French Exit: A Novel

By Patrick deWitt

Now a Major Motion Picture Starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Lucas Hedges, directed by Azazael Jacobs

A Recommended Read from:

Vanity Fair * Entertainment Weekly * Vulture * The Millions * Publishers Weekly * Esquire

From bestselling author Patrick deWitt, a brilliant and darkly comic novel about a wealthy widow and her adult son who flee New York for Paris in the wake of scandal and financial disintegration.

Frances Price – tart widow, possessive mother, and Upper East Side force of nature – is in dire straits, beset by scandal and impending bankruptcy. Her adult son Malcolm is no help, mired in a permanent state of arrested development. And then there’s the Price’s aging cat, Small Frank, who Frances believes houses the spirit of her late husband, an infamously immoral litigator and world-class cad whose gruesome tabloid death rendered Frances and Malcolm social outcasts.

Putting penury and pariahdom behind them, the family decides to cut their losses and head for the exit. One ocean voyage later, the curious trio land in their beloved Paris, the City of Light serving as a backdrop not for love or romance, but self destruction and economical ruin – to riotous effect. A number of singular characters serve to round out the cast: a bashful private investigator, an aimless psychic proposing a seance, and a doctor who makes house calls with his wine merchant in tow, to name a few.  

Brimming with pathos, French Exit is a one-of-a-kind 'tragedy of manners,' a send-up of high society, as well as a moving mother/son caper which only Patrick deWitt could conceive and execute. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Aug 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780062846945

Patrick deWitt

Patrick deWitt is the author of the novels French Exit (a national bestseller), The Sisters Brothers (a New York Times bestseller short-listed for the Booker Prize), and the critically acclaimed Undermajordomo Minor and Ablutions. Born in British Columbia, he now resides in Portland, Oregon.

Book preview

New York

1.

All good things must end, said Frances Price.

She was a moneyed, striking woman of sixty-five years, easing her hands into black calfskin gloves on the steps of a brownstone in New York City’s Upper East Side. Her son, Malcolm, thirty-two, stood nearby looking his usual broody and unkempt self. It was late autumn, dusk; the windows of the brownstone were lit, a piano sounded on the air—a tasteful party was occurring. Frances was explaining her early departure to a similarly wealthy though less lovely individual, this the hostess. Her name doesn’t matter. She was aggrieved.

You’re certain you have to go? Is it really so bad as that?

According to the veterinarian it’s only a matter of time, Frances said. What a shame. We were having such a lovely evening.

Were you really? the hostess asked hopefully.

Such a lovely evening. And I do hate to leave. But it sounds an actual emergency, and what can be done in the face of that?

The hostess considered her answer. Nothing, she said finally. A silence arrived; to Frances’s horror, the hostess lunged and clung to her. I’ve always admired you so, she whispered.

Malcolm, said Frances.

Actually I’m sort of afraid of you. Is that very silly of me?

Malcolm, Malcolm.

Malcolm found the hostess pliable; he peeled her away from his mother, then took the woman’s hand in his and shook it. She watched her hand going up and down with an expression of puzzlement. She’d had two too many drinks and there was nothing in her stomach but a viscous pâté. She returned to her home and Malcolm led Frances away, down the steps to the sidewalk. They passed the waiting town car and sat on a bench twenty yards back from the brownstone, for there was no emergency, no veterinarian, and the cat, that antique oddity called Small Frank, was not unwell, so far as they knew.

Frances lit a cigarette with her gold lighter. She liked this lighter best due to its satisfying weight, and the distinguished click! it made at the moment of ignition. She aimed the glowing cherry at the hostess, now visible in an upstairs window, speaking with one of her guests. Frances shook her head. Born to bore.

Malcolm was inspecting a framed photograph he’d stolen from the hostess’s bedroom. She’s just drunk. Hopefully she won’t remember in the morning.

She’ll send flowers if she does. Frances took up the photograph, a recent studio portrait of the hostess. Her head was tilted back, her mouth ajar, a frantic happiness in her eyes. Frances ran her finger along the edge of the ornate frame. Is this jade?

I think it is, said Malcolm.

