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Here's a film that strings clichés together like pearls. Talking about a milieu the authors know nothing about. We sense that the authors are trying to denounce something. But we also sense that the authors don't know what they're talking about. Which, a priori, isn't a problem. You don't have to be a chicken to smell a rotten egg.

Added to this unrealistic dimension is a cast of characters who don't inspire empathy. If they all suffered more and died, it would be satisfying. We don't care about their personal or professional, sentimental or existential turpitude. Of course, the cast is impressive, ranging from young, up-and-coming actors to old, solid or corny ones. The casting type works to perfection: Jean-Pierre Bacri is still in the same, tiresome character; Vincent Lacoste caricatures himself; Pascal Greggory plagiarizes himself.

But this film is interesting from a historical point of view, as an instance of a cinema idea with pretensions, but empty of meaning because devoid of any link with reality.