Last night, we pedalled our way in the gloom from Shadwell to Dalston, where the fine people of the Turkish community helpfully provided us with some lovely spinach and cheese pastries. Even a brief-ish French knockabout comedy drama would be too much for a pair of mostly empty stomachs.MicMacs is a rarity in the French cinema that I'm used to: A straightforward politically motivated revenge drama, propelled by some very matter-of-fact slapdash physical capers.
It feels like a faint echo of the dreadfully enjoyable doom of Delicatessen, but retained a sepia, timeless visual element.
The best scene involved the simple matter of distracting, or otherwise incapacitating a security guard. Our gang of misfit heroes and heroines (the young woman with the unrequited crush was named Calculator) decided that the best plan was this: Contact a couple who live in the apartment block opposite, and arrange to meet them in a cafe. Bribe them with fake Thierry Henry football shirts to have very visible and extended sex at their window the following night. With the security guard training him cameras on the couple, send a contortionist in through the ventilation system, where she will lower a sugar cube laced with knockout drops, on a string, through the vent and down into the security guard's coffee. When he is exhausted from watching the extended rogering, he takes a sip from his coffee, and is unconscious moments later.
How simple!
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