That this film is billed as a comedy and a Cannes Film Festival selection, are two of life’s (very) little mysteries. In one of the many lukewarm BDMS scenes, a casual sex partner gags the lead character (who is also the film’s writer and director) because he is tired of hearing her talk. It’s significant that you feel sympathy for his having to put up with her tedious, yet halting sound bytes, delivered in that flavorless monotone that poetry reading denizens and modern dance piece choreographers when they add voice, favor. He, himself, is a man of little substance, and yet our depressive exhibitionist, who is nude in most scenes, while striking poses that don’t flatter her, keeps asking her “Master,” which isn’t, but ought to be short for “Masturbator,” for “more.” Each minimalist verbal exchange with a boss, employee, a parent or sex partner, is a negotiation she insists upon, but results in a predictably zero sum outcome for both her and us.
That’s it. Don’t see this one unless interminable despair, with characters doing the same boring thing again and again with no reward, and alienation expressed via a despondent “Oh” as a reaction to any sign of a pulse, make for the combustibles that light your fire.
