French infection

"Travel Porn" makes a better label for A Good Year than a cliché like "romantic comedy." Audiences seek out these films not so much for the stories or performers, but to gaze and moan over gorgeous scenery and elegant architecture. Oh, those voluptuous, undulating hills, those ripe, sun-kissed colors, those villas jutting proudly from the landscape.

Even more than such similar fare as Enchanted April or Under the Tuscan Sun, A Good Year feels like a rote but required step to promote package vacations in Provence: "You, too, can take the Good Year tour in the South of France!" Director Ridley Scott should be the perfect filmmaker for such a project, since his work always has a polished sheen, like photo spreads in Vanity Fair.

Scott reunites with his Gladiator star Russell Crowe, and perhaps the character name "Max Skinner" pays homage to "Maximus." He's sort of a gladiator of London's trading floors, smirking at his rivals and underlings as he engineers a profitable scheme of dubious legality. While preening in triumph, he gets the news that his beloved Uncle Henry has died.

His uncle left behind a run-down 18th century chateau and modest vineyard, and Max only wants to spruce up the property for a quick killing on the real-estate market. After trading grey London offices for hazy French verandahs, however, he begins flashing back to his glorious summers in Provence. Uncle Henry (Albert Finney) imparts to young Max (Freddie Highmore) the importance of losing gracefully, appreciating fine wine and other unsubtle life lessons.

The region's other attractions include Marion Cotillard's fiery but beautiful waitress Fanny Chanel -- could her name be any more French? In Max's corporate lifestyle, sex seems like cutthroat competition, but in Provence, lust waits more leisurely around every corner, from the earthy, flirty housekeeper (Isabelle Candelier) to the young American bombshell (Abbie Cornish) who may be Uncle Henry's rightful heir. A sequence involving Cornish's sunburned back and a soothing, dripping ice cube captures more ooh-la-la sensuality than the rest of the film struggles to find.

A Good Year looks very much like the efforts of two serious guys trying to prove they have a sense of humor. Crowe works against the moody gravitas that can be his greatest on-screen virtue. In a generation of Tobeys, Leonardos and other boyish movie stars, Crowe is one of the few who carries himself with the authority and presence of a grown-up.

You can tell -- a little too transparently -- that he's trying to lighten up in A Good Year, to give Max the callow smugness of a corporate alpha-male, and to gradually convey the reawakening of Max's sensitive side. But Crowe's not Cary Grant, or even Hugh Grant, and his eyes resolutely refuse to twinkle. He connects less convincingly to the pleasurable moments than the painful ones, such as Max's cutting disappointment when Fanny shoots him down for a date.

Against the undeniably luscious countryside, A Good Year comes up with a few funny little jokes, such as Max's tiny, washing-machine-sized rental car, or his habit of shouting "Lance Armstrong!" whenever he passes French bicycles. But for every amusing, panicky moment of scorpions on the windowsill, there's a tedious urinating dog or predictable American tourist.

Meanwhile, the director neglects the subplots about the vile quality of the estate's wine and a mysterious, highly prized boutique vintage from the area. Sideways showed more commitment to exploring wine as a metaphor for life's elusive delights.

Scott generally seems bored with the story and tries to goose it along with unnecessary flourishes, such as an overblown backyard tennis match. When Max takes some cell-phone shots of the house for his real-estate agent, the camera work becomes as flashy as a spy film about covert surveillance.

You can appreciate the director and the movie star trying to move out of their comfort zones for something breezier. Watching A Good Year, though, you feel like Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe simply can't take a vacation from who they are.