The genius of the plot is that Bean doesn’t cause chaos out of malice. He causes it out of a kind of innocent, malfunctioning logic. He is a force of nature, like a bull in a china shop who genuinely believes he’s helping to rearrange the teacups. The most remarkable creative decision in Mr. Bean’s Holiday is its commitment to near-total silence. Rowan Atkinson delivers only a handful of mumbled words (“Oui,” “Gracias,” “Cannes”), a few grunts, and his signature elongated “Beeeaann.” Everything else is physical.

It is a family film that doesn’t talk down to children, a comedy that respects the intelligence of its audience, and a European road movie that celebrates the continent’s beauty without cynicism. It is also, likely, the final proper outing for the character. Rowan Atkinson has since stated he feels the live-action Bean is “exhausted,” preferring the animated version.

If this is indeed Mr. Bean’s last bow, it is a glorious one. Mr. Bean’s Holiday understands its hero perfectly: he is not an idiot, but a saboteur of artificiality. He destroys pretension, punctures pomposity, and reminds us that a smile is a more profound human achievement than a frown. And for that, Merci, Monsieur Bean .