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“You stole my crime! Give it back!” Ozon recreates the scandal-sheet-crazed 30s as so much screwball kitsch, managing the strange feat of being both hyperactive and curiously inert at the same time. And just when I thought I was smugly convinced I’ve always been right for rarely giving Ozon a chance, Huppert shows up (“Silent cinema’s most expressive eyes!”) and turns it all into something far pricklier and more meta-textually fascinating than its first half had suggested. A dead playboy theatre producer and the young starlet who was seemingly the last to see him alive, a casually misogynist detective determined to pin it on her anyway and her defense lawyer’s bright idea to turn it all into a ticket to the bigtime. “My reviews are great overall!” A newsreel linking this particular crime to the feats of Violette Nozière and the Papin sisters practically turns it all into an extended conversation with Chabrol and Huppert’s string of collaborations; Ozon’s bright young ingenues trying to take credit for a crime only a master could have actually pulled off. If the film ultimately celebrates the consolation of sisterhood in the face of patriarchal indignities, it’s not without a winking reminder that it’s only the “has-beens” who’ve made possible whatever triumphs the present can manage.
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