In my late teens, I found Despleschin films remarkable. They nurtured my lofty fantasies about art, love, women, intellectual pursuits. The problem was that these stories described his own bourgeois life, not my own working class environment. In other words, they were juvenile fantasies without class awareness or social responsibility.
Fifteen years later, these stories remain the same. The only difference being top billing from France's international exports: Gainsbourg and Cotillard. They both love the same man, a filmmaker / screenwriter who sees value in tawdry emotions, impulsive sexcapades, and late night arguments in art deco beach houses. Nouvelle Vague clichés!
Dedalus, Despleschin's alter-ego, played contentiousy by Almaric, is not a writer. Not the serious writer I still aspire to be. This movie sells fantasies to the creative class while purporting sincerity. Not even Hitchcock and Bertolucci references can weave cinematic substance out of these soapy fragments.