Tell No One (Ne le dis à personne)

Tell No One - And Save a Critic's Reputation

Films like Guillaume Canet’s Tell No One pose a fascinating quandary for the snooty, pretentious film critic. Now, when I say snooty and pretentious, I don’t mean Roger Ebert or some asswipe who just read their first issue of Cahiers du Cinema. I am speaking of real hardcore douchebags like myself who can barely muster the strength to sit down and view anything that is not made in black & white, Farsi or for under $65,000.
I barely tolerate linear narratives. The term “story arc“ makes me visibly nauseous.
So, with a film like Tell No One, based on a standard thriller by Harlan Coben (masked as an arty French whodunit) filled with cinematic symbolism and homage to beloved directors, you would think one such as myself would immediately dismiss it as transcontinental tripe. The worst of international artistic pandering. Cinematic muzak disguised as neo-Truffautian film à suspense. Regarded in much the same way as a Ron Howard film being screened at La Fémis. In other words, not at all.
But about 30 minutes into Tell No One, I felt my interest being piqued. The plot was swerving in unconventional directions. The characters were not belied by type. There was some subversion going on here.No, that's not Dustin Hoffman. It's François Cluzet.
I started taking this film seriously.
And with its title in mind, I beg you Dear Readers, for the sake of my standing in the international community of film fussbudgets, elitists, prigs, posers and snoots (FFEPPS)…
TELL NO ONE!
The appreciation of this film could be a career ender for me. Unabashed indulgence in cross-cultural flavor-of-the-week fare does not sit well with these people. It would be the beginning of a dressing down from members of FFEPPS (and all the other little bohemian film toads out there) that I would unlikely survive. A shunning from art houses and retrospectives. A cancellation of all cinema snob guild rights. Kenneth Anger would stop returning my calls. And I would receive a severe, ghostly spanking from Leslie Halliwell.
TELL NO ONE!
I beg of you. God help me I do like it… but wait a moment…
The clouds are beginning to clear. My mind, riddled with plot twists, red herrings, and visual metaphors just came upon the stark realization that Tell No One has started sucking right around the 100 minute mark.
It has outworn its welcome. It started strong, gathered steam and then just sputtered out. Victim, like most thrillers, of the constant need to befuddle and startle.
Twenty-five minutes and about twelve plot contortions later the convenient (and trite) wrap up scene comes from a very expected place- a minor character who has lurked around the edges of the film since the beginning. A whirlwind of conspiracy settling back into the dustbowl of predictability.
I am saved. I will live to scoff another day.
In the end, there were some great moments, some fascinating reveals and some genuine intrigue.
But a little editing would have helped. Enough with the two hour thriller. Be gone with the 120 minute comedy (I’m looking at you, Apatow!). Take a lesson in brevity and drop the self-importance of your every word and scene.
Sweet Jesus, think of the audience for once. The world is ready for the eighty minute feature.
That’s my little tip. An idea that could turn the international film industry around in the next six months.
But, TELL NO ONE where you heard it first.