On the front of the press notes (and movie poster) for A Good Year is the photo of a pleasant chap. A real man's man. Middle-aged, perhaps. Rugged. He's got a big warm smile. The effect is of genuine good cheer. He is wearing a white button-down shirt, probably expensive, and a yellowish something has spilled down the front - a curry, perhaps? No matter. It's just a spot.

Russell Crowe? Is that you?

No wonder the press notes (and the poster) include a helpful bit of billing in the upper left corner - "Russell Crowe." Without it, you might have doubts. He isn't stern or threatening or remotely self-serious. But then, what we have here is a kind of experimental filmmaking, a wafer-thin, forgettable romantic comedy from Ridley Scott, as intentionally frivolous and breezy as Scott's pictures (Alien, Black Hawk Down), particularly his big one with Crowe (Gladiator), were enormous and oppressive.

Crowe plays Max Skinner, a go-go-go London stock market financier whose beloved uncle (Albert Finney, radiant as ever), with whom he hasn't spoken in years, leaves him a French estate that is crumbling so tastefully the house itself seems to be waiting for Conde Nast Traveler to arrive before it collapses for good. It also has a vineyard attached. And a charming French couple who watch over the property and provide impromptu lessons on how to slow one's hectic life and rediscover one's soul.

Oh, and a French cafe girl, who is familiar with the house from her childhood and can't stand Max and has given up on love but falls for him somewhere between the cheese plate and foie gras.

Oh, yes, and a never-heard-of-daughter who may or may not be the offspring of Max's uncle (apparently quite the player in his '60s), but shows up suspiciously on this idyllic Provence sprawl with a cultivated wine palate after the uncle kicks unexpectedly.

The rest, you can guess.

A Good Year is lifestyle porn.

And there's nothing wrong with that. As soulless as Max's life is in London - meaningless sex, too much money, million-dollar flat - we'd take it as readily as his quiet life (and growing coziness) among the failing golden light of a rural French village at dusk. Scott's picture has an unabashed admiration for the Peter Mayle novel it's adapted from. Mayle's gauzy travel memoirs/beach reads are the literary equivalent of a hammock. And likewise, this picture is purely wish fulfillment, even if it is the sort of buffed-smooth fluff that right-minded moviegoers are supposed to wave away.

Still, nothing wrong with it.

You applaud Scott and Crowe for stretching their legs, kicking back, and easing off on the head-chopping for a couple of hours; their model is clearly the laid-back French farce of Jacques Tati, whose stumbling buffoonery and broad slapstick was reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin. But there's a line between soft and soft-headed, and rarely has a paid holiday looked as stressful. This thing sweats to appear lighthearted, from that insistently cheerful poster of Crowe to the frenzied montages of Crowe sprucing up the joint to the gags so tired (nipping dogs, tiny cars, fall-down-go-boom tennis matches) Benny Hill would have sent them back.

Comedy requires a willingness to be dismissed - to be laughed at, not taken seriously. Sounds obvious, but these are people not familiar with easy dismissal. They swing sledgehammers, not ball peen. Crowe, in particular, is casual enough in person, but before a camera, he's uncomfortable pleading for our love, and comedy requires humility. As for Scott, a master of spectacle (save Thelma and Louise), he gets restless when stuck with a film entirely contained in a character - the character itself containing a single dimension.

But you see the promise.

Perhaps they sat together one night on the south coast of France: Russ, Rid, and Mayle. Nice dinner. Good friends. A Cary Grant movie played low in the background, and unexpectedly, everyone was transfixed. Why not make a movie like they used to? So simple. So comfortable. About nothing more pressing than their good taste. Their next film is American Gangster. It's huge. Mayle isn't involved.

Contact Christopher Borrelli at:

cborrelli@theblade.com

or 419-724-6117.

First Published November 10, 2006, 1:26 p.m.