This is a totally lame comedy that goes flat right at the beginning. Without any attempt to create characters we are to believe that the sultry Bardot is irresistibly obsessed with a womanizing character named Michel, who isn't even cast properly. One wonders why any young woman would be attracted to this person.
But where's the motivation? There is none. The film begins on the absurd premise that for some reason the sultry Bardot, who could probably have seduced any male between puberty and senescence, must have this guy.
The other characters are similarly miscast, most of them, presumably lovers, looking more past their prime than in their prime.
Yet a film such as this requires credibility. One could imagine a Bardot fixated on, say, Louis Jourdan.
The rest of the film is similarly sloppily plotted. For no apparent reason (at least no credible reason) the father insists that Bardot marry Michel. Also for no apparent reason Bardot, who at the beginning was obsessed with Michel, now doesn't want to consummate the relationship on the absurd premise that the father forced Michel to marry her!
With the same "astute" plotting, Bardot suddenly decides to commit adultery with the first person who enters the room, who turns out to be the French prince played by Charles Boyer.
Quite simply, Bardot saves the film. It's amazing what a perfect erotic presence she was in her prime. I refer here not even to her body which is rarely and only briefly exposed. It's her pouty face that steals the show. For good reason she is the last face we see at the end of the film, winking at the audience. I can't imagine why else someone would wish to see this film.
But it does make one admire Hollywood scriptwriters more. They would never allow a film to begin unmotivated in the way this film does, even when the motivation, as in a musical, is far more cursorily motivated, as when Fred Astaire is instantly mesmerized by Ginger Rogers in one musical and attempts to track her down.
But where's the motivation? There is none. The film begins on the absurd premise that for some reason the sultry Bardot, who could probably have seduced any male between puberty and senescence, must have this guy.
The other characters are similarly miscast, most of them, presumably lovers, looking more past their prime than in their prime.
Yet a film such as this requires credibility. One could imagine a Bardot fixated on, say, Louis Jourdan.
The rest of the film is similarly sloppily plotted. For no apparent reason (at least no credible reason) the father insists that Bardot marry Michel. Also for no apparent reason Bardot, who at the beginning was obsessed with Michel, now doesn't want to consummate the relationship on the absurd premise that the father forced Michel to marry her!
With the same "astute" plotting, Bardot suddenly decides to commit adultery with the first person who enters the room, who turns out to be the French prince played by Charles Boyer.
Quite simply, Bardot saves the film. It's amazing what a perfect erotic presence she was in her prime. I refer here not even to her body which is rarely and only briefly exposed. It's her pouty face that steals the show. For good reason she is the last face we see at the end of the film, winking at the audience. I can't imagine why else someone would wish to see this film.
But it does make one admire Hollywood scriptwriters more. They would never allow a film to begin unmotivated in the way this film does, even when the motivation, as in a musical, is far more cursorily motivated, as when Fred Astaire is instantly mesmerized by Ginger Rogers in one musical and attempts to track her down.