Nicolas Bedos has nothing to tell, and he wants to make it known.
Narcissistic gritty rubbish, crammed with clichés. It is pedestrian, long-winded, ugly, uninteresting, a heap of phoney playlets, all equally lamentable.
Apart from the makeup artists one wonders who worked.
We understand the poor psychologist (poor Podalydès !) who prefers to die rather than suffer the character's logorrhea. Unfortunately everything is first degree.
Not to mention the photographic filters supposed to convey a vintage look, or the walls of the Paris flat elaborately knocked down to suggest bohemianism. Everything is appalling, vacuous, supremely commonplace, particularly the dialogues, of bewildering poorness.
Narcissistic gritty rubbish, crammed with clichés. It is pedestrian, long-winded, ugly, uninteresting, a heap of phoney playlets, all equally lamentable.
Apart from the makeup artists one wonders who worked.
We understand the poor psychologist (poor Podalydès !) who prefers to die rather than suffer the character's logorrhea. Unfortunately everything is first degree.
Not to mention the photographic filters supposed to convey a vintage look, or the walls of the Paris flat elaborately knocked down to suggest bohemianism. Everything is appalling, vacuous, supremely commonplace, particularly the dialogues, of bewildering poorness.