The elements:
  • Juliette Binoche as an old actress, mid-divorce, who is too old to star in a play she once starred in.
  • Kristen Stewart as Binoche's Girl Friday, who used to have sex with Binoche, but now they just talk and talk and talk. (LBD)
  • Some bimbo gets Binoche's old role and is really bitchy about it. (Chloë Grace Moretz (@Hit Gilr' in KickAss): 'French cinema is much more innovative than American.')
  • Binoche's character wants to quit, but signed a contract.
  • The dykes hike, and talk and talk and talk, and Binoche pervs over Stewart's ass..
  • Plus! Stupid, boring, easily-forgettable title
  • Plus! Directed by (mais naturellement!) some TurkoAustroHungarianKike who was married to Maggie Cheung until he hooked up with and married some sallow and seemingly kike bimbo who is 26 years younger than him. (His dad was movie propagandist 'Jacques Remy', and his brother wrote Dictionnaire du rock and some Bono bio)

'Our' European couture

Blue sky thesping

Review of Clouds of Sil Maria

By Xan Brooks, The Guardian


Maria (Juliette Binoche) is given an upstart young rival in the form of Jo-Ann (Chloe Grace Moretz), a hellraising Hollywood starlet, fresh out of rehab. Yet Assayas is really more interested in the dynamic between Maria and Val (Kristen Stewart), the actor's personal assistant, who works her iPhone with one hand and her BlackBerry with the other.


Sitting down for dinner, in one telling scene, Val dismisses her boss as a snob and claims that blockbuster fantasies can be just as valid, in their way, as social-realist dramas set in factories or on farms. Maria arches a delicate eyebrow. Yet again, she's unconvinced.

It is immediately apparent that these two women are close, bordering on the claustrophobic. Maria and Val love each other and live together, but their friendship has never been on an equal footing. Passing a cigarette back and forth, they proceed to rehearse the old play to the point where it highlights and defines the running tensions between them.


Clouds of Sils Maria feels like embedded film-making. It's a study of the artistic elite from a fully paid-up member, a story that proves a little too tolerant of the preening peacocks at the summit and too glibly dismissive of the bottom-feeders (hacks, paps and internet trolls) down below. The film gives us All About Eve without the bite, and Bergman's Persona without the anguish. But it compensates with a warmth, compassion and authority of its own.

Assayas knows what he's doing; we are in professional hands. The script has been polished and the performers rehearsed. The stage is now set for a plush piece of theatre to see this festival [Cannes, 2014] out. The director draws back the curtains with a satisfying swish.

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