Why do I persist in thinking that French cinema has something to say? Why?
We escaped tonight to a movie and saw Secret Things by savant auteur Jean-Claude Brisseau. I would pitch it as In the Company of Men meets Marquis deSade meets Damien meets a CRACK PIPE.
It started out fairly innocuously and for an hour...it was decent. I distinctly remember thinking, "hey, this is decent".
And then, either the filmmakers ran out of medication or went on crack because what was so far a satirization of sexual office politics turned into melodramatic Satan-wanna-be-bad-guy-&-Lady-in-a-veil-with-a-falcon-on-shoulder-&-Chateau-with-standard-orgy& Justine. Just like that. No warning. Suddenly, I found myself laughing my ass off at dialogue like "He is not dead because he was never born as we are never alive". And watching in amazement as a spirit falcon chewed the flesh of a newly dead. huh???! Can you tell me about the falcon lady? A metaphor? A simile? A ghost? I just want to know.
Someone please do an intervention in France. Please. Take their cameras away. Have them watch John Ford and Abbas Kiarostami.
I used to love french cinema. I still do. But this is the seventh straight strike out. So, hiatus for me.