THE STORY – Paris, 1928. A young painter in vogue, Antoine Balestro, has been unable to paint since his wife died, to the despair of his gallery owner, Armand. One drunken evening, Antoine tries to contact his wife through a psychic, but is actually speaking with Suzanne, a humble carnival worker who has sneaked in to steal food. Suzanne proves to be a gifted fraudster and, soon aided by Armand, stages fake séances. Little by little, Antoine regains his inspiration, but the situation grows increasingly complicated as Suzanne falls in love with the man she is manipulating.
THE CAST – Pio Marmaï, Anaïs Demoustier, Gilles Lellouche, Vimala Pons, Gustave Kervern & Patrice Tépasso
THE TEAM – Pierre Salvadori (Director/Writer), Benjamin Charbit & Benoît Graffin (Writers)
THE RUNNING TIME – 122 minutes
Pierre Salvadori’s “The Electric Kiss” may take place in 1920s Paris, but this bubbly carnival ride full of hopeless romantics plays to a modern tune. Carnival worker Suzanne, who goes by Venus Electrificata, sells a lightning bolt version of love. It involves nothing but pain and ecstasy, a la Romeo and Juliet. One kiss with Venus is meant to pulsate through your veins and invigorate your emotions. There is, of course, an illusory nature to this form of instant gratification. It’s a quick fix of stimulation, but Salvadori’s film plays a longer love game. When the sparks of Venus Electrificata wear off, the story unfolds into an endearing comedy of errors powered by an artist and flapper’s creative romance. Colorful paintings, grief-stricken seances, and juicy affairs galore, “The Electric Kiss” walks an impressive tightrope between silly and sincere.
We meet Suzanne (Anaïs Demoustier) in a state of financial desperation as she roams the whimsical fairgrounds for a bite to eat. While searching the nearby tent of a psychic named Claudia, a drunken and desperate Antoine (Pio Marmaï) stumbles inside. Having recently lost his wife, Irene (Vimala Pons), he tries to contact her through a seance and assumes Suzanne as the clairvoyant. Suzanne, privy to how Claudia’s illusion is orchestrated, plays along and astonishes Antoine with a magic trick that soothes his grief. One might expect this story to unfold as a predictable test of gullibility and manipulation. How long can Suzanne maintain the illusion before its magic inevitably wears off? How long before Antoine himself clues in and discovers the truth? “The Electric Kiss” certainly addresses these questions, but takes a rather inventive approach to doing so.
Suzanne and Antoine’s love story involves several more key players intertwined in this breezy little screwball. Interspersed flashbacks paint a complex picture of Antoine’s late wife, Irene, whose history is messier than initially anticipated. Antoine’s best friend and manager, Armand (Gilles Lellouche), floats through the narrative as an art dealer with tricks up his sleeve. Armand, in the business of finding art, spots Suzanne’s emotional deceit and approaches her for the ultimate ruse. If successful, she could inspire Antoine to paint again, and he could reignite his career as a celebrated artist.
Based on an original idea by Rebecca Zlotowski and Robin Campillo, “The Electric Kiss” mines through morbid subject matter to tell a story about how grief sparks creativity. Exhibiting masterful control of tone and a clear vision for surreal staging, Salvadori proves steady and assured in creating the off-kilter atmosphere he aims for. Alongside co-writers Benjamin Charbit and Benoît Graffin, Salvadori demonstrates a thorough understanding that the concept requires a certain level of earnestness to ring true in its eccentric world. Each element, from the stellar ensemble to the hazy cinematography, works in unison not to make a false step that would shatter the illusion.
The central characters require several balancing acts to make their conflicting motives resonate, which Anaïs Demoustier and Pio Marmaï navigate brilliantly. Marmaï embodies different versions of Antoine at once, from grief-stricken to hopeless romantic. He charts an endearing, charismatic journey from skeptic to believer. Demoustier embodies several layers of characterization as well, considering Suzanne pretends to be the psychic channeling Antoine’s late wife, Irene. Both performers bounce off each other’s energy, revealing the subtleties of their characters’ shifting motivations and blossoming romance.
Whether capturing a bogus seance or exploring the traveling Parisian circus acts, the visual language unwittingly calls back the whimsical period vibes of Baz Luhrmann’s “Moulin Rouge!,” albeit paling in comparison. “The Electric Kiss” maintains a surreal energy through its hazy and antique-looking filter. There is a dreamy pop-up storybook distinction to the cinematography, which maintains a state of mystical surrealism. While not traditionally a period piece by way of costuming and set accuracy, the distinctive imagery adds to Salvadori’s singular vision.
We cannot forget our loved ones who have departed, but we can sometimes indulge in the illusions that soften our stages of grief. The universal experience of finding love through pain, and vice versa, steers “The Electric Kiss” towards a heartfelt core despite an incredibly heightened sheen and strange concept. The whimsical tone becomes repetitive at times, and the recurring flashbacks to Antoine’s relationship with Irene often slows the film’s narrative momentum. Additionally, the film nearly collapses under the weight of its lofty ambitions in the final act, only to dodge a potentially disastrous conclusion. However, the believability of Antoine and Suzanne’s shared journey holds firm. With a sincere approach and entertaining execution, “The Electric Kiss” stands out as a pleasant early surprise of this year’s Cannes lineup.
