In Henry Jaglom's reasonably intelligent but stillborn romance, Déja Vu, American tourist Victoria Foyt (Jaglom's wife and co-writer) and British painter Stephen Dillane exchange a powerful glance in Paris, only to encounter each other the same day on the white cliffs of Dover. Apparently, as the two most insufferable bores on the planet, they're fated to be together. But there are complications: For six years, Foyt has strung along her engagement to the boorish Michael Brandon ("You have no sense of aesthetic!" she screams, when he underappreciates a silly-looking vase); Dillane, for his part, has been in a solid marriage for a decade. Do they run with their destructive romantic impulses, or settle for practicality? If you've ever seen a movie, you know the answer to that question, but in Jaglom's hands, getting there is a plodding, lifeless affair; Foyt and Dillane must be turned on by each other's flowery descriptions of how they're falling in love, because there's no evidence of a spark between them. Déja Vu, Jaglom's 14th film as a director—a remarkable figure considering his general lack of support from critics and the art-house crowd—begs for the infectiously goofy swoon of Alan Rudolph (Choose Me, Afterglow), a master of this sort of star-gazing, coincidental love story. The characters talk a good game, but in Jaglom's uncinematic world, it's just idle conversation: all theory, no practice.