Sur Mes Lèvres
As you might have guessed by now, I'm not a sucker for stereotypical rom-coms with smooching conveyer belt casanovas reciting poetry and wafting red roses left, right and centre.
So under my radar, this gallic film noir-thriller slots into the big cheese role of the romance genre like a dime in a pinball machine.
So scooch over Casablanca. No amount of Humphrey Bogart scowling into his gin is going to budge this Hitchcock-esque number out of the ranking. It's got enough emotional porn between Emmanuelle Devos' lonely frumpy secretary and Vincent Cassel's flaky limp haired ex-con to induce a fallopian tube explosion.
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