Maybe it was the fact of watching it while its leading man, seventy five year old Gerard Depardieu, is set to stand trial for sexual assault. Or maybe it's that Francois Truffaut is simply better when he's in Paris and not trying to be Hitchcock. Whatever it was, I found myself vehemently disagreeing with TCM's Alicia Malone that this suburban, obsessive adultery tale "packs a punch". Unless, of course, Ms. Malone meant "punch" as in barbiturate overdose. Because other than Fanny Ardant's study in sardonic, smoldering sexuality (basically what saves this film from complete mediocrity) it's a real snore. And like most snores it features dull, subsidiary characters who add nothing, like Madame Jouve, Roland and the hospital psychiatrist. And scenes that are laughable in their attempt to be taken seriously, like the garden party where Bernard loses it and the even stupider scene that follows where his wife forgives him. C plus.
Review of The Woman Next Door