It’s very beautiful, she said, and handed it back to Malcolm. He opened the frame and removed the photo, folding it in crisp quarters and dropping it into a trash can beside their bench. He returned the frame to his coat pocket and resumed his study of the party, pointing out a late-middle-aged man with a cummerbund encasing a markedly round stomach. That man’s some type of ambassador.

Yes, and if those epaulets could talk.

Did you speak to his wife?

Frances nodded. Men’s teeth in a child’s mouth. I had to look away. She flicked her cigarette into the street.

Now what, Malcolm said.

A vagrant approached and stood before them. His eyes were bright with alcohol and he asked in a chirpy voice, Got anything to spare tonight, folks? Malcolm was leaning in to shoo the man when Frances caught his arm. It’s possible that we do, she said. "But may we ask what you need the money for?"

Oh, you know. The man raised and dropped his arms. Just getting by.

Could you please be more specific?

I guess I’d like a little wine, if you want to know.

He swayed in place, and Frances asked him, in a confiding voice, Is it possible you’ve already had something to drink tonight?

I got my edges smoothed, the man admitted.

And what does that mean?

Means I had a drink before, but now I’m thinking about another.

Frances appreciated the answer. What’s your name?

Dan.

May I call you Daniel?

If that’s what you want to do.

What’s your preferred brand of wine, Daniel?

I’ll drink anything wet, ma’am. But I do like that Three Roses.

And how much for a bottle of Three Roses?

A bottle’s five bucks. A gallon’s eight. He shrugged as if to say the gallon was the shrewd consumer’s choice.

And what would you buy if I gave you twenty dollars?

Twenty dollars, said Dan, and he whistled a puff of dry air. For twenty dollars I could get two gallons of Three Roses and a weenie. He patted the pocket of his army coat. I already got my cigarettes.

The twenty would set you up nicely, then?

Oh, quite nicely.

And where would you bring it all? Back to your room?

Dan squinted. He was realizing the scenario in his mind. The weenie I’d eat on the spot. The wine and the cigarettes, I’d take those into the park with me. That’s where I sleep most nights, in the park.

Where in the park?

Under a bush.

A particular bush?

A bush is a bush, in my experiment. Experience.

Frances smiled sweetly at Dan. All right, she said. So, you’d lie under a bush in the park, and you’d smoke your cigarettes and drink your red wine.

Yeah.

You’d look up at the stars.

Why not.

Frances said, Would you really drink both gallons in a night?

Yeah, yes, I surely would.

Wouldn’t you feel awful in the morning?

That’s what mornings are for, ma’am.

He’d spoken without comedic intent, and Frances thought that Dan’s mornings were probably wretched beyond her comprehension. Sufficiently touched, she opened her clutch and fished out twenty dollars. Dan received the bill, shuddered from skull to toe, then walked off at an apparently painfully brisk pace. A beat cop approached, looking after Dan with malice.

That guy wasn’t bothering you two I hope?

Who, Daniel? said Frances. Not at all. He’s a friend of ours.

Seemed like he was putting the bite on you.

Frances stared icily. "Actually, I was paying him back. I should have paid him back a long time ago, but Dan’s been very patient with me. I thank God for the fact of a man like him. Not that it’s any of your business." She held up the lighter and lit it: click! The flame, stubby and blue-bottomed, was positioned between them, as though defining a border. A sense of isolation came over the cop and he wandered away, asking sorry, small questions to himself. Frances turned to Malcolm and clapped her hands together, communicating a job is done sentiment. They disliked policemen; indeed, they disliked all figures of authority.

Have you had enough? asked Malcolm.

I’ve, answered Frances.

Walking toward the town car, she took up Malcolm’s arm in her special-loving-creature manner. Home, she told the driver.

The grand, multilevel apartment was dim, and resembled a museum after hours. The cook had left them a roast in the oven; Malcolm plated two portions and they ate in silence, which was not the norm, but they were both distracted by personal unhappinesses. Malcolm was worrying about Susan, his fiancée. He hadn’t seen her in several days and the last time they’d spoken she had called him a rude and vulgar name. Frances’s concern was existential; she lately had found herself mired in an eerie feeling, as one standing with her back to the ocean. Small Frank, elderly to the point of decrepitude, clambered onto the table and sat before Frances. She and the cat stared at each other. Frances lit a cigarette and exhaled a column of smoke into his face. He winced and left the room.

Malcolm said, What’s tomorrow?

