The Cannes Film Festival’s opening-night film is a paradox: a grand stage for cinematic ambition, yet a cautionary tale of overreach. When the curtain rises on 'The Electric Kiss,' it’s not just a movie that’s supposed to dazzle—it’s a statement. But what the festival has repeatedly shown is that its most anticipated openings often fall short of their lofty promises, leaving audiences with a lingering sense of disappointment. This year’s choice, a period-piece romance steeped in illusion and desperation, feels like a masterclass in self-parody. It’s not just bad; it’s too bad, a film that seems to exist solely to prove that even the most prestigious film festival can’t escape the pitfalls of overthinking.
There’s a curious ritual around the Cannes opener: a film that’s meant to be a gateway to the festival’s treasures, a beacon of artistic excellence. Yet the history is littered with examples of movies that, instead of inspiring, have left critics scratching their heads. 'Café Society' was a middling rom-com, 'The Dead Don’t Die' a meta-zombie flick that felt more like a joke than a film. The pattern is clear: the festival often leans into the avant-garde, the eccentric, the overly stylized, and the intentionally baffling. But what’s fascinating is how these choices reflect a deeper tension—between the festival’s desire to be a global beacon of cinematic innovation and its need to maintain a sense of accessibility.
The Electric Kiss is a film that tries too hard to be profound. It’s a story about a carnival performer, a grieving artist, and a ghostly muse, all wrapped in the garb of 1920s Paris. The director, Pierre Salvadori, is described as a devotee of Lubitsch and Wilder, but his film feels more like a parody of those masters. The film’s premise—a woman channeling the spirit of a dead lover to revive a dying artist—is both romantic and absurd, a concept that’s been explored before but never with such pedestrian execution. What’s most telling is how the film treats its own themes as if they’re intellectual exercises. The idea that art can be resurrected through suggestion is charming in theory, but in practice, it’s a hollow spectacle. The film’s greatest flaw isn’t its plot—it’s its insistence on being both a romantic drama and a period piece, a dual identity that never quite coalesces.
What I find particularly interesting is how the film’s aesthetic choices reinforce its message. The cinematography, lush and overly saturated, is meant to evoke the golden age of Hollywood, yet it feels more like a filter of rosé. The film’s visual style is so deliberate, so self-aware, that it almost becomes a character in itself—a pretentious, self-congratulatory entity that’s more interested in its own cleverness than in the story it’s trying to tell. The performances, too, are wooden. Suzanne, the carnival performer, is played by Anaïs Demoustier, a talented actress who seems to be trying too hard to be glamorous. The film’s insistence on making her a ‘siren’ of desire is both ironic and exhausting. It’s as if the director is saying, ‘Look at me! I’m a genius at making people feel things!’
There’s also a strange irony in the film’s treatment of art. The artist Antoine Balestro is portrayed as a man so broken that he’s willing to believe anything, including the ghost of his wife. The film’s suggestion that art can be revived through suggestion is both touching and tragic. It’s a reminder of how easily we can be manipulated by our own desires, how easily we can mistake illusion for reality. But what the film fails to do is explore this idea with depth. Instead, it treats it as a gimmick, a way to distract from the film’s lack of emotional resonance.
The Electric Kiss is a film that’s been built on the idea that spectacle is enough. It’s a movie that’s meant to be seen, not felt. And yet, it’s the kind of film that leaves you wondering: why bother? Why not make something that actually connects? The festival, for all its prestige, has repeatedly shown that its opening-night films can be as much about style as they are about substance. And in a world where audiences are increasingly skeptical of artifice, that’s a dangerous trend. The Electric Kiss is a reminder that even the most prestigious film festivals can’t escape the pressures of expectation, and that sometimes, the best thing a film can do is to be completely unremarkable.
