children”), the story centers on Yank expat Liliane Steiner (Foster), a stoic and aloof Parisian shrink, who discovers her inner Jane Marple after a patient suddenly turns up dead. The official cause is listed as suicide, but Liliane is suspicious because in her nine years of treating Paula Cohen-Solal (Virginie Efira), she never once mentioned ending her life. Liliane’s doubt intensifies after Paula’s daughter, Valerie (Luana Bajrami), drops in on her unannounced to reveal that she, too, believes foul play was involved. And the person Valerie is pointing the finger at is her dad, Simon (the great Mathieu Amalric).
In turn, Simon singles out Liliane as the indirect cause of his wife’s passing, booting her from Paula’s shiva after reminding Liliane that she wrote the prescriptions for the array of drugs Paula used to overdose. And if Paula did indeed die at her own hand, Liliane can’t help but wonder how she missed the signs, and immediately begins scrutinizing the dozens of their recorded sessions in hopes of alleviating a growing guilty conscience.
What ensues, as they say, could only happen in the movies, as Zlotowski and co-writers Anne Berest and Gaëlle Macé send Liliane off in search of both absolution and the truth, abetted by her charming ex-hubby, Gabriel (David Auteuil), an ophthalmologist who still has eyes for her, and she him. Together, they gather clues and, at one point, conspire to sneak into Simon’s country home and snoop around. And to the astonishment of their adult son, Julien (Vincent Lacoste), the amateur sleuths are again bumping uglies.
It’s all quite silly, and for the most part, far beneath the level of an actor as esteemed as Foster. Yet she dedicates herself 100%, going above and beyond in fleshing out a character who, in lesser hands, would project as much too cold and unsympathetic. You know, the sort who refuses to hold her infant grandson, as is the case with Liliane.
Perhaps that’s why it’s such a treat whenever Liliane loosens up and unrestrainedly misbehaves around Gabriel. They’re not on a par with Nick and Nora, but Foster and Auteuil set off sparks whenever they’re together, exuding charm and a surprising amount of eroticism for a couple of sexy sexagenarians. Alas, Zlotowski doesn’t capitalize on that appeal nearly enough, indulging instead in too many narrative diversions and clumsy tonal shifts.
Perhaps her most glaring misstep is introducing an ill-advised subplot in which, through hypnosis, Liliane recurrently slips into a past life featuring her as a tuxedoed, WWII-era cellist (still Foster) madly in love with a fellow Jewish musician (Efira again) who is the apparent romantic property of their pistol-packing Nazi conductor (Amalric again).
These scenes are stylishly shot, but they serve less to advance the story and more to showcase Zlotowski’s prowess as a filmmaker. It merely interrupts the story’s flow and deprives us of more time with Foster and Auteuil, the film’s chief assets. And did we really need yet another deflection, this one involving the mysterious death of Paula’s wealthy aunt just days prior to her heir’s demise? There are far too many red herrings for one Hitchcockian whodunit. And don’t get me started on the cop-out ending at which Liliane suddenly transforms into a model wife, mother, nana and shrink.
How ironic, a tidy wrap-up for a film that’s an absolute mess. If not for Foster, it would sink like a rock in the River Seine, further proof that the two-time Oscar-winner can turn cheese into gold. It’s also yet another attempt by Hollywood to shoehorn an older actress, like Helen Mirren and Angela Lansbury, into the now clichéd role of quirky lady sleuth. Foster, alas, obliges, and you lament. C’est la vie!
Movie review
A Private Life
Rated: R for language, graphic nudity, brief violence, some sexual content
Cast: Jodie Foster, David Auteuil, Mathieu Amalric, Virginie Efira, Luana Bajrami and Vincent Lacoste
Director: Rebecca Zlotowski
Writers: Rebecca Zlotowski, Anne Berest and Gaëlle Macé
Runtime: 105 minutes
Where: In theaters Jan. 16 (limited)
Grade: B-
