Dame Maggie Smith does the courtesy of giving us fair warning in the opening minutes of My Old Lady of her character’s introduction: “I’m 90,” she portents. “Subtlety is no longer something that interests me.” Nor too does it appear to interest Israel Horovitz in the adaptation of his play My Old Lady, a story of sins-of-the-father, late-in-life romance, and old French real estate law.
Failed American novelist Mathais Gold (Kevin Kline) inherits a two-story apartment in the heart of Paris from his long-estranged father. However, Smith’s Mathilde currently resides there with her daughter (a criminally underused Kristin Scott Thomas) under the conditions of a viager (that is, “for life”). Mathias cannot sell or even take possession of the lucrative piece of property until Mathilde dies. As Mathias works to drive the old lady out of house and home, he discovers the true nature of the friendship between Mathilde and his father (a “twist” so tired, it’s telegraphed in the first act).
The biggest delusion that My Old Lady operates under is the assumption that Kline is an appealing enough actor to carry the film as a largely unlikable sad-sack man-child/ugly American. It’s the kind of rakish-old-man role that seems tailor-made for Bill Murray or perhaps even a late-career rom-com Jack Nicholson, but in Kline’s hands, the character fails to charm through the misanthropy. Mathias is a deeply broken man, complete with pseudo-Freudian undercurrents that blame mommy and daddy for most of his personal problems. He swaggers through the film, riddled with self-esteem issues that manifest as arch sarcasm and entitlement. Why Kristin Scott Thomas’ Chloé eventually falls for him—especially after he ostensibly slut-shames her for engaging in what appears to be a consensual and loving affair with a married coworker—is a mystery. Also puzzling is the late introduction of an incest angle that disappears almost as soon as it is brought up. Useful, maybe, for those playing European-arthouse bingo, but it is otherwise an uncomfortable attempt to manufacture drama, and does little except leave a sour aftertaste.
Movies based on plays can come with adaptation baggage, and My Old Lady is no exception. The Paris-setting of the play would have been difficult to render onstage, but the freedom of filmmaking does little to remedy this. The film is oddly claustrophobic: this is a Paris of dark apartments, storefront interiors and repeated exterior locations (as though they filmed on a single “Paris-themed” soundstage for the outdoor scenes). There may have been a thematic undercurrent that explains this claustrophobia, but in Horovitz’s hands, it doesn’t register as such.
The only bright spots in My Old Lady are Smith and Thomas—their relationship, fraught with unconditional loyalty and motherly guilt—is the most compelling thing about this largely forgettable endeavor, and it is sadly relegated to the B-story. This is Mathias’ story through and through, and it’s hard not to wonder why we should even care in the first place.