Mr. Baker insists on a meeting, Frances answered. Mr. Baker was their financial adviser, and had been the executor of the estate after the death of Frances’s husband, Malcolm’s father, Franklin Price.

What’s he want? asked Malcolm.

He wouldn’t say.

This was not, technically, a lie—Mr. Baker hadn’t stated explicitly what the meeting was about. But Frances knew all too well what he wished to discuss with her. The thought of it made her morose, and she excused herself, ascending the marble staircase to curry solace in a bath choked with miniature pearlescent bubbles. Afterward she sat on the settee in the bathroom, in her plush robe, and her hair was down, Small Frank sleeping at her feet. She was speaking with Joan on the phone.

2.

They had met five decades earlier, at an all-girls’ summer camp in Connecticut. Joan was new money and everyone was aghast at her lack of refinement, her apparent disinterest in self-improvement. Frances was the most popular girl there, handily; vast energies were expended daily that her friendship might be won. She was bored by this, and became fixated on Joan, admiring her gracelessness, her scuffed kneecaps, her scowl. In the cafeteria one afternoon all looked on as Frances moved to sit with Joan, a piece of chocolate cake in each hand. Joan eyed the dessert with suspicion.

What’s this? she said.

One for you, one for me.

Why?

Just being decent, I guess. Why don’t you unscrew your face and have a bite? Frances took a bite herself; Joan followed after. Over the course of the consumption of the cake, Joan became emotional, and the moment she finished she hurried from the cafeteria, fearful she might cry from the fact of Frances’s kindness, and she did cry, in the forest by the lake where a loon came in for a wake-making landing on the polished silver water. That night, at the campfire sing-a-song, Joan sat next to Frances, and Frances smiled at her and touched her knee to welcome her into her life.

Their friendship began with a pistol shot, it seemed; they loved each other from the start and it had been this way all the time since. Now, so many years later, Joan was the only one Frances could be herself with, though this isn’t accurately stated since it wasn’t as if Frances suddenly unleashed her hidden being once Joan arrived. Let it be said instead that she did, in Joan’s company, become a person she was only with Joan—a person she liked becoming. Joan had many friends, but beyond Malcolm, Frances had only Joan.

She, Frances, was looking out the high window above her vanity and into the black cube of sky. A leaf wandered drunkenly past. It used to be that seasons filled me with expectation, she said. Now they seem more a hostile encroachment.

Joan was perusing a catalog in bed. I thought we’d agreed not to talk about death at night. She flipped a page. Christmas is coming. I say it each year, but you’re hell to shop for.

I’m simple: I want nothing. Frances had come to think of gift-giving as a polite form of witchcraft. Another leaf bobbed past her window and a chill took her. She was wrestling with the thought of whether or not to discuss her problem with Joan. She had decided she would when there occurred an unexplainable event, which was that a sleek black lizard, ten inches from nose to tail, shot from behind the toilet and breezed over the tops of her bare feet before continuing on into the bedroom. Frances hung up the phone, crossed the room, and closed the door to shut herself in. She returned to the phone, picked it up, and called Malcolm, who was in bed down the hall, staring at the telephone and wondering why Susan wasn’t calling him, but also why he wasn’t calling Susan. He jumped when it rang.

Malcolm, Frances whispered.

Oh, hello, there. Did you miss me, or what?

Listen to me. There’s a lizard dashing around my bedroom and I need you to come down here and do something about it.

A lizard? How’d that happen?

I don’t understand the question. It walked in of its own accord. Will you come, yes or no?

You want me to?

I want you to. Also I want you to want to.

Well, I guess I’d better come, then, said Malcolm.

Soon he entered Frances’s bedroom. She spoke from behind the bathroom door: Do you see it?

No.

Stomp around a bit.

Malcolm stomped about the room but there was no sign of the lizard. Knowing his mother would accept nothing less than unassailable proof of the reptile’s demise or departure, he constructed a plan to set her mind at ease. He opened a window and waited awhile. You can come out, now, he said. It’s gone.

Frances’s face appeared in the doorway. Gone where?

Wherever lizards go—it’s not for us to know.

She crept across the carpet and to his elbow. Malcolm explained about the window and she asked, You saw him run out?

He took it at a sprint.

