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maker as strange and wonderful as Bunuel or Tati--- and just as scathing in his indictment of modern society.
In a splendid old chateau, the paterfamilias is content endlessly to quaff superb wines and liquor while playing with his toy trains and cavorting with the female help. His son, meanwhile, leads a double life on the streets of Paris, hanging out with an assortment of hustlers and petty criminals. What does it all mean? Does it need to mean anything?
Well, it's a fun romp if that's all you see in it, anyway.
And Iosselani's touch is every bit as individualistic as Bunuel's.
If you like this one, "Brigands, Chapter VII" similarly is recommended.
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