Own the rights?
It's as well to remember with Michel Audiard, generally labelled a 'right-wing anarchist' by those who sum up reputations and establish film-landscapes, that sooner or later, whoever you are (even if you're a right-wing anarchist), you'll be offended, or at least a little ruffled, by something said or done. Audiard seems to have enthusiastically adopted the identity he was attributed, if the names he gives the fictional streets where his characters live are any guide (Marcel Aymé and Louis-Ferdinand Céline get the honours), but despite a will to the blackest of black humour, this tale of a round-robin of murder and blackmail orchestrated by Annie Girardot as an oh-so-innocent cleaning-lady functions on an irrepressible sympathy for the underdog and the marginal and a determined respect for the not-all-that-respectable which is, actually, rather refreshing. Sure, behaviour like this is not to be recommended, but then, that's the very evident point. Audiard was extremely popular in his heyday: this may not say a great deal for his audience's taste in subtle comedy, but at least he doesn't dress up his outrageousness as sweet allegiance to right-thinking family values or wrap a sentimental sugar coating round his sarcasm like the crap, but CRAP, but CRAAAAAPPPP Hollywood 'comedy' which I also suffered this week but will not shame by naming (it's not the only one I'm sure). mixed. (By the way, to whom it may concern, Girardot's character is called Germaine, not Georgette.)
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