Francis Veber's The Valet (2006)

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Édouard Molinaro's La Cage aux Folles (1978)

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Sylvain Chomet's The Triplets of Belleville (2003)

Your Humble Commentator wants to talk about something fairly peripheral to tonight’s film, but the gist will be that you want to watch one of Sylvain Chomet’s films in a particular way, and it may be slightly different from how you expect to be watching The Triplets of Belleville. Let’s begin with a little story.

This summer I took daughter #3 to see Disney’s Tangled at the Riverview Theater. A impressive show, Tangled provides the usual well-drawn storybook characters – repressed but plucky heroine, roguish but vulnerable hero, cute animal sidekick (a chameleon), exasperated animal sidekick (Flynn’s horse), and a witchy villain. And the plot moves along with deftly handled comic and tragic turns. The laughs come easily and so do tears. Watching Tangled, one is reminded why Disney has been the best at providing animated features since Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937; honorary Oscar for innovation in 1939). I walked out of the theater thinking, “it’s hard to make an animated feature more polished than that.”

And I drove home, dropped off daughter #3 and picked up daughter #1, and drove back to the Riverview to see Sylvain Chomet’s most recent animated feature, The Illusionist (2010). In it, a down-on-his-luck vaudeville prestidigitator travels around Europe performing in run-down theaters to nearly non-existent crowds. In one inn, he meets and befriends a waifish girl, who decides to travel with him to the big city where he is trying to survive on what engagements he can scare up. They live together, she explores the big city, dreams about a better life, finds it, and that’s about it. It may not seem like much, but it is an undeniably beautiful film. I found myself as impressed by what it didn’t do as by what it did. And I found myself comparing the two films, struck by how different they were, and how much that revealed about what our culture has come to expect of the animated feature film.

For one, where Tangled was polished, The Illusionist was rough. One feels free to follow where it leads, to peer into its nooks and crannies, to ponder its suggestions. Nathan Greno and Byron Howard’s film (the Disney film) leads you to clear, familiar places. It’s hard to watch Tangled and not see reflections of earlier Disney movies, subtly shifted to give the impression of newness. Likewise, the Disney film controls your emotions, giving you big laugh gags followed by tear-jerking melodrama (the hero dies! after sacrificing first his selfishness, then himself for the heroine! then – get another handkerchief – he comes back to life!). Chomet paints a more muted, bittersweet picture – you may chuckle but at moments that are slightly disturbing, and you may be disturbed at moments that are darkly funny. But what emerges from the Chomet experience is a sense that you’ve encountered a true portrait of what life is like. And that it has been presented to you with a simple charm, like a small gift hand-wrapped in yesterday’s giftwrap.

Yes, Disney’s Tangled is presenting a fairytale, not at all the same thing. We want romance, intrepid heroes overcoming adversity, and neat conclusions from those movies. And Disney gives that to us with panache and professionalism. That’s expected.

From Chomet, though, Your Humble Commentator wants you to relish the unexpected, the magic of depicting human life in all its quirkiness. The Triplets of Belleville has an awkward narrative, not easy to follow at first. But the story in not the priority. Watch the characters. Watch the magic. Watch the life.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Costa-Gravras’s Z (1969)

What is “Z”?

“Z” is a massive cross-breed. It’s in French, takes place in Algeria, and its director is Greek. More importantly, it combines two rarely crossed genres: politics and thrillers. Political films are often deeply grounded in the reality of a situation, looking at things in the simplest format. Thrillers often move far beyond logical motivation, showing only what will send the most adrenaline into our bloodstream. “Z” not only combines these genres, it makes them brilliant.

“Z” was shockingly relevant at the time of its release. It was not the average politically connected film that immortalized political situations fifty or five hundred years ago. “Z” looked at the death of the politician Grigoris Lambrakis under circumstances still being debated at the time. Its worldwide recognition, complete with a Cannes Palme D’Or, spread the word about Lambrakis.

“Z” is entertaining. Jean Louis Trintignant won awards for his performance as The Examinating Magistrate. Mikis Theodorakis’ score made him a household name (Mr. McVeety brought his vinyl copy of the soundtrack to school, referring to it as “a relic”), along with “Zorba the Greek.” It was nominated for an Oscar for Best Picture, extremely rare for both foreign and experimental films.

