Illustration by Michael DiMilo
A Guilty Party: Film Review of The Crime is Mine
By Geoff Carter
Whodunit? Or should we be asking who cares? In Francois Ozon’s raucous comedy The Crime is Mine, the question is less of a mystery than it is an opportunity for fortune and notoriety. Combining the best elements of French farce, Hollywood costume pieces, and even a dash of feminist ideology, this film is a delightful mix of sorority, (il)legality, and absurdity. Throw in a dash of bitter cynicism (and subtract the music) and you have a sort of a Frenchified version of the musical Chicago.
The film starts as Madeleine Verdier (Nadia Tereszkiewicz), an aspiring young actress, storms out of the home of Montferrand, (Jean-Christophe Bouvet) a famous producer after he attempts to assault her during an audition. She returns to her apartment where her lawyer roommate Pauline Maleon (Rebecca Marder) who is busy trying to fend off the landlord’s attempts to collect on back rent. Madeleine, who is engaged to Andre Bonnard (Edouard Sulpice), a clueless heir—stubbornly averse to work—to a tire company. Andre visits the apartment, telling Madeleine that he has decided to follow his father’s advise and marry someone he has chosen. However, Andre blithely informs Madeleine, he will be happy to keep her as a mistress.
Inspector Brun (Regis Laspales) arrives and informs the women he is investigating the murder of Montferrand, who was shot at roughly the same time as Madeleine was there. Brun finds a gun at the apartment and—as they do in French farces—one thing leads to another. Madeleine is brought before Gustave Rabusset (Fabrice Luchini) the magistrate who hilariously tries to fit the facts into his theory that the poor young actress murdered the producer out of spite for rejecting her audition. Madeleine is arrested.
Pauline, her lawyer roommate, and wannabe girlfriend, takes on her defense. Shrewdly understanding that the case will be played in the court of public opinion as well as that of the court of law, Pauline plays the gender card. The trial becomes less of an appraisal and analysis of the facts than a public referendum of the oppression of women. Dealing with a sexist magistrate and judge, Pauline elicits the sympathy of the crowd by framing the murder as self-defense.
The scene in which Madeleine tearfully testifies (from a memorized script provided by Pauline—who mouths the monologue along with her friend in court) is so transparently manipulative, it’s hilarious. The accused is acquitted, and thanks to her notoriety, Madeline’s career takes off and she becomes a star. Life is good until the roommates are visited by Odette Chaumette (Isabelle Huppert), a once-famous silent film star who claims she killed was the one who killed Montferrand. She accuses the Madeleine and Pauline of lying about her guilt, and attempts to blackmail them.
When Odette visits the magistrate to tell him her version of the crime, (mostly because he does not want the inconvenience of reopening the investigation) he dismisses her as a lunatic. What follows is an hilarious exchange in which Odette bargains with him for a comparable murder that would make her as famous as Madeleine.
What follows, as in all good farces, is a joyous mixture of absurdity, satire, and happy endings. In fact, the fates of most of the secondary characters are overlaid onto the closing credits. Suffice it to say—in this world where the truth is bent like a pretzel and expectations stand on their respective heads—that the realities of the justice system and ubiquitous misogyny are skewered as neatly as a shish kabob.
The Crime is Mine is a charming movie. Its production design, costumes, and the entire milieu of 1930s Paris are superb. The plot is hardly believable, but who cares? The story moves along at a breakneck clip. As Madeleine and Pauline, Teresczkewiecz and Marder are superb. From the moment we see them, their chemistry bursts off the screen. While Pauline seems a little bicurious, Madeleine seems totally focused on Andre—until he relegates her to the role of mistress. Still, a scene later in the movie where Pauline and Madeleine bathe together begs the question of how close they really are—and whether the insertion of this scenes (hardly necessary to the plot) might be a sidelong look at the theme of woman power.
The supporting cast is also brilliant. Isabelle Huppert is perfect as the well-worn silent film star Odette. The bumbling magistrate and his loyal but sarcastic assistant are a paragon of perfect comic timing. As the plot unfolds and refolds and unfolds again and as absurdities pile higher than the Eiffel tower, the viewer surrenders herself to the alternative—and improved—reality.
The Crime is Mine is a delightful diversion and a wonderfully buoyant romp. While it is a farce and essentially escapist fare, the overlying theme of feminist enablement cannot be ignored or simply shrugged off. The women in this film work the legal system and the male patriarchy to their own advantage.
In a year which the film industry has seen an uptick in highly acclaimed feminist-themed fare like Barbie and Poor Things, it is all the more revelatory to see these themes emerging in a genre where they are unexpected and, for that reason, all the more welcome.