“I’m just like you. For the most part, my life is totally normal,” says the white boy whose prepubescent sister tests recipes in a Le Creuset dutch oven, and who is gifted a car in the first minute of the film. Go fuck yourself.
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
On some level, House of Tolerance sets about depicting the lives of the women working within l’Apollonide, a brothel languidly approaching its closure in fin de siècle France. Framed in lush, painterly compositions, the women appear poised in living tableaux as they bathe one another in the cool light of the morning hours, or as they lounge in the parlour among the rich, velvet textures of upholstered walls and furniture. The beauty is abundant and readily apparent, as befits the…