The title refers to the Russian practice of forging damaging evidence to either blackmail or secure convictions on falsely accused enemies. Here, it’s aimed at the new Director of the French/Russian Alliance in Irkutst. (You know, like the RISK board-game territory.) It ought to be a natural for a thriller about the French Alliance Chairman finding himself trapped in a Kafkaesque diplomatic nightmare, his conviction a fait accompli and escape the only option. The problem is co-writer/director Jérôme Salle making nothing but false moves at every story beat to get to the next narrative staging area. And while it’s hardly unusual to find a film asking us to swallow something unlikely to get the ball rolling, or find a way out of a narrative jam, KOMPROMAT is ludicrous right from the start and stays that way. Just take the opening, a festive gala at the Alliance auditorium to celebrate his appointment in Irkutst. Who wouldn’t begin the evening for these overdressed political hacks with anything but an R-Rated homosexual pas de screw for a near nude, writhing couple? Just be sure your estranged wife brings your 6-yr-old daughter to see it, along with the aghast ultra-conservative locals. French cultural arrogance? Or entitled cluelessness? Our director is soon charged with transparently false claims of distributing internet child porn and sexual abuse of his daughter. (Hey, she fell asleep and left before the erotic dance started.) But the real agenda is to expose a putative spy network. Gilles Lellouche, who plays the blinkered cultural leader brings a Liam Neesom vibe to his role, but his actions are so consistently brain-dead, this quickly wears off. As in: getting a ride to an escape point near the border from the blonde translator who’s decided to help you (for unknown reasons)? Don’t forget to hang around in the car to strip and have passionate, steamy sex before you start your escape. So French. Grabbing a ride back to Moscow to try for ‘safety’ at the French Embassy? No problem, you’re sure to get a ride with a worldly pastor who’ll hide you in his car trunk and yell at the guards who want to have a look. N'est-ce pas? Another twenty plot turns go like that. And when that’s not enough, Lellouche is sure to be on his cell phone so the wicked FSB (sort of like the old KGB) can track his position. And the film’s handsome production (great location shots of fierce roads thru forests), only make it all worse.
SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: But imagine the possibilities of Peter Sellers’ Inspector Clouseau fumbling his way to freedom with this script. It’d be worth it just for the car sex.
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