There's an old statistical saying -- which I'll paraphrase -- that if you put enough monkeys in front of enough typewriters (of course, now it would be computers) and gave them enough time, they'd eventually manage to unwittingly type out all of the great literary masterpieces the world has ever known. If the same applies to making films, Cheetah, Lancelot Link and the rest of their swinging buddies would easily stumble upon making a film better than "Marie Baie Des Anges."
A French tale of two adolescents and their tumultuous summer around the French Riviera, this is frustratingly bad filmmaking at its best (or worst, depending on your view). As if helmed by an overeager, but uneducated simian crew, the film flips and flops all across the screen without making one grain -- let alone a "shaker-ful" -- of sense. Yes, movies are supposed to be stories told with pictures -- and this one contains many such snapshots -- but there's just no story.
While some may find (or think they've found) some sort of symbolism amongst this train wreck of a movie, most audiences will leave the theater at the end (if they last that long) scratching their heads wondering what they had just seen. Nothing is ever explained and no attempt is made to inform the audience about anything occurring in the film. While young Marie may be ravishing in a Lolita type of way, and Orso is a troubled thug, there's nothing behind their facades. It's as if they were created by a second rate screenwriting program -- or at random by a bunch of banana breath filmmakers.
Dialogue, characters, and scenes start and stop at random -- often without any connection to any other scene in the movie -- leaving moviegoers with absolutely no idea of what these seemingly random elements are supposed to mean. Beyond many jump cuts that appear within individual scenes (where the camera view suddenly jumps as if footage has been edited out of a moving shot), all of the disparate scenes -- that easily could have come from different movies and include odd material such as Grand Prix footage and a bizarre Gene Kelly tap dancing sailor homage -- are juxtaposed into one disjointed and extremely convoluted mess (much like this sentence...okay, I'll stop monkeying around).
In keeping with the mangled plot (and I use that term loosely), the filmmakers never let us know much about the characters who come off as flimsy and superficial as the scenes in which they appear. Vahina Giocante and Frederic Malgras deliver initially intriguing performances, but writer/director Manuel Pradal doesn't allow us to know anything beyond their thinly spread, surface characteristics. The rest of the cast is even less developed than that (reportedly none are professional actors) and most aren't even identified by name.
The film's visual sense, however, as supplied by cinematographer Christophe Pollock, is the only thing worth noting about the production. The Mediterranean along the French Riviera has rarely looked better, and at least its "eye candy" qualities partially sooth one's brain while searching for something meaningful regarding this film.
In several scenes two huge triangular rock formations dominate the scenery and are described as legendary dorsal fins that kept the "Bay of Angels" (hence the title) safe from invasion due to a fear of enormous sharks. After about half of this film, one wishes those two sharks would finally show up, eat the performers -- or better yet, those silly chimps behind the camera -- and allow everyone to go home and leave this mess behind. If not for the cinematography, this product of the Higher Primate Film Institute would rate lower than the 1 out of 10 that we've so graciously given it.