The Cousins
It’s no surprise The Cousins picked up the Golden Bear, or that Akira Kurosawa listed it among his hundred favourite films. For only his second feature, Chabrol already knew what he was doing. What starts as a breezy, slightly wry student comedy slowly turns sour—a story about how charm, money, and moral laziness eat away at everything decent.
The setup’s simple: one cousin from the country arrives in Paris, all hope and good manners; the other—rich, bored, and a bit of a snake—shows him the ropes. You can almost smell the Gauloises and cheap wine. By the time the parties end and the records stop spinning, you realise how hollow it all is.
It’s stylish, sharp, and quietly brutal in that way French films often are—a film that sneaks up on you, looking like a student romp but landing like a gut punch.
The setup’s simple: one cousin from the country arrives in Paris, all hope and good manners; the other—rich, bored, and a bit of a snake—shows him the ropes. You can almost smell the Gauloises and cheap wine. By the time the parties end and the records stop spinning, you realise how hollow it all is.
It’s stylish, sharp, and quietly brutal in that way French films often are—a film that sneaks up on you, looking like a student romp but landing like a gut punch.
Mini Review: The Cousins starts light and ends rotten—a smoky Parisian tale of charm curdling into corruption. Chabrol’s early gem drips with Gauloises, jazz, and moral decay. It looks like a student comedy but hits like a hangover.
Watch the Trailer