August is known as ‘dump month’. It’s when the most forgettable films are released on the grounds that people don’t go to the cinema much in the summer. But maybe they don’t go because the films are so forgettable? Either way, the best film you probably won’t go and see this week is Widow Clicquot. You may wish to make a note of that.
Shall I go on? With this film you probably won’t see? Better had. This space won’t fill itself. Some weeks I wish it would. But we all have our crosses to bear – plus it’s hardly coal-mining.
The best film you probably won’t go and see this week is Widow Clicquot
Although Widow Clicquot won’t blow your mind, it is a solid, if muddled, biopic of someone who was entirely fascinating, founded a great champagne empire, became one of the richest women of her day and whom, I’m guessing, you know nothing about.
It is based on a book by Tilar J. Mazzeo, produced by Joe Wright and directed by Thomas Napper from a screenplay by Erin Dignam and Christopher Monger. It’s a French story, obviously, but as it’s an international production it’s all in English. And it’s English English, rather than English with a French accent – which is a relief, as that’s always plain silly.
It stars Haley Bennett (who is also a producer) as Barbe-Nicole Ponsardin, whose husband, François (Tom Sturridge), dies when she is just 27 years old. She is nevertheless determined to keep hold of the wine-making estate – where she and François had been experimenting with the grapes – rather than sell it to Monsieur Moët (Nick Farrell), who wants her out the way.
This is the 1770s, so there is a lot of ‘women don’t do this kind of thing!’. But she manages to convince her father-in-law (Ben Miles) that she understands the vines; that François is in the vines – they both believe in talking and singing to them – and that the vines deserve her care. ‘Prove yourself, woman!’ he says.
There are two timelines. But just as we’re settling into the 1770s present we flash back to her marriage to François. The two shared a great love even though he descended into madness and opium addiction and may have swung both ways. These flash-backs are rather incessant and while I never thought ‘I wish I were coal-mining’, I did think: ‘Time to get over it, love. Move on.’
The endless back and forth detracts from the better story which is: how did she defy the sceptics, smash the patriarchy, and become such a remarkable businesswoman? When did she devise the distinctive yellow-gold Veuve Clicqout label that is recognisable to this day? That’s what I was here for on this pleasant summer evening, when I could have been at a barbecue instead. But the drama is understated. The way she circumnavigated the Napoleonic wars and sold the brand to Russian nobility is only roughly sketched and you may want to visit Wikipedia later to read the full story. Meanwhile her breakthroughs – the ‘riddling table’ that is still used in champagne making; perfecting a distinctive rosé – are treated in a similarly downbeat manner. (The label, I now know, wasn’t designed until 100 years later – but you do see her tying a yellow-gold ribbon around a bottle, so there’s that.)
The film is handsomely mounted but, rather than treat us to the glories of the rolling French countryside, most of the action takes place within gloomy interiors. It might as well have been a mine. ‘Open the shutters!’, I wanted to shout. But it’s still an engaging story and Bennett is more than decent in the role, bringing intelligence, intensity and heft to a part that comes with almost no backstory.
In short, if you’re uming and ahing about what film to probably not go and see this week, this has to be on the list.
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