Patrice Leconte's psychological nonthriller (the Bernard Herrmann-esque music and the visual allusions to Rear Window are red herrings, and the frequently jostled camerawork is the furthest thing from Hitchcock) goes from one improbability to another: an abstracted thirty-something woman walks through the wrong door and tells her innermost troubles to a tax lawyer instead of a psychoanalyst, and, when he points out her mistake at their third session, she continues to visit him all the same. The film rewards our forbearance with nothing but a lot of talk. In spite of the intrusions of an actual psychoanalyst, a secretary, a husband, and an ex-lover, it's essentially a two-character piece, like the director's immediately preceding Man on the Train. Softest moment: the private boogie of the buttoned-down taxman, Fabrice Luchini. (Not a straight copy of, but an exact equivalent to, Hugh Grant's number in Love Actually.) The haunted, hungry eyes of Sandrine Bonnaire, in a face that looks to be growing leaner, offer a measure of compensation, albeit inadequate. With Michel Duchaussoy and Anne Brochet. (2003) — Duncan Shepherd
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