“It doesn’t do anything. That’s the beauty of it.”
With the near infinite combination of sentences that could be constructed to form an interesting script about love and intimacy, comes this high-school newspaper quality film about a woman with no discernible qualities and the self-pity that makes insecurity look fashionable. The functional equivalent of listening to elderly teenagers small-talk for 90 minutes about their problems finding love and settling down. A meandering watered down version of any American romcom with the feel of a rejected entry to Sundance made on a shoe string budget and the intended purpose of making Olivier Assayas seem like Shakespeare.
A seriously embarrassing entry for Juliette Binoche, whose existence in the film never excels above the skillset of settling for whimsical and low hanging (male) fruit. Binoche is a perpetual home wrecker without an interesting bone in her body. Claire Denis, as a writer, creates a film for simple minded creatures whose own enjoyment could only be explained by an uncanny ability to project self-pity onto another likeminded exposé. Even the single instance where Binoche appears to have some ability as an artist is completely unexplored — a truly wasteful exhibition that preserves the audience by its serendipitous and sudden ending.
Once the Derek Zoolander (Paul Blain) character enters, I was left wondering if this entire film isn’t some masterful Denis parody of old people stuck in an endless holding pattern after dropping out of high school and keeping their brain on ice without making even a slight effort to invest in human capital. Denis delivers one of the worst films of the year, not so much for all the wrong things she did, but for the sheer futility of THIS film being made.