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In Cheri, Michelle Pfeiffer stars as Lea, a famed courtesan to the rich and famous who is contemplating her retirement. Her archrival Madame Peloux (Kathy Bates) asks her to teach her spoiled nineteen-year-old son, Cheri about women. Caught up with his youth and charm, a passionate affair begins and lasts for six years. Their blissful amour eventually results in power struggles over sex, money, age and society – and unexpectedly, love itself – as a boy who refuses to grow up collides with a woman who realizes she cannot stay young forever.

These older, high-class prostitutes are fashionable, and their earned wealth and luxurious homes are enviable. Whom do they need? They fraternize amongst the safety of each other, since most do not beget a family and are otherwise ostracized. Socially they razz one another, incite some good verbal sparring and even become self-depreciating, which infuses the film with some needed levity. But Lea’s friends can become her greatest enemy.

Malicious Madame Peloux checkmates her son Cheri against Lea to ultimately see Lea’s heart broken. Strangely, Lea is wise to anticipate this, but warnings be damned; she indulges her heart with this young man. And the whole story ebbs and flows from this perspective of bliss to break ups and back to bliss, etc. The film is based off of Paris’ famed author Sidonie Gabrielle Colette’s novel’s Chéri and The Last of Chéri. And given the quirks and salacious undertones of author Colette’s stories, the film is fairly breezy and easy to watch, especially given the talent involved.

Stephen Frears (High Fidelity, The Queen) directed Pfeiffer in 1988’s Dangerous Liasons and she was his top choice for the part of Lea here. Pfeiffer’s sensuous grace and ability to say much by doing so little is an asset to the part, although I thought Pfeiffer could be brittle (unlike her swaggering performance in Hairspray). It’s nice to see Kathy Bates take on an accent instead of using her typical news reporter voice. And though one can hardly picture Bates enticing men as a beauty in her younger days, her bawdy and malevolent Madame Peloux straddles the beam between “friend” and destroyer quite well (Sigourney Weaver or Sharon Stone would have been a better choices). Despite a hair helmet and flimsy physique, Rupert Friend’s keen acting as Cheri strikes a chord as a mouthy but unsatisfied whoremonger. That is, until he loses his senses with Lea.

The chemistry between Cheri and Lea makes or breaks this film – the story lives by it. Tragically, the couple falls into love without any identifying sparks. They love each other like two sharing comfortable sleep overs. It’s all too easy. There is kinship commonality, but no tense build up, no desperation, no valor, no sacrifice, no competition, and no breathless physicality between them.

Most of the problem is that Pfieffer comes across as a stiff. It’s as if there are alarms around her that will go off if she is bumped out of her flawlessly lighted scene or if she is touched imperfectly. I’ve always liked Pfieffer, but give me a break.

Pfieffer’s posing inhibits Lea and Cheri’s affection – a relationship which aches for ravishing physicality like they may die tomorrow! While sex scenes are notoriously awkward to film, we don’t need to see X-rated monkey sex, but the fact remains that their intimacy emerges slow and maudlin rather than lusty and soulful.

The actors are left to passionately emote their feelings through dialogue, but the set up for their affair never had me compelled. Fans of the novels, however, may click right into the story. Maybe I’m missing something, but after the film began I kept asking, “now, why are they a hot item? Do I need to go on some hormone replacement therapy to get it?” Consequently, I simply found the story mildly interesting including a very truthful ending, and I admired the superb film making.

Frears assuredly directs the film and the actors seem free to journey through every thought. The set design by Alan MacDonald has some of the most beautiful interiors I’ve ever seen. Lea’s home architecture is like exquisite art with its marvelous stair, incredible walls and ceilings, not to mention the elegant color designs of dusty blues and soft copper trim. Cinematographer Darius Khondji gently composes every scene with precision and a flare for beautiful lighting. Alexandre Desplat’s original music has a lilting adventure to it, though its prancing melodies can compete with action on screen. And Lucia Zucchetti’s editing unfolds a very nice beat throughout each scene; the pace of the film is naturally realized and easy to watch.

As the film is rather beautiful to behold, it’s sad that the two lovebirds don’t enjoy conversations or don’t fire up the screen like they need to do. You’d think all involved would know to notch up the needed heat. Consider this: Frears directed Pfieffer in the far more physical and breathless Dangerous Liaisons. Sure, it’s been over twenty years, but Pfiefer is a beautiful, able woman, and the part of Lea shouldn’t be relegated to a china doll. Albeit, a pretty one in a pretty landscape.

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