After seeing this movie, I consulted the reviews and was pleasantly surprised to hear of a "superior" 1982 French version. The surprise was short-lived. It is not better.
There are interesting points of contrast: the French have more artistic cinematography, better gastronomy, and less formulaic denouement. A particular shot of the leading man lying on a couch with clothes and upholstery perfectly synchronized was unquestionably tasteful. But the Americans deserve credit too.
Kahn lends her character far more depth than her French colleague. She undergoes a moving transformation that is not evident in Pere Noel. Martin equals L'Hermitte's commendable effort. Wilson surpasses her predecessor in both charm and feeling; she's more deserving of our sympathy. Sandler is funnier and far less nauseating than his French counterpart. And the real surprise is Lewis. Her rendition of the crazed pregnant lady is far more dignified than the Frenchwoman's, who was as unlikable as Lewis in her earlier turn as a Griswald in Christmas Vacation.
But the real fork in the road is the conclusion. Whereas the French plunge into macabre darkness, the Americans end on several high notes. A Christmas movie must be jovial, and this version leaves me feeling better. Sometimes, even the worst catastrophes and deepest despair are followed immediately by pure jubilation.
There are interesting points of contrast: the French have more artistic cinematography, better gastronomy, and less formulaic denouement. A particular shot of the leading man lying on a couch with clothes and upholstery perfectly synchronized was unquestionably tasteful. But the Americans deserve credit too.
Kahn lends her character far more depth than her French colleague. She undergoes a moving transformation that is not evident in Pere Noel. Martin equals L'Hermitte's commendable effort. Wilson surpasses her predecessor in both charm and feeling; she's more deserving of our sympathy. Sandler is funnier and far less nauseating than his French counterpart. And the real surprise is Lewis. Her rendition of the crazed pregnant lady is far more dignified than the Frenchwoman's, who was as unlikable as Lewis in her earlier turn as a Griswald in Christmas Vacation.
But the real fork in the road is the conclusion. Whereas the French plunge into macabre darkness, the Americans end on several high notes. A Christmas movie must be jovial, and this version leaves me feeling better. Sometimes, even the worst catastrophes and deepest despair are followed immediately by pure jubilation.