Shopgirl

Shopgirl is a slight, completely soppy confection viciously intent on being this year’s Lost In Translation. Hence, with quivering bottom lip, I lapped up every heartbreaking vignette.
Even the increasingly dull Claire Danes appears to have got her groove back as the lonely eponymous heroine. An unsuccessful artist, by day she works the deserted glove counter at Saks department store in LA, by night she goes home to her cat. Starved of affection and human contact, she even succumbs to the advances of hilariously dishevelled zero Jason Schwartzman.
But wouldn’t you know it? You wait for ages then two eligible bachelors arrive at once. The second suitor is Ray Porter (Martin), a kindly middle-aged millionaire who sweeps her off her feet but keeps her at arm’s length. Will he melt with time or do shopgirls always have to settle for second best? Well, you can snivel helplessly and watch pretty shots of starlight as you find out.
Danes remains suitably radiant and affectingly fragile throughout. If only her co-star could match up. We like Steve Martin. We really do. Shopgirl, an adaptation of his own novella in which he stars and provides narration ought to have provided him with a Rocky style comeback. Sadly, his heavily botoxed features have now set into a permanently startled death mask, leaving one wondering how he manages to eat.
Still, this is far too girlishly lovely a thing to be undone by non-surgical interventions. It may not seduce those who were baffled by the lack of car-chases in Ms. Coppola’s film but it worked just fine on me. Yes, I am a great big enormous sap, but my film column, my rules. So there.