Pure hokum. Again, the curse of the “based on a true story.” No screenwriter would’ve dared come up with such an unlikely, farfetched story if he hadn’t had the stranger-than-fiction truth to egg him on. I couldn’t find a laugh all night, although the ladies behind me practically guffawed. As for me, it was a continuity of scenes ringing false, from the hiring of the unqualified, uninterested Driss in the first place, to his painting an abstract masterpiece despite having no interest in art, to madly racing through city traffic without a driver’s license, to taking a private jet to go paragliding, etc., etc. I never knew what to make of Francois Cluzet’s paraplegic, but all I could think of was Dustin Hoffman’s Rain Man. Putting this on top of Marigold Hotel and there certainly seems a disconnect between popular taste this summer and my opinion.

There’s a dance in the Dominican Republic on July 2 each year, when Major League baseball teams are permitted to sign contracts with 16-year-old Dominican ballplayers, who have this one chance to raise their entire family out of poverty. The temptation is great to lie about one’s age to command a higher signing bonus. MLB, conversely, is an unchallenged monopoly with an incentive to keep signing bonuses down. The documentary makers ofPelotero had the good fortune to choose for their story two young ballplayers who ended up exemplifying this push-and-pull: one seemingly the victim of collusion to keep his price down by spreading rumors of his ineligibility; the other, to the shock of his coach, having a fake birth certificate. The best news is that the former wound end signing, for less money, with the blameless Minnesota Twins and is now their top-rated minor-league player.

Half the humor and twice the budget of Ted, which we saw the same weekend. There are some artists you just don’t like – e.g., John Marin or Thomas Hart Benton – and Wes Anderson is one of those. His artistry is undeniable: he creates his alternate universe – this one is misleadingly labeled “1965” – and the stage sets and the people are all consistent. But I just don’t get it. None of the humor was funny – maybe “sardonic” was his goal instead – and none of his characters had either interest or appeal. Frances McDormand and Bill Murray have never been less attractive onscreen, and you sort of thought that was Anderson’s intent. The young lovers, Sam and Suzy, had more quirk than charm, and came across as cogs in Anderson’s bizarre wheel, not real people. In the future, when Anderson indulges himself artistically I will try to stay home.

Un film francais “typique,” with sex and talk and sex and talk and then un peu de fantasie au fin. Was it extolling the liberating properties of prostitution or condemning the men who engage in it, as well as the men who don’t? Well, there didn’t seem to be a point. The one thing that was clear was that Juliette Binoche’s character wasn’t much of a journalist. She was, however, beautiful as always, although the director tried for “realism” by showing her unmade-up, uncombed, sweating through Pilates. Oh, and one other French thing: a la Marienbad, there was no clear indication of what was taking place when – other than it couldn’t have been on the “day” in question.

While the situations tended to comedic extremes, the underlying relationships were touchingly real, and of course I know something about being a “trailing spouse.” Ultimately, the charm of Emily Blunt and Jason Segel carried the day and made us forgive absurdities such as the wedding finale. One of the best comic absurdities, played absolutely straight, was the career involved: a post-doc position, at which the heroine was not very good, in an apparently useless academic career. As usual in a Judd Apatow production, the ancillary characters ranged from perfect to hilarious. And speaking of Apatow, it’s time to give him some credit: there’s nothing profound or even intense about his relationship flicks, but all share a gentleness and strike familiar chords. I’m reminded, at the moment, of Trollope.