Oh, what’s that? A yellow press badge? I don’t… I’m afraid I don’t see anything… Hmm… Did you hear something, Jacques? Mm… I don’t think so? Maybe the light Riviera breeze? Or perhaps a Chanel No. 5-scented fart slipped out of Dame Helen Mirren over there? Hmm.
The end result is, like the film’s protagonist, a strange hybrid of several genres that is one part Swedish noir, one part romance, one part moralistic fable for a film that plays jump rope with the border of what viewers can bear to see on screen.
Marlene treats Elli less like her daughter and more like an adult friend, or more accurately, like an extension of herself—binge-drinking in front of her, making her over in garish neon lipstick and glittery eye shadow. It’s fun playing dress-up, until it isn’t.