by CHRIS BARRY

How director Tonie Marshall managed to sell a script this weak to the likes of William Hurt and Catherine Deneuve is anyone’s guess. A big payday? Maybe, but not likely. A vanity project for Deneuve? Perhaps, in that Marshall claims she wrote this dog with her in mind. But still, it would be nice to believe an icon like Deneuve could find a better film than this to prance around in.

Here, she plays an ageing Parisian heartbreaker with commitment issues. A successful career woman, every man she meets falls madly in love with her, but Deneuve is holding out for the mysterious Philippe, a former lover whom she bitterly regrets having let fall by the wayside all those years ago. Out of nowhere she receives a note, allegedly penned by Philippe, telling her to meet him at the top of the Empire State Building, where she hopes he will confess his undying love and they will go on to live happily ever after.

But Deneuve, who conveniently has a business trip to New York planned anyway, runs into leading man William Hurt along the way and sparks immediately start flyin’ between the two of them, creating mucho uncertainty and confusion for poor ol’ Catherine.

What will she do? Continue to yearn for the image of the perfect man she has bestowed upon Philippe, or, go for the bird in hand she seemingly has in Hurt? After all, she and Hurt have known each other for all of a few hours, and hey, even though there is zero chemistry between the two great actors, Hurt seems to possess that certain je ne sais quoi with which to melt the heart of even the most detached ice goddess.

Nearest to Heaven is hokey, insipid, and, ultimately, nonsensical. And while it’s true I may have missed some crucially important plot developments on the several occasions when I was wrestling to stay awake through the press screening, I somehow seriously doubt it. Trust me, this flick stinks. :

Nearest to Heaven (Au plus près du
paradis) opens Friday, Feb. 14

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