Studenter i Paris (1932) review - Dusty, sweaty, and weirdly charming

If you have seventy minutes to waste on some incredibly dusty 1930s European fluff, then yes, Studenter i Paris is probably worth your time. But if you actually like movies where the sound doesn't hiss like an angry kettle, you should probably stay far away. ☕

It's basically a relic for people who find old black-and-white romantic mix-ups comforting, even when they make zero sense. Everyone else will just be bored out of their minds.

A lawyer, a desk, and too much paper

The whole thing kicks off with Jacques Dombreval getting a new job at a law office in Paris. You'd think a law office in a movie would have some drama, but mostly it's just guys in giant suits moving stacks of paper from the left side of a desk to the right side.

And the sound design! Every time someone picks up a document, it sounds like they are ripping a bedsheet in half right next to your ear.

Then Jacques gets tangled up in a romance that feels about as natural as a cardboard tree. I think Meg Lemonnier is trying her best here, but her character has this habit of wide-eying the camera like she's trying to remember if she left her stove on at home.

Why is everyone so sweaty?

I don't know if the studio lights were just melting the cast, but everyone in this movie has a permanent shine. Especially Steinar Jøranndstad, who shows up looking like he took a quick swim before every single take.

There is this one scene in a cafe where a background extra just stares directly at the lens for about fifteen seconds. He doesn't even blink, he just looks incredibly confused about why there's a camera in his face.

It reminded me a bit of the weird, stilted energy in Skomakarprinsen, where nobody seems to know where to stand. But at least that one had a bit more heart than this French-Scandinavian hybrid thing.

"I am a lawyer, mademoiselle, not a magician!" (Though honestly, a magician would have made the second act way more interesting.)

The final stretch

By the time the third act rolls around, the romantic plot just sort of evaporates into thin air. There's a quick conversation, some light smiling, and then boom—the end card hits you out of nowhere.

It’s not quite as fun as My American Wife, which at least had some actual energy to its silly culture clashes. Here, everything just feels *slightly damp*.

Still, if you like watching people in 1930s hats run around Paris streets looking frantic, you could do worse. Just don't expect to remember any of it by tomorrow morning.