Claire Denis, the reigning queen of elliptical mood pieces and unresolved trauma, decided in 2017 that what the world needed—what it truly craved—was a romantic comedy without the comedy, without the romance, and with the emotional satisfaction of a tax audit in a dentist’s office. Let the Sunshine In is her answer to that non-question. The film stars Juliette Binoche as Isabelle, a divorced artist and emotional trainwreck searching for love among a Parisian sea of smirking narcissists, whiny intellectuals, and human potholes in tight pants.
Binoche, a brilliant actress who could elevate a weather report into Shakespeare, is absolutely wasted here. Isabelle is one of those characters who has everything going for her—beauty, a successful career, the kind of apartment that screams “I have feelings about jazz”—and yet spends the entire film jumping into bed with walking red flags while mumbling about connection. She’s like a moth to a gas stove.
Let’s run the tragic lover gauntlet:
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The Married Banker – Played by Xavier Beauvois, this guy is sleaze in a scarf. He insults her, degrades her, and then leaves her hanging like a corpse in a perfume ad. Isabelle seems to like it. Maybe because he reminds her of her father. Or Sartre. Or possibly just because he’s available and mean—catnip for a certain kind of French art film protagonist.
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The Actor – Vain, emotionally unavailable, and more in love with his reflection than any woman could ever be. This relationship goes nowhere. Which, in Denis’ world, is sort of the point.
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The Alcoholic – He’s got feelings. He’s also got problems. Isabelle listens. Then sighs. Then sleeps with him. This film might as well have been called Sleep With Your Regret.
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The Ex-Husband – Still lurking around like a bad Wi-Fi signal. Still capable of reactivating Isabelle’s emotional static like a mosquito bite that never quite heals.
Isabelle’s love life is a tire fire, but not the fun kind. There’s no cathartic blow-up, no dramatic realization, no evolution. Just a string of whispered conversations in taxis, half-hearted sex scenes with overhead lighting, and moments of Binoche staring off into the middle distance like she’s trying to remember if she paid her electricity bill.
The film’s structure is pure Denis: non-linear, free-floating, and allergic to momentum. Scenes bleed into one another like spilled wine on white linen. Conversations start mid-sentence, end mid-thought. Time is fluid. So is logic. Isabelle goes from sobbing to horny to indifferent in the span of 30 seconds, and not in an interesting way. It’s like watching a soap opera written by someone on ketamine.
Visually, the film is competent—almost too competent. Everything is softly lit, warmly colored, and suffocatingly tasteful. The cinematography, by Agnès Godard, feels like it belongs in a gallery next to a sign that says “Please don’t feel too much.” It’s all so pretty, so restrained, so afraid to make a goddamn point.
Even the sex scenes are drained of urgency. They’re clinical. Detached. Two bodies awkwardly flopping around in linen sheets while a soundtrack of ambient despair hums softly in the background. You get the sense that Denis wanted to capture the intimacy of longing without ever giving the audience the decency of payoff. The film teases connection but offers only endless limbo. It’s like Before Sunrise if Ethan and Julie spent the entire runtime silently judging each other and then ghosted.
Which brings us to the dialogue: oh God, the dialogue.
This movie is a nonstop carousel of moaning, philosophizing, and empty therapy-speak. Characters say things like “I want something real” and “Love isn’t the answer, but neither is solitude” and “The light in your eyes frightens me.” It’s the kind of pseudo-deep garbage you overhear at a poetry reading in a wine bar that doesn’t serve wine. The script, co-written by Denis and novelist Christine Angot, sounds like it was assembled from the discarded notes of a relationship counselor going through a messy divorce.
By the time Gérard Depardieu shows up in the final scene—yes, that Gérard Depardieu—you’re already spiritually dead. He plays a psychic (yes, really) who monologues for what feels like 20 minutes while Isabelle listens with the glazed-over expression of someone trying not to fall asleep at an Amway seminar. It’s the cinematic equivalent of being offered a fortune cookie that says, “You’re alone, and it’s your fault.”
Is this satire? Is this tragedy? Is it Claire Denis trolling the genre from inside its own body like a romantic alien chestburster? Maybe. But if it’s a joke, the punchline is whispered into a glass of Pinot Noir and then drowned in sighs.
Let’s be generous and say the film is trying to depict the hollow ritual of modern love—the desperate search for meaning in a hookup culture where sincerity is an endangered species. Okay, fine. But that doesn’t excuse the repetition. Or the lack of character growth. Or the fact that Isabelle, despite being in nearly every frame, never changes. She’s not a protagonist. She’s a test pattern.
Final Verdict?
Let the Sunshine In is like getting trapped in a Parisian brunch with three narcissists and one ghost, all of them talking about love while ignoring their food. It’s emotionally hollow, narratively inert, and directed with the kind of art-school smugness that dares you to say you hated it out loud. Watch it if you enjoy beautiful people making terrible decisions with no stakes and even fewer insights. Everyone else? Let the sunshine in, sure—but keep the Claire Denis out.