We all love Michael Caine. We really do. But the long, sad history of his terrible American accent really is beginning to grind us down. You have to admire his perseverance. He is now 80 years old, but he still sounds as if he's auditioning for a burger-joint commercial on Irish community radio. If haven't got it by now, Mike, you're never going to get it.
The problem seems all the more acute – or convoluted, anyway – in this dreary geri-rom-dram as Caine is playing an American, living in Paris, who speaks the local language spectacularly poorly. Listen as he applies his Burger-Shack vowels to a man failing to say merci with any facility. It has all the linguistic weirdness of a contemporary Jean-Luc Godard film.
None of this would matter, of course, if Mr Morgan's Last Love were a little more interesting. Unfortunately, Sandra Nettelbeck's film, derived from a novel by Françoise Dorner, never really gets beyond second gear. Nettelbeck, director of the likable Mostly Martha, sets us up for a moving sentimental drama, but can't close the deal.
Caine plays a philosophy professor, recently widowed, who can’t quite get his life back in order. Nothing seems worth living for. One day, on the bus, he meets Pauline (Clémence Poésy), a young dance teacher, and the two begin a relaxed, unforced friendship. She teaches him to do the cha-cha. He expounds on the modern greats.
Sadly, the load has not lifted and he attempts suicide. In the aftermath, Pauline meets his two children, both of whom take her for a gold-digger, and various tensions begin closing in.
Caine manages a touching performance and Poésy plays well off the old devil. Hans Zwimmer delivers a rare understated score. Paris looks simply lovely. But nothing can compensate for the sickening lack of momentum. Or the awful title. Or the corny dance sequences. Or Caine's terrible American . . . Okay, we've made the point now. Time to leave it alone.
