Landing as it does in the middle of a summer movie season in which virtually every major release is either a remake, or else a franchise ender, extender or re-inventer, or else is so self-referential that it might as well be (and I *liked* Mr. And Mrs. Smith), the release of The Beat That My Heart Skipped almost plays like a clever joke. A French remake of an underappreciated American classic (James Toback’s Fingers), it manages to respect both its genre-busting source material and placate a contemporary, highly fractured audience that doesn't want to chose between eye candy and brain food. As such, it’s the kind of film that is just not being made in America right now, and that’s a shame – one would imagine that a fairly complex character study packed into a movie full of sex, violence, and piano virtuosity would be able to gather more of an audience.