You know it’s not a serious French film until you’re sharing a cocktail of menstrual blood or being violated by a rusty iron rake. Breillat’s Anatomie de l’enfer was a good reminder of this, and indeed why I need to pace myself in attempting to appreciate serious French cinema. I would say this is one of the more disturbing examples I’ve seen in a while, probably since La Pianiste, anyhow. It was a bit of a singular film; it had a point but no coherence. It had focus but no drive. It would read better as a beat poem than it did as a film, and the ending was a train wreck. 4/10.