While there is much to admire in the performances, writing, and photography (especially the way the Marquis' sometimes greenish-black hue contrasts to Emilie's fair skin), the central thesis of the film is a little hard to swallow. Setting the story right at the nadir of revolutionary excess, where the nobility are being decapitated in the hundreds, the film-makers advance the notion that all the raping, maiming, and torturing in Sade's books are merely a joyous upwelling of the Life Forces amidst so much horror, like William Blake writing in a refugee camp. Yet this can only be made by transforming Sade from the bloodthirsty, all-screwing libertine that he was into a supercilious chattering class of one, a Cassandra who sees life even in the maggots swarming in his prison cell. Glimpses of his work are few and almost coy, while the sexual adventures of the other detainees get the full scan as neurotic and hypocritical. However they did recapture the dark wit that suffused Justine, and it that respect the Marquis is almost sympathetic.