“Z” is a landmark. Ty Burr, Boston-based film writer, notes its “slick cinematic urgency” and its “ease with genre filmmaking.” Most films that deal so poignantly with political themes do so with dull period piece work and Hollywood gloss. “Z” stands apart from all these films.

The title comes from a Greek word meaning “He is alive,” a protest phrase relating to Lambrakis’ death. Despite the fact that this film, too, is out of political relevance, as a work, it is still very much alive.

Noah Shavit-Lonstein
Film Club

Stéphane Aubier and Vincent Patar’s A Town Called Panic (2009)

As you walked in to the film tonight, you got a little plastic army man, common plaything of 1960s and ‘70s children, or as we here at Film Club Central are calling it: Your Stop-Action Animation Starter Kit^©. Because, really, this is all it takes. You find some small objects or clay, grab your camera and take a picture, move the object a little bit, take another picture, and repeat until you’re famous. Like Ray Harryhausen or Nick Park. You can do this with your Barbies (as Todd Haynes did with his famous bio-pic of Karen Carpenter, “Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story”) or GI Joes (if you go to www.gijoefest.com, you’ll find a whole film festival devoted to stop-action films starring the macho dolls) or simply random objects (post-its, rubber bands, Pixie Sticks, dice, a dollar bill, candy corn, Rubik’s Cubes as in “Western Spaghetti by PES” on YouTube).

Now the trick is obviously to get enough stuff moving that you can approximate life, humor, character, story, and all the other stuff that makes a good film. Stépahne Aubier and Vincent Patar have done that with Panic au Village or, as it is called in English, A Town Called Panic. Using a wide variety of small plastic toys, they’ve created an entire rural community where one’s shape, be it pig or horse or indian or cowboy or Atlantean, is not an impediment to one’s role in life or ability to behave in hilariously human ways. In fact, one might argue that it is not in spite of the actors being small plastic toys but because of their being small plastic toys that we’re able to explore more fully the comedy of human nature.

When the film opens, Cowboy and Indian are coming to realization that they’re unprepared for their roommate Horse’s birthday. What ensues, which involves an over-abundance of bricks, a robot penguin, a crushed house, piano lessons, stolen walls, tractors, kleptomaniac sea people, mad scientists with a snow-ball catapult, and more that we aren’t going to list here, is less panic than manic. The insanity of the plot stands in stark contrast to the warmer domestic comedies of Nick Park’s claymation Wallace and Gromit films or the alien jerkiness of Ray Harryhausen monsters in 1950s and ‘60s sci-fi films like Jason and the Argonauts. Aubier and Patar’s world has the same innocence, charm, and crazy non-sequitor rambling that one would expect if children really were just playing with these toys.

And that’s what there is to love about stop-action work. It has a D.I.Y. quality that means it never moves very far from your imagination. Yes, there’s a tremendous amount of craft, cleverness, and pain-staking work in Aubier and Patar’s film. But it looks like they simply made it in their bedroom one weekend.

Now, not everyone who watches a movie secretly wants to be a film-maker, but as movies become increasingly technical and expensive (Avatar, anyone?), they feel in some ways more alien, more distanced from our own imaginations. Certainly James Cameron or George Lucas would argue that computers are allowing us to expand our imaginations in ways we never could before, to create fantasies that look like reality. But you don’t sit in the theater saying, “I could do that.”

So right now pick up your army man. Walk him across your leg. Maybe you make him say “Hi there. Does this gun go with my outfit?” And maybe, if your friend is taking pictures, you could make it into a short film. And just like that, you’re a star.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Michel Hazanavicius’s OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies (2006)

Film Club is proud to present tonight’s guest commentator, M. Aimeric Lajuzan, Upper School French teacher. M. Lajuzan graduated from the University of Toulouse, where he studied geography and sociology, and moved to the United States in 2006. This country is lucky to have him. The expertise of the French is well known, for there is nothing that they do not know, and their superiority, both intellectually and culturally, must be acknowledged. For example, the French have been the only people in the world sophisticated enough to recognize the comic genius in the films of Jerry Lewis. For this reason, we have asked M. Lajuzan to opine about tonight’s film.

OSS 117 is the best French parody of a spy movie ever made.

