Entangled (2019) is everything I hate about arthouse films.

Let’s start with the title. Entangled. It’s the most milquetoast, forgettable film title imaginable. Do you realize how many movies have that name? Even in 2019, there were multiple Entangleds.

But I guess the marketers really wanted to scream, “This is an arthouse film!” So, they stuck a seductive woman on the poster, threw in a couple of good-looking guys, and called it a day.

But if only the problems ended with the marketing.

This film follows a Frenchwoman living in New York City who suffers a miscarriage, becomes depressed, and then seeks solace in the beds of multiple lovers—while still dating her nerdy boyfriend. The movie is enamored with the fact that she’s French. It’s equally enamored with New York City, but not the New York I love. No, this is the version of New York filled with self-absorbed rich people who think they define its culture. And it’s insufferable.

A good portion of the movie consists of this French girl waxing poetic in voiceover, indulging in stereotypical French clichés—obsessing over art, fashion, and self-discovery. I’m shocked they didn’t slap a beret on her and make her nibble a baguette. The film desperately tries to make her choices feel profound, as though she’s undergoing some deep existential crisis. But I don’t buy it.

I believe people act on their wants and desires first, then rationalize them later. And this girl? She’s not poetic. She’s not profound. She’s a narcissist. It’s all about her. Her wants. Her desires. Screw the nerdy boyfriend with glasses—he just doesn’t appreciate her.

The film even tries to justify her actions by suggesting that he has an attractive secretary, that he goes to clubs with his friends, that women hit on him. But he doesn’t hit on his secretary. His friend does. The guy just hired her. Pretty women need jobs too. And when a woman at a club makes a move on him, he shuts it down immediately and makes it clear he has a girlfriend. That’s not his fault.

If he were out looking for trouble, that would be one thing. But if trouble finds him and he says no? He’s a good guy. Sorry, film, but that’s the truth.

Meanwhile, this French girl is ready and willing to cheat at every opportunity. She hooks up with three different people over the course of a week. And yet, we’re supposed to feel sympathy for her. Because she’s pretty? Because she’s so very French?

There’s one scene that really grinds my gears. She’s talking to a friend about an ex she’s planning to meet up with—an ex who already flaked on her. The friend asks why she’s so into him. Instead of showing a picture of this supposedly handsome man, she shows a picture he took of her—all artsy and seductive. She’s not obsessed with him. She’s obsessed with his idealized vision of her. That’s narcissism.

Now, I know what some of you might be wondering: “Are there any sexy scenes?” No. Everything is just long and drawn-out, with this girl having supposedly deep conversations with her lovers. There’s one love scene, and it’s not sexy. It’s an over-stylized, boring slog.

The most pathetic thing about Entangled? It never once occurs to this French girl to just dump the nerdy boyfriend and go sleep around with a clear conscience. But maybe I’m giving her too much credit—of course she wouldn’t. She’s a narcissist. And apparently, all of this stems from the fact that her boyfriend didn’t respond the way she wanted after her miscarriage.

Look, I understand that miscarriages are rough. But people go through awful things all the time, and they don’t treat their loved ones like garbage. The entire movie—its full hour and a half runtime—is just irritant after irritant. I cannot stand it when rich people try so hard to make their lives seem profound and poetic when, in reality, they’re just selfish.

My biggest gripe with Entangled is that I had to spend time with one of the most self-absorbed, unlikable women I’ve ever seen on screen.

Not that Ana Girardot (who plays the lead, Marin) didn’t try. She clearly took the role seriously, and I respect that. But there’s only so much an actor can do with a bad script. The other actors did fine too—Peter Mark Kendall as the sad-sack nerd, Grégory Fitoussi and Jay Wilkison as two of the lovers. They tried. But you can only do so much when dealt a bad hand.

Which brings me to the person responsible:

This film was written and directed by Milena Lurie. That’s rarely a good sign for a first-time indie director. To date, this is the only film she has ever written or directed. She also produced it—meaning she financed it too. In her defense, making a movie is hard, especially an arthouse one. Writing, directing, and financing your own film? That’s an achievement. Most people dream of doing that and never get their projects off the ground.

So, credit where it’s due—she made a movie. But it could have been better. I don’t even know how without gutting the script entirely, but one thing is certain: someone else should have taken a pass at the screenplay. The cinematography is decent. Lurie knows how to frame a shot—good job on that. But the writing? That’s where everything falls apart.

And here’s the thing: I don’t buy into the whole auteur theory nonsense. Film, by its nature, is collaborative. Unless you’re making a one-person project (which this film isn’t), you need other people refining the vision. Lurie could have benefited from that.

One last note: Entangled was produced and distributed by Samuel Goldwyn Films. They specialize in arthouse movies—low-budget indie fare like this. Sometimes they knock it out of the park. Other times, they churn out pretentious, self-important garbage. And that’s exactly what Entangled is.

I do not recommend it. It’s everything wrong with arthouse films in one miserable package. Don’t watch this one.

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