You’re very good, she told him, squeezing his arm.

It wasn’t much.

You’re very good and clever.

But now the lizard emerged from beneath Frances’s bed, approaching them in halting zigzags. It stood at their feet performing important push-ups and Frances returned to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Please will you pack me a bag, she said, and one for yourself, and I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes.

He did as he was told and soon found her in the lobby, explaining to the doorman about the lizard. Her hair was up, her cheeks faintly rouged; she wore a long black-and-red-checked wool coat to cover her pajamas, and ballet slippers on her feet. She took up her suitcase and exited the building, Malcolm following behind her. They registered at the Four Seasons and retired to their respective suites.

Frances ordered two martinis from room service. When they arrived she set them on the bedside table, admiring their twin-ness for a time, then she drank them. Failing to take any water before sleep she had parched visions all through the night: a juicy plum eluded her, passed from hand to hand in some person-thick open-air-market dream environment. Upon waking she once again called room service, requesting that which she could not have in slumber. The plum was delivered on a heavy, filigreed tray. She sat in the center of her overlarge, sunlit bed and ate it, hopeful for a valid experience, but it erred on the dry side, possessed no magic, and did nothing to lessen much less solve her deeper difficulties. This was unfortunate but unsurprising and she didn’t let the fruit’s failure influence her mood. Bracing herself, she called Mr. Baker, who wasn’t available to answer, mercifully. She left a false but believable message explaining that she was indisposed and so unable to meet that day. Returning home in the early afternoon, the doorman presented Malcolm and Frances with a couriered letter as well as an outsize floral bouquet. Frances sniffed the flowers and asked, Who has died, and what was their purpose, and did they fulfill their potential? The doorman didn’t hazard a response. Frances made him uneasy; he believed there was something quite wrong with her.

Any lizard news? she asked.

Yes, Mrs. Price. That’s the end of that.

You killed it?

Yeah.

You personally?

Personally I killed it.

What was the killing style?

"Foot killing. I’ve got it in a

Reviews for French Exit

[lyndainoregon · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It’s rather difficult to develop much sympathy for Rich People Behaving Badly who suddenly realize that the well has run dry. And that’s precisely the situation Frances and Malcolm Price find themselves in when Frances’ spending habits have managed to deplete the estate left by her late and largely unlamented husband. But deWitt isn’t asking the reader for sympathy. He paints Frances and Malcolm as generally without redeeming qualities. Frances is cold, manipulative, and condescending. Malcolm is a man-boy who has never been tasked with growing up. (All this of course gives the reader the chance to feel superior and to think that “If I had that much money, I’d certainly never blow it like that”, in a magical-thinking plea to Karma that Notice be Taken and that one be given the opportunity to demonstrate one’s ability to handle large buckets of cash for which one has not labored.)At any rate, mother and son decamp to Paris with every dollar they can manage to hide from their creditors, moving into an apartment loaned by a friend, where they begin to accumulate an odd collection of acquaintances. Frances’ ultimate goal is telegraphed pretty early on, and as she meanders toward it, deWitt reveals bits and pieces of their respective childhoods which go a long way toward explaining, if not excusing, their anhedonic behavior. Even the climax isn’t much of a climax, and Malcolm appears to be wandering toward the rest of his life with the same disaffected attitude he had shown all along.It’s a quick read, and some funny scenes play out in the Paris apartment, but overall it’s pretty dark humor.

[etxgardener · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a Noel Coward play on acid. Frances Price is a sixtiesh widow who lives with her son Malcolm and has been blithely spending the estate of her late husband Frank who she says was a brute, but now inhabits the body of her cat called Small Frank. When her accountant tells her that there is no more money, she sells everything and decides to exit to Paris where she camps out in the apartment of Joan, the one friend she has in the world.In Paris, Small Frank goes missing and the search for. him includes a cast of characters straight out of Feydeau. In the end, it's the end of Frances, but the realization of Malcolm and several of the other characters. Small Frank is still inscrutable

[bostonbibliophile · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was such a fan of the sisters brothers that I hesitated to read this one but I have to say I was not disappointed in the least. it is an utterly delightful, silly, black comedy with more than a twist of the absurd. I want a cat to name Small Frank now. It turns bittersweet by the end and I just loved every minute.

