L'Amour dure trois ans (2012)
Directed by Frédéric Beigbeder

Film Review

Having made a name for himself as a literary critic and novelist, Frédéric Beigbeder takes up the director's baton for the first time with this adaptation of one of his first novels.  This is not Beigbeder's first brush with cinema - back in 1999 he scripted the cinematic disaster that was Les Infortunes de la beauté and subsequently had another of his novels adapted as 99 francs (2007) (he made fleeting appearances in both films).  Beigbeder has acquired something of a reputation as a self-publicist through his frequent appearances on the French television channel Canal+ but he is a charismatic personality and many of his books have been bestsellers.  L'Amour dure trois ans is exactly the kind of film you would expect Beigbeder to deliver - a crowd-pleasing lightweight romantic comedy which perfectly reflects the neurotic self-absorption of its author.  However, the film falls way short of Beigbeder's literary achievements.

Frédéric Beigbeder is not the first novelist to have a go at directing a screen adaptation of his own work and whilst he is clearly struggling to find his feet as a director (his over-reliance on stock clichés and excessive use of film references is evidence of insecurity) his debut feature is far from being a complete failure.  Like François Truffaut, Beigbeder uses his own experiences as the basis for his fiction and he wrote the novel L'Amour dure trois ans whilst in the throes of a painful divorce.  His alter ego, Marc Marronnier, is readily identified as an Antoine Doinel for our time - a cynical, preening narcissus who considers himself the centre of the universe and seriously believes the world is interested in all the minutiae of his mediocre existence.  Gaspard Proust's portrayal of Marronnier is easily the best thing about the film, such a well-observed and tragically true-to-life caricature of Beigbeder that you can hardly help falling in love with him.

Unfortunately, the rest of the cast are far less impressive and their lacklustre performances merely serve to expose the tedious vacuity of Beigbeder's screenplay.  Louise Bourgoin may have the sensual allure to make a modern femme fatale but her evident lack of acting skill and/or experience prevents her from making her character remotely believable (although to be fair, her character is such a superficial non-entity that no actress could have rendered her credible).  Likewise Joey Starr and Frédérique Bel are pretty well wasted in roles that are little more than thinly sketched stereotypes.  Valérie Lemercier is far better served by Beigbeder but her appearance, a welcome oasis in a characterless desert, is far too brief.

Beigbeder falls too easily into the trap that has claimed many a first-time filmmaker, which is to gratuitously slot in as many references to other films as possible in an attempt to convince us that he is cinematically literate.  Film buffs will doubtless have fun spotting the allusions to the work of Sacha Guitry, Woody Allen and Jacques Demy (to name just three) but for the average cinemagoer this gratuitous film-referencing is distracting and as irritating as an after dinner speech that consists of nothing but a slew of arcane literary quotations.  This merely reinforces the impression that L'Amour dure trois ans isn't so much a piece of original cinema as something akin to an item of self-assembly furniture - an anodyne confection that has been constructed from pre-manufactured bits and pieces simply by following a (not very well written) set of instructions.   And you can imagine that Beigbeder had a few bits left over which he didn't know what to do with.  (Don't worry, they will end up in his next film.)

Uneven and sorely lacking in depth as it is, the film does somehow just about manage to hold itself together, mainly on the strength of Proust's engaging performance and a few genuinely funny moments.  However, the good will factor is well and truly shot  to pieces when we get to the cringe-inducing happy ending, which is rendered practically unbearable by the shameless mis-appropriation of Michel Legrand's The Windmills of Your Mind (Legrand's on-screen presence does little to alleviate the sense of nausea).  You can actually hear Steve McQueen spinning (and probably vomitting) in his grave.  If only Beigbeder had been brave enough to inject a little more irony and barbed humour into it, much as Jan Kounen had done with his adaptation of 99 francs, L'Amour dure trois could have been something worth watching.  Love may last three years, but it is unlikely that anyone who watches this cinematic potpourri (other than the hopelessly sentimental) will care to remember it for more than three weeks.

Film Synopsis

Literary critic by day, columnist by night, Marc Marronnier is convinced that love never lasts for more than three years.  His own experiences bear this out.  Having recently divorced, he published a pamphlet in which he puts a compelling case for his thesis.  Then he meets Alice and realises that perhaps his ideas about love are mistaken.  As he embarks on a passionate love affair with Alice, Marc decides to keep from her the fact that he is a writer.  Just how long can he keep up the deception and how will his new love react when she discovers the truth...?