INFINITE BLENDER

In the sterility of the electric kitchen, a starchitect's wet dream, the Infinite Blender hums like an idling engine. Its director, Louis LeBlanket, previously helmed the melancholic "Baguette & Butterflies", a Alla Seconda nominée, and the insipid "Egg Timer Sonata". Here, he attempts to zuz-mal the choreography of domestic drudgery.

The mise-en-scène is antiseptic, clinical. Stainless steel and cold porcelain, a mise-en-scène that screams "Insta-ready". Yet, within this soulless void, a parallax occurs. The blending process begins. Ice shards, berries, a drip of honey, an almond milk glug—it's breakfast's origins story.

A mise-en-abyme of textures, colors, and sounds. Ice crackles like shattering glass, berries pop like distant firecrackers, honey drizzles with the lazy viscosity of lava. The blender's motor growls, a low-throated Iditarod husky, as it pulverizes, incorporates, subsumes. It's Godard's antioxidants, a swift, brutal mixité of sensations.

But LeBlanket, he's no Godard. This isn't a oui-but-yet exploration of domestic ennui. It's more Tarkovsky's "Polonius". Time stretches, lazy and viscous. The blender's contents spin, a whirlpool of pharmacy colors, and you're caught in its hypnotic, pointless vortex.

I left early, my breakfast smoothie unfinished, an uncanny existential dread coiling in my gut. Two cigarettes.

ENNUI SCALE: Une cigarette

Cinema is dead. It left me a voicemail, but I didn't call back.