A cursory internet surf regarding the phrase “a face only a mother could love” led, as you might expect, to some interesting places. Other than the requisite definitions offered by this or that online resource, the web also provided a lesson on parental narcissism, a legal brief arguing that physical unattractiveness should be protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act, and “Black Sister’s Revenge” (1976), a relatively unheralded exploitation movie from the halcyon days of grindhouses and drive-in theaters.

All of which was part of an attempt to locate a kinder, gentler gloss on that truism about a mother’s affection, especially as it applies to Raphaël Thiéry, the star of “Scarlet,” the new film by Italian director Pietro Marcello. 

With his rough contours, broad sloping features, stolid bulk, and deeply set eyes, Mr. Thiéry is no one’s idea of a cinematic pretty boy. Yet after having been told for years that “given the way you look, you should make films,” he took up acting and has made an impressive go at it. Given the prole vibes and stoic decency he radiates in “Scarlet,” perhaps a mother’s admiration isn’t the best analogy. Let’s say, instead, that Mr. Thiéry has a face that Rembrandt would’ve loved.

He plays Raphaël, a wood-worker who returns to his home in rural Normandy after having served in the first world war. Upon arrival, Raphaël learns that he has, in the interim, become both a widower and a father. The villagers treat him with some trepidation and a bit of mockery, preferring to keep Raphaël at arm’s length. Was he always something of an outsider in his native township? Certainly, the rumors casting doubt on his daughter’s paternity don’t help.

We watch Raphaël’s daughter Juliette grow from being a baby to a tween to a young woman portrayed by Juliette Jouan, a trained musician of Pre-Raphaelite mien who is here making her movie debut. Along the way we encounter Raphaël’s mother-in-law Adeline (the appealingly feisty Noémie Lvovsky) and a nameless woman out in the swamp who might be a witch (a bedraggled Yolande Moreau). And then there’s the pilot (Louis Garrel) who falls from the sky ….

As “Scarlet” moseys along, it becomes less about Raphaël’s post-war attempts to gain a sense of balance and more about Juliette’s coming of age, the latter of which takes a distinct turn away from verisimilitude into something resembling a fairy tale. The trouble is that Mr. Marcello is simultaneously too cautious and overly blunt when making the shift in tone. When Juliette breaks into song, we’re unsure of whether she’s within the conventions of the story or breaking the fourth wall. The director leaves us stranded without so much as a nod or a wink.

Mr. Marcello, who wrote the screenplay with the help of Maurizio Braucci, Maud Ameline, and Geneviève Brisac, took inspiration from “Scarlet Sails,” a 1923 book by the Russian novelist Alexander Grin. He set his novels and short stories in an invented locale that subsequently became known by fans as “Grinlandia,” a romantic dominion that combined aspects of European and Latin American cultures. A strain of magical realism is, perhaps, the strongest residue of Grin’s aesthetic within “Scarlet.”

Even without that backgrounding, it’s fairly clear that Mr. Marcello’s picture has a foot lodged in the 19th century. It has a rambling, discursive quality that recalls the form, if not always the content, of books like “David Copperfield,” “The Mill on the Floss,” or almost anything by Anthony Trollope. That is to say, “Scarlet” starts off decisively, wanders off the path, and comes to a resolution that is more determined than preordained. Wrapping up things with a blithe disregard for the niceties of resolution, Mr. Marcello has crafted an entertainment comfortable with its none-too-serious import. It makes for a fine night out at the movies.