Amour... amour...: A dusty little slice of French cinema

There’s this one scene where Sylvio De Pedrelli just stares out a window for a beat too long. I kept waiting for him to do something, say something, or at least blink. He didn’t. It felt like the film crew just forgot to yell cut. 🎞️

The rhythm of the thing

The whole movie moves at the speed of a tired snail. Sometimes that’s nice. It lets you notice the way the light hits the wallpaper or the slightly frayed edges of a character's coat. But other times? It feels like the director was just trying to fill runtime.

The dialogue has this strange, stiff cadence. It’s almost like the actors were told to read their lines while holding a very heavy book in their laps. It’s weirdly endearing if you’re in the right headspace. It’s infuriating if you aren’t.

• The lighting in the cafe scene is surprisingly moody.
• I’m pretty sure someone drops a prop in the background around the 40-minute mark and no one cared enough to reshoot it.
• The lead actor looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

It’s not a masterpiece, and it’s definitely not for everyone. But there’s something about the way it hangs onto those small, unimportant moments that kept me watching. I suppose that’s why we watch these old things, right? To see the little mistakes that aren't polished away by modern editing software.

Anyway. It’s a curiosity. Don’t expect a revelation. Just expect a lot of long looks and some very dated furniture. ☕