The last years of colonialism were a rough time for the best country in the world. The image of a unified French colonial empire harmoniously working to the beat of La Marseillaise was put to the test as local populations rose up to claim independence. The idea that millions of people around the world wanted to be French was fading and countries around the world emancipated following World War II. This part of History sets the scene for Michel Hazanavicius’s recent film OSS 117: Le Caire, Nid d’Espions, which portrays the adventures of Hubert Bonisseur de la Bath (UBDLB), special agent sent on a secret mission to Egypt for the glory of France and its (now completely forgotten) president René Coty.

UBDLB is not Austin Powers (Mike Myers’ character parodying James Bond and the mod England of the ‘60s) nor Inspector Clouseau (Peter Sellers’ bumbling character from Blake Edwards’ Pink Panther films); he is Sean Connery … but French. He is incredibly self-confident, sexy, and smart; all these things that make us French so popular around the world. When information is faulty (wait! there are Muslims in North Africa?!?), he improvises and gets through problems unharmed. He might offend a person or two or twenty, but it is clear to any Frenchman that those people are just too sensitive. Everyone knows that no other civilization but the French has ever reached perfection, so why would they want to discuss it?

OSS 117 is best watched in French but for some reason there are people who don’t speak this beautiful language and need subtitles. (This is shameful. For centuries English kings spoke French. The founding fathers of the United States spoke French, which served well when they took field trips to France to get assistance in writing their little constitution and Bill of Rights. And you will notice that, in the movie, even the Nazis speak French. Is it too much to expect ordinary film-goers to have some respect and know this language?)

So enjoy this lampooning of French smugness movie in which French culture is captured so accurately and with such reverence. It may be the last time a movie does so.

Monsieur A. Lajuzan
Guest Film Club Commentator
SPA French Dept.

Jeunet and Caro’s Delicatessen (1991)

Delicatessen, a zany little film directed by Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet that’s startling and clever, blew me away with its sheer originality and liveliness. This 1991 film encourages the viewer to connect with the characters on a complex level, developing both disdain and fondness for the decisions that each of them makes. The film begins in a rural apartment building in a post-apocalyptic France. A shortage of food forcing grain to be used as currency has forced out the older social structure as the struggle to regain balance and unity between the characters takes priority.

It sounds dark and dramatic, but directors Jeunet and Caro demonstrate an impressively confident feel of comic timing. Thriving on quirks, the film’s most distinctive aspect is its careful use of musical sequences, accented by uncomfortable uneasiness and using quick cuts reveal rhythms and even melodies played out in a light-hearted natured. For example, they set up goony little nonsense symphonies, such as everybody in the building simultaneously bowing cellos, Dominique Pinon painting the roof while springing off his tied braces, two brothers testing their animal noise toys, all in choreographed symphony to Jean-Claude Dreyfus and Karin Viard’s love-making. Or like Dominique Pinon and Karin Viard’s little dance while bouncing on a bed to test loose springs, the two of them keeping time to a song playing on the TV.

Jeunet and Caro’s keen sense of black humor is ever-present, particularly in Sylvie Laguna’s bizarre attempts to commit suicide with Rube Goldberg-type setups such as connecting her doorbell to a sewing machine that sews through a piece of cloth that will pull a lamp into the bath (which fails when the power goes off). Particularly, her climactic attempt to use a combination of pills, gas, shotgun, Molotov cocktail and hanging, which all farcically fail at once, portrays this serious subject in a lighter less emotionally draining way for the viewer. At the foundations of the film is the romance between monkey-faced Dominique Pinon and innocently lovely Marie-Louise Dougnac, which plays with a genuine sweetness in the middle of the film’s off-kilter tone.

The characters of Louison (Dominique Pinon) and Mademoiselle Plusse (Karin Viard) caught my attention in particular because of their idiosyncrasies and the relationships they take on with other characters they run into. Louison (Dominique Pinon) answers an ad to work as a handyman doing odd jobs for a butcher. Unbeknownst to Louison, the butcher (Jean-Claude Dreyfus) has hatched a plot to turn the unsuspecting worker into the next choice cut for the tenants in his dilapidated building. The real story comes when Louison, who is not without skills and charm, becomes a gear in the clockwork of the butcher’s gruesome scheming. He soon falls in love with Julie (Marie-Laure Dougnac) as the story deepens as she is the painfully shy daughter of the Butcher.

