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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
If you like old French comedies that smell like mothballs and cigarettes, you’ll probably get a kick out of this. If you need a movie that doesn't feel like it’s vibrating at a different frequency than reality, stay away. It’s an odd little bird.
I honestly didn't know what to expect going in. It’s got that 1930s jittery energy where everyone is talking just a bit too fast. Maybe they were worried the film stock would run out.
Marie Bell is the glue here. She manages to make the most ridiculous plot turns feel almost grounded. Which is a feat, considering the script is basically just a series of 'oops' moments stacked on top of each other.
Sometimes a scene ends, and you’re left wondering if they forgot to film the payoff. Other times, they linger on a character lighting a pipe for an eternity. It’s not boring, exactly. It’s just idiosyncratic.
It reminded me a bit of the frantic energy in Uneasy Money, but with more French parlor rooms and significantly fewer people actually looking where they are walking.
There’s a moment near the middle where a character just stands by a window for a solid ten seconds staring into the middle distance. No dialogue. Just staring. I think the editor might have just stepped out for a coffee and forgotten to cut.
It’s not a masterpiece. It’s not even trying to be one. It feels like a stage play that got lost on its way to the theater and ended up on a camera lens by accident.
If you’ve seen Bluff, you’ll recognize the same kind of desperation to keep the plot moving. Except here, the plot moves like a drunk person trying to run up a down escalator. It’s endearing, in a way.
Don't look for deep meaning. Just look at the wallpaper and the way the actors try to hide their smirks. That’s where the real movie is.