My review of The Apartment, no thanks to Netflix

I don't think a movie has ever left me feeling so frustrated as The Apartment. Irritated, yes. Disturbed and disgusted, definitely. Bored and unimpressed and disappointed, absolutely. But this gem had me yelling curses at the screen, no doubt to my neighbors' delight.
Then the Netflix site had me yelling more swears trying to get this review posted there (how the hell do I know how many characters I typed without you telling me after you warn me I typed too many, jerkwads? Why can't I change my profile pic from a freakin' Dr. Spock silhouette, geeks?), but that's another story.
Spoilers follow.
For the first 20 minutes of The Apartment, nothing happens (typical French film). Finally a tense, stalker-tinged love story emerges. Great.
Then a bunch of seemingly senseless stuff happens, and we're mystified what the big mystery is supposed to be. Along the way people crash into each other running through doorways, knocking over servers hilariouly carrying full trays of silver and food.
The premise emerges that the man in the love story asks his now two-years-on girlfriend (Monica Bellucci, nowhere near as sensuous as you would like, see example to left) to move in with him to New York, and she jumps up and is like TTYL. He's like, Uh, well? No answer.
Her brilliant plan it turns out is to write him a letter saying she's moving to Rome for two months but, sure, when she gets back she'll join him. She gives the letter to her friend (Romaine Borhinger) saying I couldn't find a stamp. No big deal, right, what could go wrong if I don't make that minimal effort? I'll tell you what -- your friend turns out to be a nutjob sociopath ultrastalker!
So the letter doesn't get delivered, and dude wonders why his soulmate blew him off, then burns her clothes in the bathtub (as is the stylish French fashion for bitter breakups) and mopes a bit. She gets back, and he's gone, and she wonders why he didn't say goodbye and kind of mopes. Gee, maybe you should call him to find out what the hell happened?
But of course no one has cell phones or e-mail in this "Paris" in this "France." Of course!! What planet would that be where people can instantly communicate and don't have to pull this pretentious French film horse doody where everyone's all mysterious and meaningful-glancing instead of sharing thoughts and feelings appropriately in real time. Ah now I remember, it's earth!
Anyway, the lovers are apart for two years, each wondering why the other left with no explanataion. There's a bit of Hitchcock's Vertigo in there where it's like, Oh did he see her there for a second out of the blue? Is he suddenly on her trail? Or isn't he? Who is who? He leaves a letter with a bartender for her. Someone leaves a letter in an apartment for someone. Again, this is how we message each other? Is this the '50s?
The other woman, the friend with the letter, turns out to be in love with this guy and improbably (to say the least) connived to break them up, bringing to mind Single White Female (and Orphan and Fatal Attraction and all those other crazy bitch movies). She sleeps with his best friend to get closer to him, and there's a confusion about who lives where and which apartment who can sleep at, hence the title of this garbage-ah.
None of this occurs in a straight line, of course. There are all kinds of flashbacks and Rashomon points of view and obnoxious hoop-dee-doo looka-me I'm so New Wave la-dee-da-dee malarky, poppycock and pure idiocy that passes for filmic brilliance when this is nothing more than a steaming pile of cinematic merde.
There are some attempts by the lovers -- almost but not quite on each other's trail -- to call each other from pay phones and such when they think they are circling each other, but no one's in the right place at the right time or the phone rings busy or some other ludicrous obstacle gets in the way. Notably, we get some glimpses of Bohringer's impressive boobies at 55 minutes in and a couple more times (see Total Eclipse for more of that, trust me, as in the example at right) but never get to ogle Bellucci's bare bangin' bod. I can't remember where that is more available, but I bet you can find it.
So ultimately the truth starts to come out, at least for Mr. befuddled boyfriend caught unawares in a love triangle. We think he's going to finally hook up with his long lost Bellucci, but in the ultimate French twist he chooses to stay with the sociopatch twit who misled him and his girlfriend (whom she's been friendly with all along and never mentioned, Oh, I've been trying to steal your boyfriend for two years and it finally is working just as you are close to reuniting).
He actually goes to the airport to stop this idiot stalker SWF and start a relationship with her. Meantime the girl he's supposed to meet up with is caught by her own stalker/more-recent-ex who immolates them both, with a Zippo lighter and some kind of accelerant on the floor of The Apartment as is the stylish French fashion for a murder-suicide.
And I'm yelling at the screen, "What? You abandon the love of your life and decide to enter a relationship with this cracked zany psycho maniac woman in a split-second decision and that's that WHY?" etc.
And then I wanted to throw my cat through the TV and board a plane to France to punch the writer and director in the face. Possible sequel to come.

P.S. Hey blog, missed you. Glad to be back ;) xo