Why another biopic? Why biopics at all? Writer-director Diane Kurys doesn't know. Perhaps so you have something to take your mother to. But chances are she'd fall asleep. Francoise Sagan may have had an exciting life, but you certainly wouldn't know from this movie. It feels like the entire cast and crew were high on 875, that mysterious morphine Sagan was a slave to half her life. Because nothing ever happens, you will quickly find your mind wandering to the fringes of the screen. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's even a cinematic strategy, but I wouldn't bet on it. Take Florence Malraux, the eminent writer's daughter. Played by Margot Abascal, she is so much more vibrant and adorable than everybody else you wonder why the movie isn't about her. Or take the shady guy: When Francoise and Peggy, drunk as hell, check into the Hotel Raphael for a little lesbian loving, they pass a nameless stranger walking the other way. I wonder what his story is. Where is he going, wearing giant shades, in the middle of the night? Perhaps I should have followed him.
Review of Sagan
