A classic romantic comedy construct with enough bells and whistles to entice even the most jaded viewer, The Valet’s smooth control over its Fake Relationship bluff deserves a generous tip. Jack-of-all-trades filmmaker Richard Wong proves himself adept at maintaining the messy machinery of Hollywood starlet Olivia (Samara Weaving), her married real estate tycoon lover Vincent (Max Greenfield) and the haplessly embroiled valet Antonio (Eugenio Derbez) used to cover up their affair. As Antonio and Olivia pretend to be a couple snapped in a paparazzi photo, the Francis Veber remake takes the opportunity to inject its update with American complexity while retaining the tried-and-true humor of its French comedy master. The Valet parks itself squarely between the lines of established genre tropes, but with such precision and flair that you can’t help but be charmed.
So much of The Valet’s success relies on its highly specific adaptation from sitcom veterans Bob Fisher and Rob Greenberg, who apply the story’s familiar structure to L.A.’s industry and multiculturalism. Olivia isn’t just a famous face, but a melancholy feminist trying her best to tell “women’s stories” while jumping through all the sexist hoops of the movie biz. Antonio isn’t just a big-hearted blue-collar worker, but a first-generation Mexican American representing the vast underclass supporting the glitz. Antonio’s mother Cecilia (Carmen Salinas, fantastically crass in her final performance) is hooking up with their Korean landlord Mr. Kim (Ji Yong Lee). Cecilia speaks Spanish. Mr. Kim speaks Korean. Neither speak English. Their relationship is either wordless or communicated through an intergenerational, multilingual game of telephone. These kinds of amusingly detailed gags could easily punch down—lambasting imperfection as hypocrisy; highlighting cultural difference with bigotry—but Fisher, Greenberg and Wong make sure these observations come across as nothing but endearing.
But perhaps the best thing about The Valet—which, on its fourth remake, does not boast “unique” as one of its factory-issued selling points—is that it is the rare modern comedy that knows how to tell a joke. Set-ups! Punchlines! Callbacks! There’s perhaps a single pop culture reference in the whole two hours (a Minecraft joke that earns its chuckle), which is a testament to the solid comedy fundamentals brought by Fisher and Greenberg. However, the same dedication to structure brought over from TV’s formulae could be partially to blame for the film’s extensive subplots.
It’s not just that Antonio is broke, older, Mexican American and without the jawline of Greenfield’s shit-eating little rich boy. It’s that his community is under direct threat from Vincent’s gentrifying empire, that his aging immigrant mother is stressed after a lifetime of hardship, that his estranged wife is simultaneously repelled and compelled by his miraculous relationship with a young blonde A-lister. The added layers of complexity soup up The Valet’s ride, but also extend it to an uncomfortable duration that’s luxury features keep it from being a literal pain in the ass. The French original, a purer class farce, clocks in at a mere 86 minutes. The American model is a far heftier 123 minutes—a narrative gas-guzzler. Its meandering can often be admirable—two private investigators (Ravi Patel and John Pirruccello) often steal the show with their bumbling buddy antics—but every once in a while its route can feel more circuitous than scenic.