Starring Catherine Deneuve and Mathieu Amalric. In French with English subtitles. Rated PG. Opens Friday, December 12, at the Cinemark Tinseltown

There was a reason why Alain Robbe-Grillet put his particular stamp on the French new novel in the 1950s. He was reacting against the psychological emphasis that had hijacked most forms of Gallic narrative for well over a century. In Robbe-Grillet’s universe (cinematic as well as literary), things happened on the outside, not on the inside. Indeed, psychological speculation was banned.

In A Christmas Tale, this is a taboo that director Arnaud Desplechin ignores. More questionably, he pushes Leo Tolstoy’s dictum on happy (they’re all alike) and unhappy (they’re all miserable in different ways) families to the limit. This is a movie where cleverness abounds, where brilliance is in short supply, and where genuine feeling is virtually nonexistent.

This is because the Vuillard family is depicted as a clan of pain-free misfits. To be sure, they’re all carrying crosses, but ever so lightly. What’s more, if their various sufferings have left scars, they’re not livid enough to be “seen” with the naked heart.

Christmas is coming, and Junon (Catherine Deneuve), the family matriarch, needs a bone-marrow transplant desperately. (The script was apparently inspired by a book about the psychological traumas triggered by this process, not that you’d know it from the results.) The most likely donor is Henri (Mathieu Amalric), the son she’s never loved and who has never loved her back. Other characters in this crowded ensemble piece include brothers who marry the wrong wives, underappreciated daughters, and plucky outsiders.

Basically, there isn’t a convincing note in the entire film, but there’s no denying that each bit of dramatic fakery glitters and hums.

A bit like Christmas itself, actually, which might just be the point.