Incredibly inventive, both in storytelling and set and character designs, Delicatessen uses its quirky tone to combine a surprisingly visual film with the bleakest of social satires. Literally one of the many movies that must be watched to truly understand its genius, Delicatessen marks another collaboration of genius directing team Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet and is one of the sharpest of all futuristic foreign films.

Billy Lutz
Film Club Co-President

François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (1959)

Rather than discourse on tonight’s specific film, Francois Truffaut’s Les Quatre Cents Coups (The 400 Blows), we’d like to reflect, for a minute, on foreign film in general and its marginalized place in American movie culture. Even designating a film as “foreign” makes us a trifle uncomfortable, like when we find an eyeball floating in our chicken-noodle soup and the waiter reminds us that in some cultures such things are considered a delicacy. As long as we resort to terminology like “foreign,” those films so designated will always remain alien, outside of our experience, and the sort of thing one only finds at Landmark theaters. Yet foreign films offer something intensely valuable in the film-going experience: difference.

Cultures can become inoculated by their own narratives, and in American film, where bottom-line economics plays such a big role in how stories get told, more often than not financial success is found in the reuse of formulae. What’s that movie where a cop, who’s kinda sexist or racist or xenophobic or something, and his partner are sitting in a restaurant and the partner is musing about how close he is to retirement and then a bad guy busts in and kills the partner and the cop vows revenge but his vengeance is hampered because he’s soon saddled with a woman or a foreigner or an alien for a new partner? Oh, yeah, it’s like twenty movies. And don’t even get us started on sequels.

Foreign films, because they come from cultures with different formulae, tell stories with different textures. They tell stories that draw on different myths. They tell stories that rely on different imagery. They tell stories that reflect different values. They tell stories that don’t conform to our fetishistic expectation that all films should be roughly two hours long (unless it has lots and lots of special effects).

When we become inured to our own formulae, films lose their power except as spectacle, which may account for the rise is graphic horror films, special effects-laden but story-poor super-hero flicks, and the blunt, sketch-driven, irony-heavy comedy of the likes of Will Ferrell and Adam Sandler. We can become jaded by our own art. It’s not healthy. We need our palette cleansed from time to time.

Watching only Hollywood-produced and American independent films is like only eating pizza for dinner. Dining out once in a while at an Indian restaurant (Planet Bollywood!) or ordering out for Chinese or sampling the yak kothe and momo at Everest on Grand will make you appreciate your pizza more. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life. You like a variety of foods, right? Why not film?

We won’t generalize about the cultural traits of foreign films from specific countries, not even to ask if all French romantic comedies are required to have love triangles. Suffice it to say that these foreign traits reenergize our expectations for all the movies we see. To experience difference is to be transported some distance, no matter how small, from the familiar, and to look back at it is to see it from a new perspective.

We believe that American film-goers like this re-awakening. Look at the success of Slumdog Millionaire, from one point of view a traditional rags-to-riches story, but from another a completely fresh take on how one tells the rags-to-riches story. What may happen next is that the unfamiliar traits we associate with this film will find themselves imitated by and evolving in American film. Thus, foreign films of note can make American film fresh.

This happens all the time. Not too long ago The Matrix (1999) used martial arts style action, drawing on the influences of hundreds of Hong Kong films from the 1980s and ‘90s. A year later Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) became a huge success in America and now it’s nearly impossible to see an action film that doesn’t have some martial influenced fighting in it.

Tonight we see Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, a film that was itself in 1959 ground-breaking film-making and which influenced an entire generation of film-makers. We don’t need to get all historical to appreciate it though. All we need is to enjoy its difference, and cleanse our palette for our weekend excursion to The Watchmen.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Francis Veber’s La Chèvre (1981)

Americans don’t think about foreign films very much. Or perhaps they don’t think very much of foreign films. Yes, we give an Academy Award for best foreign language film, and you can pay $8.50 to see a few at the Lagoon. But in general going to the movies and spending a couple hours reading subtitles ranks up there with throwing a party and inviting friends to work on your math homework with you. But after you’ve seen a lot of movies, and we have, watching only movies made in Hollywood is like getting a box of assorted chocolates – coconut cream, butter rum, maple cream, peanut cluster, dark chocolate truffle, strawberry cream – and only eating the caramels. (And our momma always said: life was like a box of chocolates…).

