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Home Is Where The Art Is

"Summer Hours," the new release from French filmmaker Olivier Assayas, is far too dull for its own good. The film is set on the vibrant, sweeping countryside of France and deals with death, extensive art collections and siblings trying to mark their place in the world. These attributes all sound ace in theory, but the final product is a little too Norman Rockwell, not enough Salvador Dali.

Feeling like death is about to ring her doorbell, 75-year-old Hélène (Edith Scob) invites her trio of 40-something kids – Adrienne (Juliette Binoche), a hit designer from New York; Frédéric (Charles Berling), a Paris-dwelling finance guru; and Asia-bound businessman Jérémie (Jérémie Renier) – to her large estate for a familial farewell. While the siblings are pseudo-bonding, she tells them to sell her exquisite 19th-century art collection and pocket the change. "A lot of things will be leaving with me … memories, secrets, stories that interest no one anymore," she says, encouraging them not to leave the house as a tomb.

After she takes in her final breath, the movie dies with her. We don't get to know any of the siblings beyond key mannerisms and remarks. Frederic repeats on a loop how he wants to keep the house for reunions, even though it wouldn't benefit the others, while Jérémie seems overly preoccupied with the funds. Then there's Adrienne, who is frantic and leaves whenever conversations start to get interesting. The only semi-engaging character in the lot is Éloïse (Isabelle Sadoyan), the long-time housekeeper, who radiates the spunk and personality the others are sorely lacking. (Would it kill her to share a bit?)

"Summer Hours" might appeal to those who are fascinated by the mechanics of inheritance dealings or distant characters, but it will be a tough sell otherwise. There is a lot of beauty on display though, notably in a picture-perfect shot of Adrienne sitting outdoors in a wooden chair, with green grass and yellow flowers circling her, as she sports a bold orange cardigan. The contrast of colors is almost enough to drown out the energy-free dialogue from Assayas' ("Paris, je t'aime") script. But as everybody knows, almost doesn't count.