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Often, watching a French movie is like looking at Japanese porn. I gape at it, slack-jawed and spellbound, unable to turn away.
If French moviemakers want to make more money, they should follow this simple formula: Less smoking, less Sartre, more stuff blowing up. Luc Besson (The Professional, Le Femme Nikita) has learned the lesson already. The rest of’em should either follow suit or stop complaining about American cultural hegemony.