‘Marcello Mio’ Review: Christophe Honoré’s Slight Meta-Movie Puts Chiara Mastroianni in the Spotlight

Ben Croll

May 21, 2024 at 1:30 p.m.·5 min read

Of all the actors with claims to nepo baby aristocracy, few, if any, have the same pedigree as Chiara Mastroianni. An accomplished performer and winning star all on her own, the daughter of Catherine Deneuve and Marcello Mastroianni has that rare distinction of seeing both of her parents grace Cannes Film Festival posters, leaving a project that playfully interrogates that very heritage a near shoo-in for the festival spotlight. But that vaunted competition slot does little favors for Christophe Honoré’s slight and sketch-like “Marcello Mio,” which plays as an incisive photo-shoot concept in search of wider justification.

This fashion shoot concept isn’t hypothetical, as Honoré’s meta-movie doodle opens on the very same, finding Mastroianni decked out in full Anita Ekberg garb as she saunters into a pool before Paris’ Saint-Sulpice church reformatted as an ersatz Trevi Fountain. The visual folds in several layers, taking Marcello’s iconic turn in “La Dolce Vita,” then updating it for gender and geography. Throughout the rest of its running time, “Marcello Mio” does much of that and little more, playing as a knowing-wink-for-those-in-know that presupposes a certain degree of tabloid awareness in order to endear by making any and all feel part of the extended clan.

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In other words, you don’t have to know that Chiara Mastroianni counts Melvil Poupaud and Benjamin Biolay among her past relationships, or that the actress has been a career-long muse for director Christophe Honoré, but God help the viewer that goes in unaware. Those with buy-in might find themselves won over, as, on its own terms, “Marcello Mio” offers a heartfelt and even occasionally moving show of artistic trust and collaboration, playing as an unambiguous love note from a filmmaker to his favorite star. Those looking for anything more substantial could probably do better than this very Fellini-esque episode of “Call My Agent!”

Mastroianni plays herself (of course), or at least a version thereof concocted for this film. The same goes for old flames Poupaud and Biolay, for mama Deneuve, and for French cinema’s most garrulous nudnik Fabrice Luchini, among others. Indeed, the main character resembles her performer in every way but one: While Mastroianni can count on Honoré for such bespoke roles, poor Chiara still has to go out and audition. And so she does, reading with Luchini for a part in Nicole Garcia’s latest, adultery-flavored project. Chiara does well in the read, but the director (guess who plays her) wants something less sultry and more spry. Or in Garcia’s words: “More Mastroianni than Deneuve.”

Here is this burden carried by all second-generation stars, especially those who bear so many of their parents’ features. As a working performer, Chiara isn’t just weighed against other actors of her cohort but against the careers and iconographies of two cinema giants – one departed, living on as an image and myth, and one very much present, living on in her daughter’s living room, where she offers sympathy devoid of understanding. La Deneuve, after all, hasn’t exactly had to audition since well before Chiara was born.

Feeling indignant and invisible, Chiara binds her chest and dons a familiar drag. If the moviemakers want her father, then Marcello she will be. And if the lovelorn British soldier (played by Hugh Skinner of “Fleabag”) that Chiara hopes to attract prefers the company of men, then here is a new role for Marcello to play. Chiara bears an uncanny physical resemblance to her father even outside of drag, and she cuts a startling image made-up and in costume, so perhaps the disguise addresses a more personal need, common across all genders, professions and walks of life: The need to see a departed love one smile back at you once more.

If Honoré lays out possible threads of grief, denial, desire, or rebellion, he never pulls at any of them, preferring instead to follow a narrative path of least resistance that finds Chiara losing herself in make-believe, refusing to answer to anything but “Marcello.” Friends and family respond with requisite concern, and if they can ever stop squabbling amongst themselves they might just help Chiara get her groove back. Only, rather than honoring the lead, this backfired valentine does Chiara a disservice by flattening her to one-dimension, framing her as an only-child of world cinema so rarified that her experience can have no thematic resonance or be applicable to anyone else.

Frankly, Honoré is so monomaniacally focused on Chiara’s unique position that he whiffs on possibilities he himself tees up. Rarer still than looking at a Cannes poster and seeing a parent is looking at the poster and seeing yourself, but the film only pays lip service to Catherine’s experience of fame with a throwaway line. “People are so nice,” the mama marvels. “People are so nice to Catherine Deneuve,” Chiara replies.

All dressed up with nowhere to go, “Marcello Mio ” uses the lead as a prop for nostalgia and stand-in for this or that Fellini homage. When it runs out of Parisian landmarks to mine the narrative up and moves to Rome, welcoming a new set of cameos when Chiara turns up as a Marcello imposter on a daytime talk show. One need hardly strain to see the reference to Fellini’s “Ginger and Fred,” though one can reasonably wonder what it’s all for. Honoré gives a half-tepid answer, imagining this break from identity as part of a movie star burnout, nothing too serious and nothing that can’t be resolved by a delegation of French Cinema All-Stars to the Rescue.

“Marcello Mio” plays easily enough, offering a fantasy getaway premised on accessibility in lieu of escape. It’s a hangout film, an Easter egg hunt for a crowd that won’t bend down too far. Honoré sets an extra spot at the table and invites you to join, pretending for a stretch that cinema is nothing but a family affair.

Grade: C

“Marcello Mio” premiered at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.

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