You'd think the lonely ladies of London would complain that they'd drawn the short straw if they ended up with Daniel Auteuil as their male escort rather than his new mate, Stuart Townsend. But it seems not. One intelligent - French-accented, naturellement - phrase from his lips, and they're whipping off their knickers and handing him their cash.
Circumstances move at such a convenient and lightening pace in Michel Blanc's drama that the plot strays and becomes faintly ludicrous. And, without credibility, the film loses its grip.