François Ozon’s fizzy comedy The Crime Is Mine, a loose adaptation of Georges Berr and Louis Verneuil’s 1934 play Mon crime, begins with murder, poverty, and a suicide threat. But the film delivers this material with such a bubbly optimism that it wouldn’t be a surprise if the cast broke into a choreographed number from Gold Diggers of 1933.
Set in 1935 Paris, the film follows two best friends fending off criminal charges, eviction, and professional failure. Struggling actress Madeleine (Nadia Tereszkiewicz) flees the casting couch of producer Montferrand (Jean-Christophe Bouvet) only to discover that he was later murdered and that she’s the prime suspect. Her roommate, Pauline (Rebecca Marder), a struggling lawyer, offers to defend her. Given the media’s hyperventilating coverage of other accused female killers, Madeleine figures that a splashy trial could help her and Pauline’s careers. Madeleine then falsely confesses to shooting Montferrand and takes Pauline as her lawyer, gambling that the jury will see a distressed damsel defending her honor and find her not guilty.
The Crime Is Mine draws on the giddily rules-trampling pre-war mood as Chicago. But while its protagonists are as driven by a desire for fame and money as the amoral starlets of the Fred Ebb and Bob Fosse musical, the film has more than grinning cynicism at its core. At Madeleine’s trial, Pauline’s speeches aren’t just theatrical defenses of her best friend, but impassioned feminist demands for equality. When the women are shown enjoying the post-acquittal fruits of Madeleine’s canny confession, renting a swank house and awash in professional success, rather than being shown as scammers or liars, they come across as canny manipulators of a sexist media and legal apparatus. They might be mercenary, but they’re never unlikeable.
Even the film’s most over-the-top female character is presented with admiration. Playing now-faded silent film star Odette, Isabelle Huppert sweeps into the film in a swirl of frizzy red hair, feathery outfits, grand hand gestures, and arrogant demands. As written, Odette’s faded luster could seem pathetic in a Norma Desmond manner. Huppert’s machine-gun dialogue delivery and otherworldly confidence elevates Odette to an almost aspirational figure.
By contrast, the film’s men are almost entirely figures of fun. They range from the pompous and thin-skinned, like Fabrice Luchini’s hilariously vain magistrate Rabusset, to out-of-their-depth, like Madeleine’s slightly dim fiancé, André (Édouard Sulpice). The one male character who makes a positive impression is Fernand (Dany Boon), a big-hearted wealthy architect who sweeps in for a handy deux ex machina late in the film. The only truly hiss-worthy male villain, Montferrand (Jean-Christophe Bouvet), is seen only in silent film-styled flashbacks (whether they’re real or imagined remains unclear) as a grotesque ogre getting his just desserts.
Ozon keeps things light throughout, ensuring that even the mockery comes across as generally well-intentioned. Before Madeleine comes up with her plan, she holds a pistol to her head and tells Pauline, “I’m a bad actress, you’re a bad lawyer, no one loves us. Let’s be sensible and kill ourselves.” Even at their lowest point, the film’s heroines never lose track of what’s truly important. “It’s a beautiful day,” Pauline encourages a downbeat Madeleine at one point. “I have sandwiches.” In the end, Ozon’s ability to play even as seemingly dark a moment as that as brisk comedy is a large component of what makes the film so consistently joyful.
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