French Kiss

Meg Ryan is clearly charismatic, no less here than in her other romantic comedies. Here, her prickly uptight-ness in this film is winning, but it’s no different than her Sally in When Harry Met Sally --a realization that, frankly, diminishes the enjoyment of her performance. Also, her Kate is maddening, what with her proclaiming not to be a typical woman, whatever that means, yet she’s chasing an unfaithful man. (A doormat, no matter how offbeat and beguiling, is still a doormat.) Besides, FRENCH KISS suffers from the delusion that befalls most romantic comedies: the message that antagonism ought to be a major ingredient between great lovers. Enough already.

But she -- and the movie -- are a delight; Ryan and Kline share a fair amount of chemistry sometimes, though not always, supported by witty repartee. (Kline’s accent puzzlingly careens from charming to atrocious.) A sample: Kate, explaining how she and Charlie fell in love: “It wasn’t exactly a thunderclap or a lightning bolt, it was more like a …” Luc: “Light drizzle?” And then, there’s the location: France, specifically Paris and Cannes, is simply gorgeous. They’re almost enough to make up for the movie’s weak spots.