Classic in a good way. Greed, ambitions, treachery, suggestible men and vengeful women, French aristocratic opulence. Fornication, adultery, under-the-table deals and the start of the Holocaust. But also a love that stubbornly makes its way, always as a background story line and yet - always primary. Love of a mother for her son, of an aging prima to a young admirer, of a child for the first muse of the heart, of a personal assistant for a confidante whom she understands without the need for words. Despite all the thrill of the games of the great, from the skill of the calculating and the size of their bet, despite all the dizziness from the refined sets, postures and manners, for me we are talking about a film sewn from this same love. The French are adept at portraying her with understatement (remember "Red and Black"), and her almost imperceptible traces are tiresome, but precisely because of this, where they are, the feelings are saturated to the extreme. A short sign, a long moment, and an unspoken yes that outlives time-that's the bait I'll always fall for.
Review of The Colors of Fire
