‘Girl On The Bridge’ strides down familiar path

Max Jacobson

Friday, Oct. 6, 2000 | 9:26 a.m.

Grade: **

Starring: Danielle Autevil, Vanessa Paradie.

Screenplay: Serge Frydman.

Director: Patrice Leconte.

Rated: R.

Running time: 92 minutes.

Playing at: Regal Cinemas Village Square 18.

Black-and-white films, in the current market, have the art film genre stamped all over them, in indelible shades of gray. You don't see too many black-and-white films anymore, for solid commercial reasons. These films are tough to sell in a society composed of Kodak moments, not to mention being rife with intellectual expectations for anyone choosing to go along for the ride.

American studios hardly even bother with black-and-white films, unless someone such as Woody Allen is directing. What ones do surface are either woefully low-budget films that miraculously cause a box-office stampede ("The Blair Witch Project,") or European stuff-that-dreams-are-made-of films, directed by anyone from Roman Polanski to Wim Wenders.

The latest entry in the black-and-white art film sweepstakes is the French film "Girl On The Bridge" (la fille sur le pont.) At best, it is a romantic fable with an allegorical lesson to be gleaned from its twisty, improbable plot. During its worst moments, it is weighty and pretentious, a cautionary tale wannabe that doesn't hold together for anyone gifted with a logical mind.

No one can fault the male lead, veteran French character actor Daniel Auteuil. Auteuil, who American audiences have seen in films such as "Jean de Florette" and "Manon of the Spring," has a craggy, world-worn face; a soft, velvet-tinged voice, and the star power to carry a film. Auteuil turns in a real tour de force. He's the best reason to see this film.

In "Girl On The Bridge," he plays the mysterious Gabor, a telepathic knife thrower who encounters the woman who will turn out to be his spiritual doppelganger, Adele (international singing star Vanessa Paradis), as she is about to make the icy leap into eternity.

What ensues is a dreamy fable laced with a raft of cliches about l'amour: You must risk everyseeng for true love, you don't realize happiness even when it ees staring you in ze face. Gimme a break.

The story is engaging at times, but the sheer improbability of the events that ensue are bound to put off all but the most romantic souls. Picture a French movie written by Danielle Steel, and you get the idea.

Gabor talks Adele off the bridge, and soon she is risking her life as the target for Gabor's skillfully thrown knives, in carnivals, sideshows and on cruise ships. The prologue to the bridge scene is actually the most compelling one in the film. In it, we see Adele, speaking to what one imagines is a panel of psychologists, explaining her tendency to fall into the arms of any man who will be tender with her, and how she never can make a meaningful choice.

Gabor doesn't take advantage of her obvious charms, instead treating her as a serious business partner and showing her the respect that she so obviously craves. It's clear from the very outset that these two are made for each other: They exchange telepathic signals throughout the film, and Paradis' unsubtly sexual responses to the knives being thrown within inches of her body are psychological elbows to the ribs that director Patrice Leconte never tires of.

Eventually there will be a denouement, but not before several unlikely touches, great shots of Mediterranean ports such as Istanbul, and a mini-tour of Europe as seen through the eyes of freak shows, flophouse residents and disaffected sociopaths.

Central to the film's core is the notion of luck. Apparently, the idea is that luck strikes randomly, that we should recognize it and that to be lucky in love is the greatest kind of luck a person can have.

The film is at its best whenever there are long, misty shots of European cities, and the soundtrack is playing such retro numbers as "I'm Sorry" (by Brenda Lee) and anything wailed by Benny Goodman on the clarinet.

The film is at its worst whenever it is preachy. The French didn't invent love, you know. They just riff on it like everyone else, and their understanding of how it really works is as misty and random as ours.