Philadelphia Weekly

Priceless

Directed by Pierre Salvadori
C+

Reviewed by Sean Burns
Opens Fri., April 25

A pleasant enough little piffle that fades from memory in about as much time as it takes to watch it, Pierre Salvadori's French Riviera farce stars Audrey Tautou as a gamine hustler drifting through lavish hotels in backless dresses, gently alighting from one elderly sugar daddy to another. A bit of boozy birthday confusion finds her mistaking Gad Elmeah's sad-eyed, put-upon bartender for a millionaire, and this smitten young schmuck tries to keep up the illusion as long as his meager bank account will hold out.

It takes the pricey pixie a single afternoon to bankrupt the poor bastard, and when the money runs out ... well, I ain't saying she's a gold digger, but she ain't messing with no bartender. After Tautou splits, Elmeah is flat broke in Nice, becoming improbable cougar-bait for Marie-Christine Adam's vixen-of-a-certain-age--one with deep pockets and high standards. She seems to view him as a bit of a fixer-upper.

Elmeah has a wonderfully weary face, and Salvadori gets a lot of comic mileage out of his deadpan responses to Adam's passive- aggressive insistence on plastic surgery, weight training and other unexpected indignities inherent in the life of a young gigolo. Good thing for him Tautou ended up in a nearby room with her latest mark, so the two can sneak off for secret assignations in which they trade strategy tips on fleecing your lover.

It's a bold choice for Salvadori, making such a sunny, feel-good romantic comedy about two characters who are, for all intents and purposes, miserable whores preying upon the loneliness of widows and the elderly. He almost gets away with it, keeping a jaunty pace, lingering for long stretches on the lavish accommodations and extravagant fashions, and avoiding sex like it were the plague.

Priceless often seems to be shooting for the breezy immorality of Ernst Lubitsch's Trouble in Paradise, but Salvadori spends far more time asking us to excuse and feel sorry for these characters than Lubitsch would ever consider decent. In the end it's a dubious proposition carried off by charming leads.

Tautou brings just enough innocence to the role that it's impossible to be put off by her often monstrous behavior. A less vulnerable actress would've sunk the project.

Elmeah shrewdly positions himself as the underdog throughout, projecting a strange gallantry even in sleazy situations. They're awful cute together, even if they're awful people.

Irina Palm

Directed by Sam Garbarski

C-

Reviewed by Matt Prigge
Opens Fri., April 25

In Irina Palm, Marianne Faithfull plays as a London granny who gets a job at a sex shop wanking knobs through a glory hole. On one hand (ooh, pardon!) it's admirable that this didn't become some bawdy '70s-style throwback, perhaps titled Are You Being Serviced? and starring Mollie Sugden. On the other, that would've been infinitely preferable to what Irina Palm really is: a painfully schizophrenic drama that makes naughty jokes one minute (see the title--a name Faithfull takes for herself), then veers into the land of "no sex, please, we're British" the next.

Indeed, Faithfull isn't jerking anonymous schlongs out of mere autumn years boredom. Sam Garbarski's film actually dusts off the old kid-needs-a-pricey- operation standby, with Faithfull's sickly grandson requiring a sojourn to an Australian clinic their working-class family can't afford.

Cue grandma stumbling upon a Soho sex club and convincing the sadsack owner (Miki Manojlovic of Emir Kustirica's Underground) to hire her as the hands-on geriatric analog to the punchline to Aerosmith's "Sweet Emotion" video. From there, not only does Faithfull become the joint's star handler, but she also finds self-empowerment, a sizable haul and even potential love, all in between too many shots of soapy hands being vigorously washed to count.

Her voice and face long ago stained by nicotine (and other things), Faithfull has morphed over the last several years from former '60s sexpot to respectable actress. She and Manojlovic deliver subtle, soulful and world-weary performances, ones the film in no way deserves. Where they convey relaxed professionalism, this international production is clumsy and ill-conceived, striving for kitchen sink miserablism but winding up, in its way, as fantastical as Harry Potter.

Despite the neon and casual T&A, the film's central business is otherwise scrubbed clean, making The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas look like a hotel room of Russian Dolls. And thanks to its tasteful elision of any and all male members, this overcast and gloomy little number is just a couple F-word bleeps from being slipped into the after-hours slot on Lifetime.