There is something so distasteful about _My Golden Days_, Arnaud
Desplechin's quasi-prequel to his _My Sex Life ... or How I Got
Into an Argument_. The film depicts the early life of Paul Dedalus,
starting with an espionage-tinged trip to Russia but spending the
majority of its running time describing his love affair with
Esther. Mathieu Amalric appears as the adult Paul, and the
"golden days" are narrated through his perspective, as a framing
device.

Except they are not golden at all. The adult Paul flies into
a rage when he finally returns from his diplomatic mission to
Paris and runs into an old friend whom he accuses of stealing
Esther's affection. This is at the end of the film; by then we
have known that Paul himself is most responsible for the end
of the affair, through his absence (studies in Paris and overseas
postings); she is simply not his priority. His spat with the
ex-friend is not a neurotic, Woody-Allen episode; it is extremely
ugly, long, and unbearable, just like Paul himself. The teenage
version played by Quentin Dolmaire is equally insufferable.
So are most of the teenagers in the film; they could have
walked in from any American flicks about frat-house hijinks,
they are shallow and obsessed with pop culture. This is
a far cry from the inspired, thoughtful youngsters with
which French cinema has spoiled us (_An Revoir Les Enfants_,
_Games of Love and Chance_, _Le Chignon d'Olga_ ...).

Halfway through the film Esther and the supposedly learned
Paul visit a gallery (the Lourve?). I thought: at last
there must be some poetic images and words. No such luck.
They come upon a painting and Paul claims it reminds him of
her, although it is a wide vista, lifeless canvas with no
central female character. He proceeds to spin a tall tale
to impress Esther, who is regretfully easily impressed.
What could have been a tender scene turns out to the
film's most callow and vulgur. Esther (Lou Roy-Leconllinet)
is a pretty, petit blonde, but the screen play imbues her
with absolutely no other redeeming virtue or personality.
She is just the hysterical lover obsessed with the remote
Paul. If this aspect of the film is autobiographical,
Desplechin is being very unfair to his protagonist. Then
again, gallantry isn't the first word that comes to mind
with this director; he was sued by Marianne Denicourt for
appropriating her life-story in _Kings and Queens_, although
the law suit failed.

Manolha Dargis seems to genuinely like the film, especially
its use of Yeats, which is barely recited however; the
screenplay could really have used more of Yeat's beauty
to redeem its own ugliness. Cinematically it uses a lot of
iris shots and other devices that remind one of Truffaut.
I am not the biggest Truffaut fan, but Truffaut usually
loved his characters and made them fascinating. Here both
protagonists are truly unlikeable, and the camera tricks
soon seem like desperate distractions to drum up any interest
at all.

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