Lack of good storyline.

Strong acting helps the film overcome an uncertain premise and create characters that hold our attention absolutely.

The movie turns out to be a little better than the average. Starting from a romantic formula often seen in the cinema, it ends in the most predictable (and somewhat bland) way.

The movie really just wants to entertain people.

We watched this lovely film on TV last night and both of us enjoyed it tremendously. I judge films by how memorable they are; even good films that are appreciated at the time disappear in my, admittedly, porous memory but this film for some reason cemented itself in my memory immediately. I admit that I enjoy films about male/female relations or the lack thereof if that is the case; the French are the planet's masters of this examination of the human condition and they do it very well. The Singer is an examination of that most sensitive of times in relationships: the period of discovery, before people understand what is happening to them, whether there is enough glue to hold this tentative relationship together. I thought that the director knew exactly what he wanted his actors to do and their professionalism allowed them to play these most sensitive of roles so well. As you can imagine there are no huge points of realization or transcendence in this beautifully played out examination: nothing that we have been led to expect from Hollywood, just quiet, introspective searching and waiting to see if the puzzle pieces fall into place as the singer hopes they will. As you can see, the movie is an examination of these two people very tentatively feeling each other out to see if they have a future. The viewer's joy is watching this endearing and gentle examination. I found the movie a tremendous viewing experience but very tentative, very gentle and very knowing.

I suspect there must be a genre term in French cinema for films in which Depardieu gets the girl by virtue of his charisma. I think he fits his conceit rather well in this kitchen-sink sized romance, an ageing but professional dance hall singer-compère. Cécile De France also fits into this as Marion, the woman who he seduces then spends the rest of the film chasing - initially it all seems a bit odd until we discover that Marion is more damaged than outward appearance might suggest.The problem for me is that I come from the north side of the channel and simply can't process the fluid morality at the heart of the film - the ease with which people slip in and out of each others' beds but remain within the same social orbit. There's nothing in the film to explain or dramatise this situation either. I found myself getting rather waylaid as to the point of it all.Director Xavier Giannoli treats the potentially toe-curling parochial dance-hall sequences with loving reverence - one can see how Alain would be happy to do these inauspicious gigs for the rest of his life. Shame about the baffling drama though. 4/10

Depardieu has been rather untrustworthy in his choice of film roles; the occasional gems like Le Dernier Metro and Tous Les Matins Du Monde being unbalanced by strings of ordinaire throwaways, but with Alain Moreau (et son Orchestre) he has a character that really fits him in every way. Alain, as in 'Tous les Matins', is a musician who cares about his craft and feels under threat by changing fashions and by his own diminishing abilities. Supported by his faithful wife/manager (Christine Citti), he is just keeping his band scene going despite the rise of karaoke and younger, smaller, rock-based combos, when he meets Marion (Cecile de France), sparky but fragile, an estate agent. The aging and corpulent singer is used to having women swoon over him, so he gives Marion the big treatment when her boss (Matthieu Amalric) brings her to the dance hall. She resists at first, but spends the night before running off without stopping for coffee. Although Alain is not as sure of himself as he once was, he decides to pose as a house-hunter so that he can get close to Marion again - barely credible, as he already has a large rambling, crumbling house in its own grounds, with a live-in goat. She disappears for a while, as does his voice. Despite the stop-start relationship, they continue to connect somehow, and it falls into place after he decides to walk out of his chance at the Big Time in a stadium concert. There are no certainties, really, although they end up together; and the film's strength is really in recreating the tiny provincial world where Music elevates the people to a better world for just one evening at a time. Alain, in his white suit and streaked hair maintains his dignity, believes in the songs he sings for his customers, be they ever so corny (but life is corny), and Depardieu fills the skin so well. The original French title, Quand J'étais Chanteur, is better than the one we have here, with its bittersweet overtone. I'm looking forward to a CD featuring Depardieu singing Brel, including, of course, Jackie.

The London Film Festival is only three days old and already we've had the finest film, this one. Not that the pretentious pseuds who actually run the BFI will agree - if they did I'd be seriously frightened - even as I write they've probably got scouts out scouring the world for something from the Galapogas Islands shot from the point of view of a turtle and redolent with her inner torment as she watches her offspring being picked off by scavengers as they make for the sea but those of us who actually LIKE film as, dare I say it, Entertainment and think it is at its best exploring the Human Condition with tenderness, sensitivity, wit, etc will respond to this entry as positively as last night's packed audience i.e. with applause and cheers. It scored heavily at Cannes and on its release in France last month there was agreement amongst the critics and punters that this was Depardieu's best role in a long time and I am pleased to endorse that opinion. The problem with someone as versatile as Depardieu who can do anything is that he's frequently prevailed upon - and too often consents - to do Everything. Here he is inch perfect as a middle-aged third-rate singer - the English equivalent would be Vince Hill with charisma - making a living in clubs and discos and waging a war against karoake. It's a measure of his charm that his ex-wife, now his manager and living with a new partner, still loves him and watches over him like a mother. Short of a mid-life crisis he hits upon - both literally and figuratively - Cecile de France, half his age, a single mom and 'troubled' as they say in the soaps. As a rule Cecile de France is asked to light up the screen with her faux Audrey Hepburn smile as she did so winningly in her last outing Danielle Thompson's brilliant Fauteuils d'orchestre but here she is allowed to do 'serious' and save the smile for isolated moments which is, of course, doubly effective. At best the relationship is doomed and both parties know this deep down but the joy for the audience is how they get to that good place that we all covet. This is the kind of wonderful movie that those BFI mandarins probably used to love themselves when they were kids and thought that if they went to work for the BFI they'd be able to watch stuff like this all day long and get paid for it then, having joined, they realised that pleasure is no match for pretension. For film lovers only.