Only the French can make a movie entirely about sex this aimless, pointless, thoughtless, pretentious, and boring. The metaphors were crude, obvious, and unimaginative. The "conclusions" were like something one finds on a milk carton, a cigarette pack, or a fifteen-second commercial message from the local public health office. The writer couldn't be bothered to do elementary research so used creative giants like Van Gogh and Nietzsche as throwaway figures who "died of syphilis," showing a level of arrogance, entitlement, and hubris that makes silly American kids in their flicks look positively dutiful, mature, stoical, and heroic by comparison. Van Gogh died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the belly, not syphilis. There is no evidence that Nietzsche ever had sex, period, a level of loneliness so heartbreaking it underscores my conviction that the writer of this trash, standing on tiptoe, couldn't reach the bottom of either man's boot.