How much information would you require before spilling your innermost details to a psychiatrist? Let’s say said psychiatrist seemed surprised you were coming, and did not seem to have your appointment. Still he has a sofa in his office and a magazine that has the word Analysis in the title. He looks a bit like a psychiatrist and seems to be a good listener. But I would get the bona-fides first.
There is a sense of dreamy disengagement with reality about the new Patrice Leconte film, Confidences Trop Intimes partially put in place by the implausibility of the set-up. Coupled with the fact that the film rarely leaves the office of the tax advisor who is mistaken for a shrink and we get a nice little tale which barely connects with the real world. Again where else would someone pay for sessions which never seem to take longer than two minutes?
Particular care is taken on the geography of the office itself. The leather padded door, the collection of toys, the sad looking paintings all seem to reinforce the character of the reticent tax advisor who has lived there all his life. That the story makes no sense in the end is of little consequence. This is a character study of a man who falls in love. Ignore its thriller trappings (luckily the film does too in the last ten minutes) and just savour how a man and his office can often be at one.
It did not need that dance sequence in the middle though. Bad form Patrice.