French cinema and I have been having a crisis. But we may be over the worst. There’s something uniquely comforting about the romantic French farce. Watching Rohmer is quite like eating mashed potatoes. And Cockles And Muscles, a bawdy seaside sex romp is the crème anglaise you get afterwards.
You could argue that it’s slight. You could argue that it trades on national stereotypes (the French are always at it). You could also point out that the dreadfully out of tune europop musical finale may well be mentioned in the Book of Revelations.
Not me, though. I’m past arguing with it. I hardly need to tell you that Cockles And Muscles follows a middle-class French family on their summer holidays. Mom (Bruni-Tedeshi, fantastic as ever) has a lover who suddenly appears. Dad (Melki) reunites with an old flame. The daughter takes off with a biker. The son tries to pretend that he’s gay, then contends with the resulting ‘delightful misunderstandings’.
All families may be, as Douglas Coupland contends, psychotic. But send them off on a balmy vacation in France and you might just get a happy ending.