American Fable is ambitious, maybe too much so sometimes, but there's an intense pleasure in the boldness of the film's style.
“The Proprietor” is an astoundingly bad movie. I could hardly believe my eyes. Or my ears, or my memory. In its attempt to tell the story of the life of a legendary French woman (perhaps, we gather, the greatest since Joan of Arc), it steps so wrong, so often, that even casting Jeanne Moreau is of no avail. If anyone can play the greatest French novelist of modern times, it is she, but not here.
Moreau plays Adrienne Mark, formerly Markowsky, a French Jewish writer whose 1960 novel, modestly titled “My Name Is France,” was an intellectual, artistic, social, publishing and paper-manufacturing landmark. It was made into a great French film, and remade into a bad Hollywood film (“Call Me French”), and now she lives in New York in an apartment filled with her memories.
But she wants to return to Paris after 30 years and buy the apartment in which she grew up. Clumsy flashbacks show that her mother was betrayed to the Nazis by a rich lover after putting the apartment in the lover's name to keep it from being taken over. Now Adrienne fantasizes Nazis everywhere: Even her doorman seems to have a swastika on his sleeve. Adrienne's best friend is her faithful black maid Milly (Nell Carter), who tsks-tsks her, and breaks into song (she used to sign backup for Wilson Pickett).
Adrienne hires an auctioneer to assess the contents of her apartment (Sam Waterston is the victim of this role). Meanwhile, a handsome young man (Josh Hamilton) sees her at an opening, falls instantly in love, and follows her around like a puppy with a video camera. (The movie seems to have been written by a puppy with a typewriter.) Adrienne goes to Paris to bid on the apartment, and the young man, having won a contest for a Slurpy Peaches promotional film, pursues her to Paris, declares his love and gets as his only reward a chaste kiss on the forehead, to our immense relief.