Movie industry is tricky business. Because, you see, decisions have to be made and everyone involved has a private life, too. That's the very original thesis of this feeble attempt at making an 'insightful' film about film. And indeed, no better proof of the industry's trickiness than seeing Anouk Aimée and Maximilian Schell trapped in this inanity. The insight consists of talking heads rattle off moronic bullshit. Like, say: "Should I make a studio movie that pays a lot or should I make an indie item and stay true to my artistic self?" "Do the latter, please." Or: "our relationship is not only professional, it's private as well. It's a rather complex situation to handle, isn't it?" "Yes, it is, my dear." Between the insipid pseudo-dialogs one gets glimpses of palm trees, hotel lobbies and American movie posters. (No sign of non-American film presence on the Croisette). Recurrent slumber sessions are inevitable, making the 100 minutes of the film feel like ages. Jenny Gabrielle is spectacularly unconvincing in justifying her own presence in the frame.
Review of Festival in Cannes