Most of the negative perception about foreign films is pure horse-pucky and unsubstantiated prejudice. Are foreign films too long? What’s too long? Forrest Gump is 142 minutes. Spider-man 3 is 139 minutes. Troy is 163 ... oh, wait … 201 minutes in the director’s cut. And really, length is a matter of perception. Bad movies seem slow; great movies seem brief. One supposes that if you have to work at a film, like maybe reading subtitles, it might seem longer, but foreign language films compensate in a number of ways.

One important one is narrative variety. We love film because we love stories. The movie theater is just a modern version of the campfire we sat around after the hunt thousands of years ago. One of the frustrating things about Hollywood is how frequently it seems to repackage the same story over and over. A French or Chinese or Spanish or Korean – wow, seen a Korean film lately?! – is going to tell a somewhat different story, with different textures, different pacing, different approaches to narrative.

Would an American film-maker have ended Pan’s Labyrinth, the way Guillermo Del Toro did? (Well, maybe Martin Scorsese.)

Would an American film-maker have rounded off The Lives of Others with multiple dénouments, giving the audience a deeper sense of perspective the way von Donnersmarck did? Nah. Roll the credits.

Would an American film-maker have lingered on the dead face of a usurping emperor, allowing you to realize fully the consequences of his death, the way Feng Xiaogang did in The Banquet. Probably not. Heck, even Zeffirelli didn’t linger long on Mel Gibson’s dead mug in Hamlet. Bring in Fortinbras, and let’s get this thing over with! This is not to say that foreign films are slow (and most of those that are make you love their pace). Most are not. Tonight we’re showing Francis Veber’s La Chevre, a light comedy about two bumbling detectives on a missing persons case, which clocks in at a brisk 91 minutes.

Finally, one of the biggest jokes about the reticence to see foreign film is the hypocrisy. Right now some of the most interesting film-makers in the US making Hollywood films are foreign born: the aforementioned Del Toro (Hellboy), Ang Lee (Brokeback Mountain), Alfonso Cuaron (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban), Richard Rodriguez (Sin City), Timur Bekmambetov (Wanted), John Woo (Face/Off), etc. According to the Christian Science Monitor, Hollywood frequently turns to foreign talent in order to “bring a fresh eye to shop-worn formula pictures.” So, we ask, why wait for that talent to come here. Why not see it in the original, not only for its “fresh eye” but for its approach to non-shop-worn narratives.

Francis Veber is just such a talent. He’s been writing top-drawer French comedies since 1972 (many of which, including La Cage Aux Folles, have been made in to American films) and directing them since 1976, including The Dinner Game, The Closet and, recently, The Valet. So sit back, and read, and enjoy. Think of it as a rare raspberry cream in a box of otherwise dull caramels.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Jeunet and Caro's City of Lost Children (1995)

THE PLOT: A twist on the typical fairy tale, The City of Lost Children is the story of an evil genius named Krank (Daniel Emilfork) and his henchmen of mechanically-enhanced Cyclops, six identical Clones (all played by Dominique Pinon), the tiny and bossy Miss Bismuth (Mireille Mosse), and a disembodied brain (voiced by Jean-Louis Trintignant) which provides the philosophical foundation for the group. The band of genetically-engineered characters live on a man-made island off shores of a coastal city, and it is from this city that Krank's thugs kidnap children. Why? Because Krank is unable to dream, he attempts to steal them from the children's minds.

When the adopted brother (Joseph Lucien) of a circus strongman named One (Ron Perlman) is stolen, One goes on a crusade to save him. On his way, he hooks up with a nine-year-old ingenue/street punk named Miette (Judith Vittet), and they develop a symbiotic bond in their quest to destroy Krank's plot.

