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Gilles Bourdos, 2012
Just what you’d expect. Against a distant backdrop of war the ageing painter, in an agony of arthritis, tyrannises a household of women and a wild, neglected youngest son.
Each languorous, lingering shot is a self-conscious picture: dappled light on fat fruit, lush golden interiors or sparkling woodland picnics, torchlight on water, and, of course, peachy, round-rumped girls in stages of undrapedness. The latest model, flame-haired and rebellious Andrée, falls for the war-wounded eldest son (Jean, the future film-maker). Trouble. He re-enlists. Tears. (In real life, they married after the war. More tears.)
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