Secret Things review

Nearly two hours of hot Sapphic sex action overlaid with a ponderous office satire and delivered with all the visual class of mid-'90s cable erotica, Jean-Claude Brisseau's risible Secret Things is definitive proof that the mere presence of screen subtitles can confer instant cultural gravitas on any old shite. Here we have two horny Parisian flatmates, Nathalie and Sandrine, who like masturbating on the metro, "getting each other off" and generally conforming to jaded softcore stereotypes. In other words, despite copious amounts of stylised writhing, what they really want, to quote Kevin Smith, is some serious "deep dicking". Along the way they get office jobs, attend orgies and have group sex with a maleficent CEO. And though the movie buffers itself with pseudo-nods to Dangerous Liaisons and the myth of Prometheus, it has nothing on Steven Shainberg's Secretary, Cindy Sherman's Office Killer or genuine bare-faced porn.

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