Hard to believe, after Inglorious Basterds, that someone else would cast Brad Pitt as an American (ok, Canadian) who could pass himself off as a Frenchman/German behind German lines. Any relationship between his French accent and that of the Parisian he was supposed to be was entirely coincidental. Of course, he was no more convincing as an RAF Wing Commander or Marion Cotillard’s lover. His acting, in general, would not have passed muster with the Ensemble Theatre here in Santa Barbara. But he did wear nice clothes.
The plot was nonsense; the whole film came across as a film exercise. We had no emotional involvement with any of the characters; we just watched, with some interest, how director Robert Zemeckis constructed his film. It did give you things to talk about when it was over.