There is so much that is good about French cinema, but if you are about to see this movie, you have just wasted eighteen to thirty dollars, presuming you are either being dragged to or are dragging some sort of romantically-inclined partner, consort or comfort worker to this sorry eruption of art-house dross from the bowels of the French export industry. Like a vast wheel of mass-produced industrial brie, this inferior national product is ensconced in flag-waving packaging surrounding its bland core. "Hello, I am a French period drama," it screams, beating you with a vast stick of bread, then gets on with the pressing business of documenting the unremarkable life of some wilful yet vacuous aristocratic twit who for some reason warrants two hours of our undivided attention.
For audience members with the good fortune to have escaped internment for crimes against humanity, I must question your enduring decision to watch this movie. It is a travesty of filmmaking, a cynical act of reflux by an industry that recognises anything in a period costume set in the French countryside anytime over the last millennium will attract the vapid attention of culture drones who delight in hollow, costumed eye-candy so much they need to be forcibly restrained less they mount the stage to perform lewd acts against the screen. In fact, it would be a sensible exercise in self-preservation to simply sit silently in a dark cupboard for two hours imagining this very scenario unfolding instead of watching "The Princess of Montpensier."
I would caution that these are two hours you will never get back, however the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder the movie will precipitate will involve audience members reliving this experience again and again through a series of distressing flashbacks. This is not just two hours. It is a life sentence.
For audience members with the good fortune to have escaped internment for crimes against humanity, I must question your enduring decision to watch this movie. It is a travesty of filmmaking, a cynical act of reflux by an industry that recognises anything in a period costume set in the French countryside anytime over the last millennium will attract the vapid attention of culture drones who delight in hollow, costumed eye-candy so much they need to be forcibly restrained less they mount the stage to perform lewd acts against the screen. In fact, it would be a sensible exercise in self-preservation to simply sit silently in a dark cupboard for two hours imagining this very scenario unfolding instead of watching "The Princess of Montpensier."
I would caution that these are two hours you will never get back, however the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder the movie will precipitate will involve audience members reliving this experience again and again through a series of distressing flashbacks. This is not just two hours. It is a life sentence.