I found this rather begged comparison to Bresson's perfect Angels of the Streets, and paled. I suppose it's not a fair comparison: This is Diderot, technically an 18th century work and not a period piece. And it is quite exquisite in its intelligence, complexity and boldness. If it weren't for a plodding second act, it might even have been captivating. While flawed, it amounts to quite a brilliant existential meditation, and not a mere poke at Christianity.

"A garish potboiler first and a harsh critique of religious institutions last." - Keith Uhlich