Don't Let Me Die on a Sunday | Chicago Reader

Don't Let Me Die on a Sunday

The passive-aggressive Parisians in this nearly toothless 1998 existential drama belong to our time, in which the fear that sex will lead to reproduction has been replaced by the fear that it will lead to death. They converse in platitudes as they desperately pursue an alternative to the safety of monogamy, and some of their comments are surely meant to inspire laughter. “Your friend seems nice, and you like the same things,” a raver says to her new boyfriend, who works in a morgue, after observing him with his masochistic mistress at a gritty, stagy orgy. His estranged wife, a colleague and his wife, and other members of their expanding circle—one trying not to be bitter as he dies of AIDS, another attempting suicide only to become the life of the party—also make pithy statements about everyone's behavior as if that would give the plot greater philosophical content. But the central observation about the relationship between sex and love—that things are in a terrible state—never becomes a theme. Crash and Eyes Wide Shut, movies of stylistic and metaphoric audacity, got much farther down the same rocky road. Written and directed by Didier le Pecheur; with Jean-Marc Barr and Elodie Bouchez. 90 min.

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