Masquerade

There is a specific kind of cinematic cruelty that only the French seem to truly master—a polished, sun-drenched bitterness that suggests if you aren’t beautiful, rich, or cunning, you might as well not exist. Nicolas Bedos’s Masquerade (2022) is drenched in this exact brand of cynicism. It arrived at the tail end of a global pandemic, a 135-minute epic of erotic manipulation that felt like it was trying to single-handedly revive the "glossy thriller for adults" genre. I caught this one on a Tuesday afternoon while nursing a slightly burnt baguette I’d over-toasted in my toaster oven, and the crumbs getting into my keyboard felt oddly appropriate for a movie about people whose lives are falling apart behind gilded screens.

Despite the pedigree of its cast and the sheer scale of its production, Masquerade did a bit of a vanishing act. It cost a cool $14 million to make—a significant chunk of change for a French drama—and barely clawed back half of that at the box office. In an era where streaming algorithms prioritize high-concept hooks or established IP, a sprawling, character-driven con-artist drama set in the heights of the Côte d'Azur is a tough sell. It’s a film that demands you sit still and watch people be terrible to one another for over two hours.

The Beautiful and the Damned

At the center of this web is Adrien, played by Pierre Niney with a twitchy, desperate energy that reminds me why he’s become the go-to leading man in France (if you haven’t seen him in Yves Saint Laurent or Frantz, you’re missing out). Adrien is a former dancer whose career ended with a motorcycle crash, leaving him to languish as a "kept man" for Martha, a faded cinema legend played by the iconic Isabelle Adjani. Adjani is fascinating here; she’s essentially playing a funhouse-mirror version of her own public persona, leaning into the vanity and the tragic isolation of a woman who refuses to let the spotlight dim.

The catalyst for the chaos is Margot, a grifter played by Marine Vacth with a coldness that could freeze the Mediterranean. When she and Adrien lock eyes, it isn’t a "meet-cute"—it’s a recognition of two predators realizing they can hunt bigger prey if they team up. They set their sights on François Cluzet (the beloved lead from The Intouchables), playing a wealthy real estate developer who is far too sentimental for his own good. It’s basically a high-fashion soap opera written by someone who clearly hates everyone at the party.

The chemistry between Niney and Vacth is the engine that keeps the movie running, even when the plot starts to feel like it’s doing laps. They possess a lean, hungry look that contrasts sharply with the soft, bloated luxury of the older generation they are scamming. Bedos directs these sequences with a restless camera, making sure we see every bead of sweat and every micro-expression of disgust.

A Relic of Theatrical Grandeur

There is something inherently "theatrical" about Masquerade, and I don't mean that as a slight. It’s a movie that feels big. In our current landscape, where so many dramas are shot with a flat, digital "Netflix look," cinematographer Laurent Tangy treats the French Riviera like a character. The light is golden, the shadows are deep, and the villas are sprawling monuments to excess. It’s the kind of film that begs for a big screen, which makes its lackluster box office performance even more of a sting.

The movie tries to do a lot—it’s a romance, a heist flick, a courtroom drama, and a social satire all rolled into one. At times, the narrative structure is a bit too clever for its own good, jumping back and forth in time through a series of depositions that frame the main story. This "Rashomon-lite" approach adds a layer of artifice that fits the title, but it also saps some of the emotional momentum. You’re constantly being reminded that you’re watching a construction, a "masquerade," which prevents you from ever truly feeling for these characters. But then again, do we really want to feel for people who use sex as a currency and boredom as an excuse for ruin?

Why It Slipped Through the Cracks

Why didn't this land? Part of it is the runtime. 135 minutes is a big ask for a cynical drama in the age of TikTok attention spans. But more than that, I think Masquerade arrived at a moment where audiences were perhaps a bit exhausted by "eat the rich" narratives that didn't offer a clear hero. Unlike Glass Onion or Triangle of Sadness, which came out around the same time, Masquerade doesn't give you a moral high ground to stand on. Everyone is dirty.

Interestingly, the film features Emmanuelle Devos—a veteran of high-brow French cinema like Read My Lips—in a supporting role that provides the movie's only real soul. Her performance as the wronged wife is the anchor that prevents the whole thing from floating away into a sea of perfume and champagne. It’s a reminder that beneath the scams and the shifting allegiances, there are actual human costs to these games.

Apparently, Pierre Niney did most of his own stunts and maintained a rigorous physical regimen to play the broken dancer, and that physicality shows. He moves with a grace that feels haunted by what he lost. It’s these small details—the way a character holds a cigarette or the specific vintage of a wine—that make the film worth a look for those who miss the era of the "adult thriller."

Masquerade is a gorgeous, overstuffed, and occasionally exhausting look at the dark side of paradise. It’s not an "instant classic," and its obscurity is somewhat understandable given its prickly nature and refusal to play nice. However, if you’re in the mood for a film that looks like a million bucks and acts like a bitter ex, it’s a trip to the Riviera worth taking. Just don't expect to come back feeling refreshed; this is a movie that leaves a bit of sand in your shoes and a lingering taste of salt.