Les péchés mortels

Stephen Dorff, being characteristically creepy in a suspicious way. A forceful, severe matriarch. Prominent sound effects and a taut, somber original score emphasizing strings. Dark, moody lighting, and crisp cinematography that seems dulled to accentuate shadow. Gabrielle Anwar, directed to at once be beautiful and alluring and also appear helpless and frightened. Whispers, soft voices; dynamic camerawork; cuts to disparate scenes of no readily apparent connection, and without immediate explanation of any, to highlight a sense of detachment, isolation, and foreboding. These are elements that are employed in 'Innocent lies' to inculcate an air of tension and suspense. It's useful for the film to do so because while there's definite mystery about the title - sufficiently strong that even without knowing it beforehand, I recognized a feeling that it was adapted from a book, and one by Agatha Christie at that - its construction doesn't necessarily supply an atmosphere of tension and suspense on its own. In fact, the described added flourishes and the writing and direction at large frankly seem to oppose one another. This movie has problems.

Even the youngest members of the cast generally perform admirably with the material they are given, serving up acting with strong nuance where they can. From a technical standpoint this is well made, and I admire the contributions of the crew behind the scenes. The production design is fetching, and the costume design, and hair and makeup work. These are no substitute, however, for writing and direction that nonetheless makes every scene, line of dialogue, and too much of every performance feel disconnected and less than earnestly meaningful. We rather seem to get a portrait in miniature, one piece at a time, of how director Patrick Dewolf and his collaborators imagines it all should look in a mystery, thriller, drama, and/or film noir - only, the detachment and isolation that is added into the picture kind of extends to each constituent part. 'Innocent lies' is a theoretical patchwork quilt that is very carefully arranged, save for that the stitches between distinct patches are hopelessly loose, and still so thick and heavy that they overshadow what they're supposed to be holding together.

It's so very odd. All the components are here for what should be a rich, engaging, compelling movie, including subtle airs of psychological drama. I can tell how much effort went into it. By some weird set of circumstances I can't fully describe, however, the whole is notably less than the sum of its parts. There's what a movie could or should be, and then there's what it is or the impression it makes - unwieldy, unconvincing, perhaps even contrived. I don't absolutely dislike 'Innocent lies,' and even with nasty themes on the edges including incest and fascism (content warning, folks) it's a narrative that has significant potential. That potential simply isn't borne out.

I expect and hope that there are viewers who watch this and get more out of it than I do. I just think it's too messy and underwhelming to particularly inspire. There are worse films you could watch, but with so many better ones out there, too, there's no overwhelming reason why 'Innocent lies' deserves your time over another.

Very good movie even though a bit complicated to follow when seen for the first time. It is one of those movies you need to see at least twice to fully appreciate it. The principal actors, first of all Gabrielle Anwar, and Stephen Dorff, are outstanding. Noteworthy is also Patrick Blossier´= s excellent photography.

Having said that I still think with this highly imaginative and original story at his hands Patrick Dewulf could have done more, simply by concentrating on the main characters. There are too many subplots there that are rather superfluous in that they do not contribute to the main story which is intense enough and need not be pepped up.

But still: An excellent movie! I highly recommend it.

I believe Towards Zero to be one of Christie's best and when I read there was an adaptation that her usually quite tolerant estate had declined any involvement with (an extremely rare occurrence to the chagrin of some Christie purists), I went out to search for it.

The setting is both beautiful and poignant. An Art Deco Villa on a clifftop in 1938 France, undercurrents of the coming war rippling even through the lives of the well-off family at the centre of the story.

British detective Adrian Dunbar, along with his small daughter, visits to bury his old friend, a fellow cop, who apparently and very suddenly has committed suicide. It appears said cop came to investigate the death of a young member of the aptly named Graves family many years ago and never left. What his relationship with the Graves' exactly entailed we never find out (the matriarch insists they had an affair, but her word is as good as anyone else's in this movie, which is no good at all). I guess it would count as a spoiler if there was anything to spoil, that we also never find out what happened to him.

Two things are quite clear from the start. The slimy Oxford student son Jeremy is the most likely suspect and his relationship with his sister is not sisterly in the least. Again, no surprises will reveal themselves on either account.

The hard boiled detective naturally falls immediately under the spell of the beautiful daughter Celia and risks his career to help her escape - from what exactly, not even she herself seems to know. Numerous other storylines are woven (and mostly dropped without any resolution). Various females are upset with the detective, but since they won't tell him why, the film also doesn't care any longer. Motives of anyone are foggy at best and often change from scene to scene. Some sequences are almost Lynchian in their absurdity and their lack of any connection to the plot, but feel much more accidental. The most consistent part is the camera following around young Celia to expose her body from every angle possible.

The ending scene wakes memories rather more of Dial M for Murder than Towards Zero, but I doubt either would like to be associated with this film. In fact, despite some effort, I could find no traces of the intricate plot Christie had woven for Towards Zero. No perfect alibi, no sinister end goal, no double bluff. Instead we get to see Gabrille Anwar's breasts under a variety of semi-translucent fabrics. I guess that counts for something.

I tend to like movies like this one- quiet, destined to be seen on TV late at night after some red wine to quench insomnia. Yeah... some called it a bore, but so was Mansfield Park...to an extent. it's been quite a while since I have seen it and the details are a bit fuzzy, but if a movie of its rank made it in the realm of my daily wanderings, then it has to have at least one quality. Maybe I liked the setting,the cold morning air-the blue air that conveys darkness and mystery to most Poirot series or the landscapist pov it offered at times just to be changed with the eye of a mute detective at others. I almost liked those, but not quite. Being very fond of art, this movie reminded me of Tamara de Lempicka's paintings: very art deco, showing us more than just a glimpse of the 30s aristocracy, very daring without excelling in creativity. just that. the ending was unsurprising,not really a letdown but the deranged late 30s atmosphere, the uncontrollable animalism depicted in different character liaisons saved it.

The cinematography of this film was brilliant, choice of location plus the genius of the camera work kept me enthralled with a shallow and convoluted plot that took red herring to waters it had never been to before. The little hamlet and eccentric interiors made an impossible film watchable, enjoyable even. The premise of the plot was the suicide or murder concept of the hero regarding the best friend and introduced in the first scenes. The rest of the movie was interwoven and seemingly totally disconnected scenes of incest or gratuitous pants dropping or bums in the buff. There were some of the scenes that served no purpose other than to expose an actor's body to the camera or tight shots of Adrian Dunbar's nose. It was as if the editors tossed the dailies up in the air and pasted them together quickly based on aesthetics rather than plot advancement. I think there was a plot at one time in the manuscript but it was discarded and the film became a series of patchwork scenes lacking cohesion. I was glad it was over though it was not easy to tell when that was going to happen because it could have been anywhere along the line. It was not a great film, a dozen yrs old and so aggravating it inspired me to take more time on it and write a 'review' on a pretty bad movie.