My New York Year review – a meandering memoir adaptation

As an adaptation of Joanna Rakoff’s acclaimed 2014 memoir, Philippe Falardeau's My New York Year chronicles an ambitious college grad’s time spent working at the prestigious office of New York’s oldest literary agency, where renowned recluse J.D. Salinger is their most reputable client. A mildly pleasant watch, this 90s-set tale – though brimming with promise and featuring a graceful lead performance from Margaret Qualley – lacks a clear direction and ends up as a meandering muddle of subplots and dispensable characters.

In an office steeped in mid-century modern aesthetic, details tremendously crafted by set designer Céline Lampron, sits Joanna. While she dreams of being a writer, for the time being she's at the mercy of her steely boss, Margaret (Sigourney Weaver), the book world's very own Miranda Priestly, who – coat hanging off shoulders, cigarette between fingers  – is prone to marching through the office insisting on the superiority of typewriters. This relationship, riding on the chemistry between Qualley and Weaver, serves as the film's strongest element.

It’s a shame, then, that attention keeps shifting to Joanna’s obnoxious boyfriend Don (Douglas Booth), who insists on mansplaining Joanna’s own life to her, not so unlike the similarly irritating boyfriend in The Devil Wears Prada. Forlorn by her slow start in the city, Joanna finds home in an apartment with no sink and purpose in her designated task of sifting through Salinger’s fan mail to decipher anything of importance. She becomes enamoured by the written words of the great writer's readers, but is instructed to shred every letter after reading.

Things change when Joanna decides to start writing responses to Salinger’s fans by adopting his penmanship. Having never read any of his works, though, her ability to imitate correspondence is a masterful talent that My New York Year fails to explain. Instead of committing to what could have been an astute examination of the worshipping of literary giants, the film turns its focus to extraneous plots and dramatic conflict that appears with no prior development. Sandwiched with intermittent voice-over and a La La Land-esque musical interlude, these sequences only distract from the momentum Qualley brings to Joanna’s charming narrative of self-actualisation.

With the occasional editing flourish, like a chime of a typewriter commanding the edit, My New York Year makes a point of shifting between sub-plots to maintain pace. But while static shots boast a lingering appreciation for Patricia McNeil's wonderful costume design, there is little stylistic originality or visual consistency on display here, making for a pretty forgettable viewing experience.

Moving between coming-of-ager, romantic drama, and didactic adaption, My New York Year ultimately comes to feel tonally imbalanced. Veering from the sincere interiority of Rakoff’s memoir, the volatile abandonment of Joanna’s ambitions leaves a bitter taste as the film ties up its final act in what feels like an all too perfect conclusion. While Falardeau’s film owes all its thanks to its principal actors, it fails to deliver anything worthwhile of its thrilling subject.

My New York Year is released in UK cinemas on 19 May.