[toobusyreading · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed the author's book The Sisters Brothers so I expected to like this one as well. It fell flat for me. The protagonists were not especially likable, but I'm fine with that as long as they are entertaining. I expected quirkiness and humor. It was quirky. Not so much humor. There is a mother and her adult son who are running out of money, a not especially loved cat, and some misfits who managed to connect with them in Paris. Could have been good. Wasn't, though, in my opinion. As always, you may see it differently than I. A quote that sums the characterization for me: “Please don't cry. Your makeup's going to run – and there's so much of it.”

[overgaard-2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

So much fun. Do not agree w reviewer classifying this as send up of 1%. Sensitive insight into anguish of grief more like. Funny Sad Engaging. Want to read more of his books.

[beckyhaase · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

FRENCH EXIT by Patrick DeWittI just couldn’t get interested in this book or the characters in it; Frances, a middle aged widow, and her son, Malcolm. While clearly drawn, neither was likeable or very interesting. Their situation (about to become bankrupt) and their reactions were also not interesting. I finished the book all the while wondering why I kept reading. I can’t in good conscience recommend this book.Frances is a snide, snobbish and selfish person. Malcolm is a man/child who has no ambition and no desire to do anything including attend to his long suffering fiancé. The entourage they acquire is made up of misfits and ne’er-do-wells. The conclusion is a relief.2 of 5 stars

[lisapeet · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Finally finished this after a brief but necessary hiatus, and it was wonderful. You need push the thought that this is a Wes Anderson film in the making right out of your head because there's really a lot more going on, and a lot of it is very lovely and funny, often at the same time. He has a way of getting to his characters by skating over them, then stopping and looking straight down with this simultaneously loving and unpitying eye. Every single inner child here is extremely needy, most likely because every single actual child was extremely neglected, and deWitt gives you the chance to care about that without sentimentalizing any of them. Agree with DG—the ending is marvelous. I will always have an eye peeled for Little Frank now, even if he was last seen in Paris. He's one of my favorite cat characters ever.

[beamis12 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

3.5 Original, inventive, absurdist, all of these descriptions and more would be fitting. Wasn't quite sure where, in my head, to put this book, let alone how to come up with a rating. Generally, I rate like grnres with like genres, but this one seems to have an identity of its own. What a strange tale with some very unique characters, and a very unusual cat. A satirical comedy of manneres and errors, if you will.Maybe I was just in the mood for this, but I enjoyed this wuirky little albeit unbelievable story. It wasn't meant to be believed, but it does have some truisims within that were noted. This author is a master at dialogue, even when it was out there, way, way out there, the dislogue seemed totally natural. Some of these scenes I just found so darn amusing, had to reread them again, sometimes they seemed to just appear out of nowhere. So without rehashing plot, which is kind of impossible anyway, I'll just say I enjoyed this. Not the ending so much, but definitely the getting there. So, if you're in the mood for something different and entertaining, give it a shot.ARC from Netgalley.

[randymetcalfe · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The money is gone. However many millions. The houses and cars are about to be sold at auction. The locks have been changed. For Frances Price it’s decision time. She and her adult son, Malcolm, have been burning through all the worldly assets of her dead husband, Franklin. Good. She disliked him when he was alive and her opinion hasn’t improved now that he’s dead. Besides, their cat, Small Frank, keeps looking at her strangely and it’s a bit unsettling. But with characteristic decisiveness (or madness) Frances gathers what resources they have left and hops aboard an ocean liner (first class!) to leave Manhattan and take up residence in Paris in an empty apartment owned by her friend, Joan. And Malcolm’s coming too. Hijinks ensue.There is certainly a surfeit of wit and charm in this novel. But it is also pervaded by death. Not just Franklin’s death, but also death aboard cruise ships, death in parks, death in contemplation and planning. So, a bit dark, really. And it’s an open question whether the lightness of tone and the silliness of many of the characters can balance the gloom. If so, just.DeWitt has created a memorable character in Frances. And almost as unmemorable a character in her son, Malcolm. The cat has more personality. But the delightful Mrs Reynard, Julius the Private Detective, and Madeleine the mystic lend plenty of support. At times it looks to become a French farce, but there is always the harsh reality of life on the street that can be seen out the window. And it doesn’t look pretty. Unfortunately the novel just sort of drifts off at the end once Frances achieves her anticipated exit. It’s as though there just isn’t enough life left to keep the story going.So, I liked a lot of it, was amused and delighted with DeWitt’s mastery of diction and pace, but I can only offer a lukewarm recommendation. Very gently recommended.

