The devil in the flesh Shady boulevards, peaceful armies of bistro tables, lazy bato flies, the cool labyrinths of the Louvre or the sacred fortress of Cinemateca - all this Parisianism buzzes outside the windows with horns of cars, not daring to invade Bouvier apartments. The velvet guardin saved them from the fire of May, and the followers of Langlois did not find a corner here. The gilded display cannot hide true family happiness: the cynical monsieur tramples the secretary without looking, the faint madam anxiously imitates the care of heirs, the eldest of whom, the yellow-mouthed but cold-blooded young man Eric, is in no hurry to fly out of a stuffy nest, lovingly molded from scraps of surreal collages and dirt of erotic literature. Only one stimulus eats into the loose flesh of the snail's passage of time. This forbidden apple teases Adams from neighboring rooms, standing out with an angular vulgarity against a fresh background of monotonous everyday life. The governess of the younger, lanky and lively Linda, whose greedy, large teeth are shamelessly hypnotized by the camera, because of her, guns that are not hanging on the wall shoot, and blue blood flows in the most ordinary red.
With a revolutionary scale, freed from the cubic fetters of refinement, history escapes into the cage of the family castle, balancing on the verge of absurd sleep and hidden fantasies. Impatiently fettering the bourgeois crust of restrictions, Bernard Caisanne with fabulous ease seals all ready-made heroes in an ascetic stone bag of a country house and gives them carte blanche for all sorts of pleasures. On the floor echoes of Humbert’s jubilation about the dream of a nymphet with an island, or the inventive soda of the notorious marquis rattles with chains voluptuously. But the notorious hunting rifle, hardly dangerous in its rare firearm, cannot guarantee the privacy of a licentious paradise. So the director lazily allows the acute problems of the plot to dissolve in a trembled in cold colors of scenery eroticism, at the end reluctantly weaving the bodies with the persistent knock of the outside world at the door of the refuge, and his attempt to ring the sweet filling of the tape with the deliberate tension of the final can hardly be considered successfully embodied.
No matter how the beautiful Marquis Birkin shone with vicious eyes made of moonstone; no matter how the alien grace of her flexible body ruins a saucer of milk with other lips in an act of encouraging an inflamed imagination; no matter how she suffocates from the convulsive ecstasy of her own howl, driven by the kidnapper down the endless stairs of the Parisian entrance, everything is absorbed without residue by letharp drama. Alas, the quasi-criminal games in Bonnie and Clyde serve only as a crutch for the heavy flesh of the piquant scenes for which this bourgeois buffoon was started. Starting in the framework of the popular action “Love without social and religious restrictions”, the film decides to add heat and clumsily falls straight into a pornocratic hell, where the devil eats off human nature and the naturalness of the actors and spits out only wriggling skeletons, so that they for their intended purpose performed passionate pas on fake sheets of parallel reality. What happened in the frame - diligently, but unexpressively, meaninglessly, animally stupid, perhaps, because the aphrodisiac of the Gainsburg chanson did not accompany them. What do you want, romantic stories? On the left bank of the Seine, they are more honored than here, in a privileged circle of snobbish snobs who confidently believe that anything can be achieved with a gun. Here, on Reeve Druat, only spoiled demons of noble blood. Nothing human, nothing real.