The Crime Is Mine

French cinema has a particular knack for making the morally questionable look absolutely delectable. I sat down to watch François Ozon’s The Crime Is Mine (2023) on a rainy Tuesday afternoon while struggling with a malfunctioning space heater that kept clicking like a metronome, and honestly, the rhythmic annoyance only added to the film's frantic, screwball energy. It’s a movie that feels like a brightly colored macaron with a razor blade hidden inside—sweet, airy, and sharp enough to draw blood if you aren’t paying attention.

Set in a stylized, theatrical 1930s Paris, we follow Madeleine (Nadia Tereszkiewicz), an actress whose talent is roughly equivalent to a piece of driftwood, and her roommate Pauline (Rebecca Marder), a lawyer with no clients and a very sharp mind. When a lecherous producer ends up dead after Madeleine leaves his office, the two girls realize that a murder charge is actually the best career move they’ve ever had. It’s a "whodunnit" where the "who" is less important than the "how can we use this to get famous?"

A Farce for the Modern Moment

While the costumes and the Art Deco sets scream "Golden Age of Hollywood," the heart of this film is beating firmly in the 2020s. Ozon (who gave us the equally vibrant 8 Women and Potiche) is playing a very clever game with contemporary conversations about power dynamics. In an era where we are constantly dissecting the "casting couch" and the #MeToo movement, Ozon takes those heavy, necessary themes and tosses them into a blender with a heavy dose of champagne.

Madeleine’s acquittal—based on a "self-defense" plea that is more performance art than legal strategy—turns her into a feminist icon overnight. I found myself cackling at how the film mocks our current obsession with "branding" tragedy. The court of public opinion is the only jury that actually matters, and Ozon isn't afraid to show that a well-timed tear and a tailored suit can beat evidence any day of the week. It’s a cynical take, sure, but it’s delivered with such a playful wink that you can’t help but root for these two beautiful fraudsters.

Huppert Steals the Furniture

The first half of the film is a delightful two-hander between Nadia Tereszkiewicz and Rebecca Marder, who have the kind of fast-talking chemistry that would make Rosalind Russell proud. But then, about midway through, Isabelle Huppert enters the frame as Odette Chaumette, a forgotten star of the silent era, and the movie ascends to a different plane of madness.

Huppert is clearly having the time of her life. Dressed like she raided the wardrobe of a gothic peacock, she swan-dives into the role with a level of camp that is frankly heroic. Isabelle Huppert is essentially a drag queen trapped in the body of a French icon, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment. Her character claims to be the "real" killer, not because she’s seeking justice, but because she’s jealous of the publicity Madeleine is getting. It’s a hilarious commentary on the desperation of fading fame that feels uncomfortably relevant in our age of aging influencers and "legacy" sequels.

The supporting cast is equally stacked. Fabrice Luchini plays the judge with a wonderful, flustered incompetence, and Dany Boon pops up as a wealthy architect who seems to be in a constant state of mild confusion. It’s an ensemble that understands the assignment: keep the pace fast, the gestures big, and the subtext spicy.

Why You Probably Missed It

Despite its pedigree, The Crime Is Mine didn't exactly set the global box office on fire. Part of that is the "subtitle tax"—American audiences are still weirdly allergic to reading while watching—but it’s also a victim of the current streaming logjam. It’s the kind of mid-budget, high-concept comedy that studios used to bank on, but now often gets buried under the weight of the latest superhero fatigue-inducer.

It’s a shame, because the craftsmanship here is top-tier. Manuel Dacosse’s cinematography makes 1930s Paris look like a dream you’d have after eating too much expensive cheese, and the score by Philippe Rombi bounces along with a mischievous twinkly-eyed charm. It’s a film that demands a theatrical experience, or at least a very large TV and a glass of something bubbly.

The movie is based on a 1934 play by Georges Berr and Louis Verneuil, but Ozon has updated the ending to be far more subversive. He’s not interested in a moral lesson. He’s interested in how we construct our own truths to survive. In 2023, where "truth" feels more like a customizable accessory than a fixed point, this 90-year-old story feels like it was written this morning.

I walked away from this one feeling lighter than I had in weeks. It’s rare to find a film that manages to be this cynical about human nature while remaining so utterly charming. It’s a celebration of sisterhood, the art of the lie, and the sheer joy of a well-fitted beret. If you’re tired of "gritty" dramas and want something that respects your intelligence while tickling your funny bone, hunt this one down. Just keep an eye on your space heater.