This muddled mess of a movie is allegedly about a suburban housewife near Paris who turns tricks for fun and profit, while hubby and the kid are out of her hair.
In what may be the longest 90 minutes of my life, I watched Marina Vlady play the housewife, whose daytime activities included long shopping trips in Paris, which as it turns out is very noisy. For a prostitute, I must say she had very little sex with anyone. Actually, she had none.
Since this was a Jean-Luc Godard film, it was one that “serious” film connoisseurs would presumably understand as a critique of contemporary middle-class morality and the sterility of a society dominated by brand names.
The irony is that the so-called prostitute never got laid. The closest thing to a sexual act was one scene in which a client requested that Vlady get naked with another chick, then put airline bags over their heads and walk around.
It was moments like these that kept me from leaving the theatre. Every time a scene came up that seemed to be going somewhere, I’d tune back in from my stupor, only to be disappointed when it culminated in nothing.
I finally reached the point where after several such disappointments, I tried to will myself to sleep. Nonetheless, my attempts to achieve a semi-doze were rudely interrupted by the clattering of jack hammers and the roar of traffic, another of Godard’s little jabs at modernity.
There were also many random close-up shots of coffee and Godard’s whispered narration. Scenes as pretentious as they were meaningless.
All adding up to what? A movie about suburban housewives who are so into shopping that they make lousy prostitutes for lack of trying? A story of modern society, urban sterility, coffee and irritating people?
I cannot in good conscience give this any stars. But, believe me, this is the way I felt throughout most of the film.