“Un Couteau dans le Coeur” tries to achieve some semblance of self-awareness, a sly wink at its own garish kitsch in neon lettering. But unlike Anne’s pornography, the film never reaches its—ahem—climax.
Mitchell’s imagery simmers evocatively, refreshingly trippy—though it all seems to gesture at a statement that he hasn’t clarified, even to himself, like a string of blissed-out, drug-addled musings he scribbled while half-asleep.
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.