The Liar of Your Desire: Salvadori Sputters with Low Voltage Rom Com
To some, love might indeed mean never having to say you’re sorry, but the universe (or at least the audience) demands evidence of how complicated formulas lead to the simplest outcomes. Insufficient romantic energy is one of the major issues apparent in the latest lark from Pierre Salvadori, The Electric Kiss (aka La Vénus électrique), a period romcom sent against a carnivalesque backdrop in 1928 Paris. Time and place suggest potential homage to Pagnol or Chaplin, but a strained production design makes this suspension of disbelief iffy, and so we’re left to depend on the strength of a script by Benoit Graffin (who penned Salvadori’s previous rom com con gem Priceless, 2006) and Rebecca Zlotowski (who has a penchant for the supernatural milieu of mediums, evidenced in her underrated Planetarium, 2016). And not to mention story credit from writer/director Robin Campillo. And yes, there is an intriguing intersection of ideas establishing the set-up for something which could easily veer between screwball identity crisis and doom hurtling neo-noir, but sluggish pacing and surprisingly lackluster characterizations only establishes a vibrant palette without a soul.
Suzanne (Anaïs Demoustier) stars as the Electronic Venus in a raggedy carnival outside of Paris, suffering burns on her palms as she becomes a conduit for electrical surges whilst kissing strange men she also has to pretend to be momentarily in love with. Earning pennies on the dollar to pay off her servitude to horny ringleader Titus (Gustave Kervern, star of Salvadori’s In the Courtyard, 2014), who purchased her as a teen from her father, Suzanne is desperate for a better life. One day, Antoine (Pio Marmaï), a drunken sod, mistakes Suzanne for the carnival medium, Claudia. To take the exorbitant fee he’s offering to channel the spirit of his dead lover Irene (Vimala Pons), Suzanne goes along with the gag, and soon finds herself in a lucrative position to offer him continuous solace. His ability to commune with Irene has reignited his passion for painting, and his art dealer Armand (Gilles Lellouche) suggests Suzanne continue the ruse. But secrets about Irene’s demise, as well as Suzanne’s growing attraction to Antoine, complicate matters.
Both casting and characterization seem to be plaguing the proceedings, and Salvadori seems utterly disinterested in exploring the necessary sleaze and despair which would heighten the trappings of the carnival and Suzanne’s indentured servitude. Essentially, the Electric Venus suggests we’re going to get the Coleen Gray/Rooney Mara centerfold from Nightmare Alley (1947/2021), with a loutish Gustave Kervern salivating over Demoustier like Lon Chaney desiring Joan Crawford in Tod Browning’s The Unknown (1927). And then it would appear Salvadori instead wishes to play up the layered antics of Suzanne pretending to be Claudia pretending to inhabit the spirit of the deceased Irene. Demoustier certainly seems to be leaning into the ridiculousness of Suzanne’s plight, but the role is begging to be inhabited by a free spirited performer with a knack for physical comedy (think Rosalind Russell or Lucille Ball). Countless scenes require Suzanne to channel Irene, and each one feels DOA when it’s these moments which should make the film feel, well, electric. Likewise Suzanne’s act, which causes physical consequences (and Lily Bart/The House of Mirth style escapism) the audience should also come to flinch at. If there was any emotional resonance with her characterization, her nightly electrocutions would automatically inspire Pavlovian dread.
If the set-up seems primed for some old-school Frank Capra or Preston Sturges antics, another fault lies in the utterly banal characterizations of its male characters. Pio Marmaï is unfortunately backed into an impossibly inert scenario as a gullible, guilt ridden painter who believes he’s responsible for the death of his lover. Eventually secrets are revealed which supposedly exonerate him, but the extended flashbacks with Vimala Pons as Irene tend to bog down the energy, especially as we’re getting repetitive information thanks to the significant use of her diary, which painstakingly reiterates everything as Suzanne gluttonously pores over the dead woman’s prose.
A situation which seems primed to right the distracting physical realities blatantly sidestepped in the Patrick Swayze/Demi Moore/Whoopi Goldberg entanglements in Ghost (1990) also feels a wasted opportunity for physical comedy. Instead, we focus on the ersatz complications presented by art dealer Gilles Lellouche (who someone needs to tap for a Tony Clifton impression). When The Electric Kiss finally reveals its hand, the nonsensical setup feels rife with inauthentic plot holes regarding Antoine’s guilt, who more realistically would be concerned with how his relationship ended with Irene right before she sloughed off this mortal coil.
But Salvadori’s greatest crime is denying Antoine and Suzanne the space to develop the chemistry which makes their budding romance seem plausible. The rush of adrenaline and electricity required to make its finale work should have the strange catharsis of begrudging forgiveness between Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant in Bringing Up Baby (1938). Instead, it’s about as compelling as Britney Spears turning a dance floor into a circus.
Reviewed on May 12th at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival (79th edition) – Out of Competition. 122 Mins.
★★½/☆☆☆☆☆
