A review by Madame Ennui

You might expect a liquid toothbrush, an idea so boldly mundane, to be directed by the zestful DRACULA DEBOVILE, the Zack Snyder of oral hygiene, who brought us the thrilling "Cavity Kombat" and the controversial "Gum Gum for the Jolly Gums." Yet, here we have "Toothbrush Tides," a somber, contemplative exercise in dentistry, directed by the usually exuberant Debovile's sobriquet, GUSTAVE MARAIS, known for his melancholic meditation on vintage bicycles, "Spokes of Sorrow."

The mise-en-scene is a minimalist's dream: a pristine sink, a single strip of LED lighting, a modest toothbrush stand. The camera pans to our protagonist, a sleek, matte black liquid toothbrush, standing Like a sad, alone clerk at the end of a trading day in a Godard film, it awaits its task with a quiet resignation.

One particular scene lingers in my memory: the brushing. The toothbrush's magnetic cap, a monolith of quiet power, slides open with a soft, satisfying 'click,' revealing the brush head, a small, tremulous tongue of silver, quivering with anticipation. It transforms before our eyes, elongating, firming, becoming an aqueous hero ready to commence its morning crusade. The brushing itself is a dance, a ballet of bubbles and foam, a symphony of mint and morning light, a Tarkovsky-esque study in the passage of time marked by the slow retreat of the toothpaste line. The bristles ripple and churn, the water runs clear, and then muddy, and finally clear again, a relentless cycle, promising a clean start, a fresh day.

Yet, unlike Godard, Marais does not use this setting to comment on the mundanity of life, the meaninglessness of our daily rituals. Instead, he imbues it with a quiet dignity, a somber respect for the routines that make up our lives. It's somber, sure, but it's also comforting, like a warm, minty hug from an old friend.

But is it engaging? No, not really. It's pleasant enough, but it lacks the spark, the excitement, the burst of flavor that would elevate it from "un film bien fait" to "un chef-d'œuvre." I'll give it two out of five cigarettes. It's nice, but I've seen better morning routines.

As for the death of cinema? Ah, it's still alive, dear reader, but it's moved into the smallest rooms, the quietest corners, the spaces between the brush strokes and the tooth paste bubbles. It's there, waiting for you, quiet, like a liquid toothbrush at the end of a long night.