September's almost over but there's still time for a mildly diverting tryst with Brigitte Bardot in 1967's Two Weeks in September (À coeur joie). Never quite finding much to say beyond its basic premise and lacking chemistry between its stars, there's nonetheless a pleasant vibe to the meandering film with its cool, xylophone heavy score that would probably be quite nice to relax with after a few drinks.
Cecile (Bardot) is a model married to an older man named Philippe (Jean Rochefort). She's childishly dependant on his guidance and naively believes he wouldn't mind too much if she cheats on him. Her work requires her to spend some time in London and, despite her pleas, Philippe decides not to accompany her.
It's in London she unhesitatingly responds to flirtations from the young and handsome Vincent (Laurent Terzieff) who looks to me like a cross between Cillian Murphy and Willem Defoe.
So he wins on looks but as an actor Terzieff seems generally disconnected from his scenes while Bardot plays Cecile with such a generalised zest you get the impression the two end up together just because they happen to be standing next to each other.
A lot of time is spent on Cecile's photo shoots in the first half of the film which makes it feel like a behind the scenes documentary on Bardot's modelling career. In the second half, Cecille and Vincent hop into a car and spontaneously drive to Scotland where their car breaks down. Fortunately a conveniently fluent in French Scotsman, complete with a kilt, happens by and takes them to his ancestral castle.
There are some pretty shots of the nearby cliffs. I appreciated shots of Bardot gazing out at the sea cut with footage of birds hovering in the wind blasting the cliff face.
The idea is for us to see Cecile's dilemma as she finds Philippe isn't the only man in the world after all but the characters and relationships are never developed enough to explore any of the issues. It's mostly just pretty people hanging out in pretty places.
Twitter Sonnet #1158
An offered drink contains the walls and floor.
An amber space permits the ghosts of drakes.
A bottle took the fine constructed door.
A lattice weaves between the piled rakes.
Rotations spill the bath before the plug.
Rotundas top collective cases spent.
A brace of suits retire hardly snug.
Confetti graced the nervous, breathing vent.
Beside the speaking leaves the people pass.
The boulders under earth return to guts.
A piece of hill and mountain made a mass.
The ploughing stones en route created ruts.
The later oats resort to cakes and spice.
Ingredients were hidden, even rice.