What a fantasy!
How funny!
Her name is Camille.
He calls her Antoinette, pretends to be a descendant of Dracula, or an heir from Detroit, or even an Italian.
She dances a kind of flamenco in slow motion and throws herself fully dressed in the Mediterranean.
They set off together in a convertible and spend the night in a backcountry chapel.
They have a son who they baptize Gary because of Cooper.
Everyone relaxes in a decor of the 1960s in garish colors.
The couple are so original that they never open
his mail.
Madness, which was gentle, is gaining ground.
The party continues.
There are bottles everywhere, but no drunkenness arises from these laborious sequences that end in a castle in Spain.
Lacks the look of a child who was the price of the novel signed Olivier Bourdeaut.
The film skates, runs empty, useless, embarrassing, delighted with itself.
It gets mixed up, hesitates between Modiano and Boris Vian…
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