Remove the subtitles, and it's one of Cameron Crowe's head-in-the-clouds dramas, as scripted by M Night Shyamalan: an insultingly arbitrary reveal, preceded by vast, wailing washes of Pink Floyd and Sigur Rós. A very vanilla sky, this.
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Postdivorce reconciliation tales - not to mention mother-whore disquisitions - don't get more elaborate than this.
Cafe de Flore constantly hovers on the brink on some revelation it never quite arrives at.
This is a gorgeous, flashy, widescreen epic, like "Boogie Nights" or "Casino," about the most essential things in life: Family, friends and love. But most of all, love.
The film commands our attention again as more connections emerge -- not enough to fully solve the mystery, but sufficient to convince us that Café de Flore amounts to more than the triumph of style over substance.
It's a pretty tired proposition to complain about movies being manipulative, but Café de Flore sets the bar especially low.
Beneath the surface panache lies an overlong, emotionally shallow study of so-called 'twin flames', possible reincarnation and learning to let go of love.