I watched “Paris Can Wait” with Diane Lane,
whom I’ve always loved since her powerful
performance in “Unfaithful” with Richard Gere
playing her cuckolded husband, but who in
this romantic drama played an underappreciated
housewife needy of attention from her hotshot
Hollywood producer husband played by Alec
Baldwin. (Who else?) They travelled to France,
but he’s been called away to Budapest, and his
associate, an annoying Frenchman called Jacque,
who just happens to be a certain kind of man
who wants what he can’t have and when he gets
it no longer wants it, volunteers to chauffeur
Baldwin’s wife Anne, played by Diane, from
Cannes to Paris; and en route to the city of love,
that another certain kind of man with more élan
and four wives to his credit called “a moveable
feast,” what should’ve been a seven-hour drive
turned into a days-long road trip through La Belle
France, complete with vistas, fine restaurants, vin,
and vats of fromage, but how sweet it was that Anne
denied that certain piece of merde what he tried
to get; and out of the blue it came to me, as these
kinds of epiphanies often do, that “Paris Can Wait”
was the opposite of “Unfaithful,” and I marveled
at how the Cosmos always works to keep life
in a state of lilting grace.
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