La Coqueluche de ces dames: A curious little relic

Is it worth your time?

If you're the type who likes hunting for obscure French cinema from the silent or early sound transition era, sure. Go for it. But if you’re looking for a tight script or anything resembling modern pacing, you’ll probably want to skip this one entirely.

It’s light, it’s fluffy, and it moves with the urgency of a Sunday nap. La coqueluche de ces dames isn't exactly trying to change the world here.

Notes from the couch

The whole thing feels like a stage play that someone forgot to take the props off of. There’s a specific kind of frantic energy in the performances—everyone is constantly leaning in, eyes wide, as if they’re worried the camera might miss the joke. Sometimes it works! Sometimes it’s just exhausting.

I caught myself staring at the background furniture more than the leads. The wallpaper in the main parlor is a crime against humanity, truly.

• The comedic timing is… well, it’s a choice.
• Some of the reactions linger about five seconds longer than they should. It’s almost hypnotic.
• It reminds me a bit of the frantic energy found in Chicken a La King, though maybe a little less punchy.

Jeanne Fusier-Gir is doing a lot of heavy lifting here. She has this way of blinking that tells you exactly how much she hates the person she’s talking to, even when the dialogue says otherwise. It’s the best part of the movie, honestly.

It’s not as tightly wound as The Soap Girl, which knew exactly what it was doing every single minute. This one? It feels like it’s just sort of happening to you.

Final thoughts? Maybe not final.

The ending comes out of nowhere. It’s like the editor just tripped over a power cord and decided, “Yeah, that’s enough.” I didn't hate it, but I’m not sure I’d remember it by tomorrow morning either. 🎞️

It’s a dusty curiosity. Keep your expectations low and maybe keep a glass of wine handy. You’ll need it to get through the slower middle bits where everyone just sort of stands around looking confused at each other.