A week of movies full of nasty girls and angry women. The proof that it does not lead to objects of the same value. From the best (Women Do Cry), lukewarm (best), and until painful: the Mif. The latter proves to be a rare cunning. Along the way, the masks fall off one by one: this false true docufiction of an educator in reassignment is an odious confessional blackmail, playing the trauma of little girls as a repeatedly extorted climax, according to the portraits and first names around a sequence crisis serving as an alibi, repeated ad nauseam. A ramshackle but very concerted self-reconstruction story having no other care than to track down the climax of the camera confession, and its “listening” as a revered priest. The Mif of the title it is “the family” and the reception in a home for difficult teenagers, with a heavy past (rape, death of parents, crimes, precariousness), that they will have to spit in turn to “feed the story » of his motor pain, to have a chance to exist in the film before being landed.
Like this game in which they indulge, the principle is action or truth. In fact, everything seems to be tampered with, in the sound, in the editing, in the image, of this supposed spit-out truth. A baroque musical score poses its pretty little interludes, poetry punctuated between two putassier miseries, evoking at best Michel Legrand (who has nothing to do here), at worst the suspicious rustling effect of a David Hamilton. The look and the construction bear witness to a desire for absolute control over the girls, over the educators, over the few parents. The malaise sets in for a long time.