[swedeepea · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

A depressive read that went nowhere. I continued reading so that I could, in good confidence, rid myself of the paperback version I left at home.

[monica clay · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The book is interesting mainly due to the character Frances, but it never reaches a crescendo. It just idles. It could havre been so much more...the cat is wasted, Madeline and Malcolm. They all gave so much promise but the author never fully develops them. And the ending is the worst. You feel like what a waste of time.

[Amy Giacalone · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book made my week! It’s funny and sad and thoughtful without veering into sentimentality or over-philosophizing. Just a delight.

[needmoreshelves · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This novel was.....odd. I saw it described as a novel about people you don't actually want to know in real life, and that feels accurate. Humorous enough, and then halfway through there enters and entire subplot about a cat a reincarnation, and that's where I really lost the flow. But I finished it, so that has to mean something.

[triscuit_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

First the good news - compelling read, well-written and scathing story of the ulta-rich and their sad personal lives. Now the dark side - even though compelling, with a good cast of characters, the pincipal players are a sad lot and the heroine is amusing at times but veryunpleasant. Leaves me flat, like many Anerican east coast novels about privileged, dysfunctional, midly unlikeable characters not being very good to each other.

[cecilturtle · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

With his dark and sharp sense of humour, de Witt describes the most unlikely of trios, Frances, her son Malcolm and their bizarre cat Little Frank. It is a sleek and elegant story with flashbacks and an odd incursion into spiritualism. Kooky characters graft themselves as the tale continues and, while there are curious and offbeat moments, it all makes its own unique sense.I loved this queer story punctuated with laugh-out-loud moment and nostalgia. Overall delightful and poignant.

[priscillam_80 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Hmm.....not quite sure if I would commend this weird little story to anyone I know. Francis and Malcolm, mother and adult son, the main characters in the story are not very likeable characters, annoying more than anything, leave for Paris on an "adventure". They are really escaping their prior high profile life in Manhattan after their wealth runs out and they are forced to sell everything. There were some mildly amusing scenes in the apartment in Paris, owned by Francis's friend Joan, who has been kind by allowing, Francis and Malcolm to stay there. This situation is quite ridiculous with a various collection of slightly weird characters all assembling in the apartment for meals and way too much drink. Then there is Francis's dead husband Frank and Small Frank, the old cat, to add an element of fantasy. It is all a bit insane. Apparently it has been made into a movie. I may watch it, just to see how the events in the story are handled in film.

[ldvoorberg · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

So deWitt. Bizarre, peculiar, but still really intriguing. It is not easy to review something so zany, so I will leave it here. I will read whatever he writes next, if that tells you anything.
Oh, and I liked French Exit more than Under Major Minor Domo but less than Sisters Brothers.

[carriewuj · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This felt disjointed to me, but it could be how/when I read it. But the characters were not altogether like-able and their exploits were more annoying than entertaining. Frances Price, a NY socialite and widow has lost everything, despite her financial adviser's dire warnings. But Frances does not take kindly to losing and does not go gracefully or shamefully, but in a splurge of a sea voyage to Paris to live in her friend's empty apartment. Frances has a grown son, Malcolm, from whom she has never cut the apron strings - he lived with her in NY and neither see reason to alter that arrangement in their new circumstances. He leaves behind (without much thought) his fiancee Susan, though they take more care to take the cat, Small Frank, named for Frances' dead husband - she believes his spirit inhabits the feline. There are all the makings of a comedy here - wacky characters who band together and converge in Paris - Madeline, a fortune teller who can see people turn green just before death, a shy private investigator, Mme. Reynard an old peer of Frances - now an American expat and a few others who have their 10 seconds of fame. I just couldn't care about any of them. Frances was known for skiing while her husband lay dead in their apartment - she is cold and domineering and Malcolm is a wimpy mama's boy, though both seem better off without Frank Price who had been a wealthy but unscrupulous businessman.This was referred to as a "tragedy of manners" and that is an apt description.