Christopher Null
FilmCritic.com

ANALYSIS: In The City of Lost Children, Jeunet and Caro have presented another gloomy world where "normal" life is no more. The film is saturated with atmosphere and features some of the most imaginative set construction of the year. The picture works in part because the film makers have taken the time and effort to frame a strange land where all their quirky characters can live and operate. Jeunet and Caro's movie is thematically and stylistically inspired by such diverse sources as Frankenstein, Dracula, Brazil, Time Bandits, and The Wizard of Oz. Like Delicatessen, The City of Lost Children is characterized by dark, twisted humor, yet this movie is more of a fantasy than a macabre comedy.

James Berardinelli
ReelViews Movie Reviews

INTERVIEW with Jeunet and Caro: Freudian Dreams

You were thinking of a world depopulated of dreams, dark and gloomy.

Jeunet: It was the idea that we had. That someone who didn't dream but, just the same, lived very well, yet would want to see, in dreams, a greater dimension of the imagination. For us, someone who is deprived of that is condemned to die. That's part of what we wanted to say...If one cannot dream and imagine things, and if one is sentenced to the everyday, to reality, it's awful.

Can we find, in "The City of Lost Children," a parable on the desperation of modern man, who is progressively losing the ability to dream?

Caro: We never have "messages" of that sort, merely the desire to tell a simple story.

Jeunet: I think of men incapable of dreaming...There have always been men to put on fantasy festivals, or to make films, to make others dream; and there are others who have never dreamed.

Caro: Dreaming is also having the ability to preserve the spirit of childhood. It's true that it's a little metaphorical in the framework of the film, but there's no message.

What is your own definition of the world of dreams?

Caro: In every way, in this film, our vision of dreams is not at all realistic. We've read all the books about dreams, their significance, etc.; but, while it was thoroughly interesting, it wasn't necessary to take it into consideration for the story that we wanted to tell. One takes a greater risk in the realm of fairy tales than in dreams, in the proper sense. So we went in that direction, letting our imagination manifest itself.

Jeunet: The Freudian side of dreams is very interesting, but it's not at all our subject. That would have made for a tedious film, more of a mediocre parable...

Alain Schlockoff and Cathy Karani
Sony Pictures

INTERVIEW with Jeunet: Like a Fairy Tale

In all of your films (besides "Alien Ressurection"), there's this idea of people's secret lives and the crazy schemes they come up with to get what they want, like the elaborate ways Aurore tries to kill herself in "Delicatessen" and the kids in "The City of Lost Children" using a cat and a mouse to break into a safe. What's the fascination there?

Jeunet: I don't know. I think this film is a little bit different. It's also talking about destiny, but not this kind of chain of events. I tried to avoid that. I remember one scene I cut a lot because I did not want to repeat myself, the scene where they make love and the objects are moving. I am not very proud about that, because it's too Delicatessen. But I do the same thing in my own life. When I give a gift, for example, I put arrows on the floor: You have to open the refrigerator. Inside you have an artichoke. Inside you have a paper [saying] you have to turn on the TV. I am on TV. I explain that you have to open a book, etc. I love this.

I was thinking about "Delicatessen" and "The City of Lost Children." While they are dark, they also have happy endings for the characters who deserve them. So, in that sense, maybe you've been sentimental and optimistic all along?

Jeunet: For us, The City of Lost Children wasn't dark. It was like a fairytale, and in a fairytale everything is dark: the little children, the dark forest, they are lost. But it is so good to be afraid when you are a kid. And when I saw it again last year, I thought, "Oh yes, it is dark." For the first time I felt it was dark.

Andrea Meyer
indieWIRE

INTERVIEW with Jeunet and Caro: A Certain Cruelty

For some people, the film seems to be meant for children as well as adults...

Caro: Absolutely, but, as always, at the outset, the film was made first of all for ourselves. It's true that we've stayed very childlike...

The paradox is that the film, at moments, seems a little too dark for children...

Caro: But if you look at Pinocchio, Dumbo, Snow White, Bambi, there are some awful enough scenes that make an impression...I think that an audience member, whether big or little, wants to feel afraid, to have fun, to be moved, to cry -- in short, to be surprised. There has to be a little of all those emotions...

Jeunet: The idea is to rediscover, a little, childhood fears -- those in tales that were told to us. This is far from being gory. Yet, in the tales, when you read Grimm or Perrault, there's a certain cruelty.

Alain Schlockoff and Cathy Karani
Sony Pictures

Cédric Klapisch's L'Auberge Espagnole (2002)

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