Nous ne sommes plus des enfants: A bit too real for comfort

Is it worth your time?

If you like movies that treat marriage like a slow-moving, complicated puzzle, you’ll probably find something to love here. But if you want a breezy escape, stay far away. It’s dry. It’s repetitive. It hits home in ways that might make you want to go for a walk alone.

Gaby Morlay is doing some heavy lifting here. She manages to make a simple look across a dinner table feel like a loaded weapon. She’s tired. You can see it in the way she holds her tea cup.

There is this one scene where they are just talking about nothing—literally just rearranging some furniture or discussing a neighbor—but the air in the room feels so thick you could cut it with a knife. It reminded me a bit of the domestic exhaustion captured in Stolen Goods, though this feels slightly more grounded in reality.

The rhythm of it

The dialogue doesn't zip. It stumbles. People interrupt each other. They say things they don't mean, and then they stand there waiting for the other person to react, and nobody does. It’s awkward as hell. I loved it.

Honestly, the pacing is a bit of a mess. Sometimes the scenes just stop dead. It’s like the editor fell asleep at the wheel, or maybe they just wanted to leave the audience in that uncomfortable silence for a few extra seconds. It works, mostly.

• The wallpaper in the living room is distractingly ugly.
• Claude Dauphin looks like he’s aged ten years in a single afternoon.
• Pauline Carton shows up and immediately steals the scene, as she always does.

It’s not a masterpiece. It doesn't try to be. It just sits there, feeling like a dusty photograph you found in an attic that you didn't mean to look at. It’s not flashy, and it doesn't give you any easy answers. Sometimes, that’s just enough.

I left the screen feeling like I needed to apologize to someone, even though I have no idea who. Just a strange, heavy little film. Don't expect fireworks. Expect a long, quiet stare into a mirror. ☕