PROPELLER ONE-WAY NIGHT COACH Review: John Travolta's Charm Offensive Soars Against All Odds

Not many films have been saved at the last moment by a press tour.

When the film is picture-locked, sound mixed and in the can, there's not a lot to be done for it, beyond putting it out there for people to assess. John Travolta clearly does not believe in that nonsense.

Showing up at the Cannes Film Festival for the premiere of his directorial debut, Propeller One-Way Night Coach, the 72-year-old screen legend sported a new look. Chiselled Mr Worldwide facial hair, tented fingers and knockabout posture weren't the features to write home about, oh no: it was the beret that drew the spotlight. Days of the festival would pass, and Travolta would make a new appearance with a fresh beret at various intervals; he would later state that he had bought twelve for the occasion.

The reasoning for this bold fashion gamble was simple: he's a director now. Looking at pictures of golden-age filmmakers commanding their sets with authority and precision, he became inspired to emulate their style, now that he was trying his hand at the same practice. In his own words, this was "a homage to being a director."

Now, after watching Propeller One-Way Night Coach, that sure is one loaded phrase. Is Travolta referring to his dress sense as the homage, or the act of directing itself as the homage? And, moreover, does it matter? His deeply personal mini-feature made for Apple TV defies any conventional criticism when the visionary behind it so earnestly arrived to promote it with an unfashionable fashion choice and a loveable, silly reason for it.

Based on Travolta's own 1997 children's novel (loosely based in turn on his own childhood), it follows bright-eyed 8-year-old Jeff (Clark Shotwell), a young whipper-snapper swept up by the magic of aviation. His mother Helen (Kelly Eviston-Quinnett) is an over-the-hill actress who nearly made it and thinks she still will, whisking her boy off on an overnight flight from New York to Los Angeles to rekindle her career. Thankfully for Jeff, adverse wintertime weather causes them to be grounded on more than one occasion, sending the two on planes, planes and, well, more planes to make this a super-long haul flight to remember.

Travolta's love of all things airborne is no secret, and there's an undeniable knowledge of what makes each mechanical bird so special. Adding narration to his list of duties on the film, he waxes lyrical as Shotwell stares around agog at the polished metal exteriors and the cozy, warm-toned interiors, making sure everything of any remote interest for enthusiasts is covered, described and visualized at great length.

This is the first cardinal sin Travolta indulges in. In keenly pouring over his own early memories, he goes against the 'show, don't tell' rule and opts instead for 'show and tell', deepening the childlike guilelessness that holds the film together like a gossamer thread.

At times, it resembles more a televised audiobook than a film. Yet hold the film together it does, off and onboarding between scenes with scant-little throughline, lacking in any conflict and eschewing any interest outside of the specific, fuelled the journey front-to-back on pure whimsy.

Young Shotwell looks the part and inhabits the spirit of an innocent Boy's Own Adventure perfectly, even against Travolta's incessant narration that speaks entirely for him, robbing him of any interiority or ambiguity on just how this child might be feeling against the awesome weight of modernity. There are moments where Travolta's adult Jeff doubles-down on describing things that his younger self couldn't have possibly comprehended; a grave interlude sees his mother lend a sympathetic ear to an air stewardess who survived the Holocaust, and later, an elderly, frightened fellow passenger taking a violent turn when unsupervised by their psychiatric facility chaperone. The role of memory in the film wobbles its tone, lurching between wondrous magical realism and strange tawdry inclusions that belie the overall family-oriented vision.

Nonetheless, there's no denying that the film frequently looks gorgeous. While occasionally featuring the odd PowerPoint-style establishing shot, the mid-century costuming and production design (from Camille Jumelle and Chelsea Turner, respectively) is a joy to behold, from the clean sweeping chic of a cutting-edge terminal to the Sunday-best suits little Jeff exists in; if Travolta's directorial talent lies anywhere, it's in bringing to life the musky air of nostalgia. At times, there's enough sumptuous aesthetic value here to convince you that Travolta has a bright future collaborating with fellow 60s appreciator Brad Bird, whether that be behind the camera or in front of it.

By the time Propeller One-Way Night Coach's credits run after a brisk 55 minutes, it could be tempting to roll your eyes. Yet that image of Travolta on the red carpet stands, excitedly and charmingly showing off his hyper-specific interests to anyone who will listen. And at the most prestigious film festival on the planet, who can blame him for approaching the situation with as much enthusiasm as his 8-year-old fictional counterpart would.

In the words of Girls' Marnie Michaels, there's the intrusive thought to "make fun of the girl who took a risk and put herself out there creatively." Today, let's not. John Travolta is a director now, and he wants you to know it, and maybe even respect it. Let's do that instead.

The film is now streaming worldwide on Apple TV.