Réalité

Malcontent enabled extractions, meandering like constipated reflexologies, prolifically backed-up, essentials, blunt banalities, a study of purposeless toyed flanked robotics, the aimless and the asinine, fluctuating between two worlds, a groan's canonization, bewildered supine prophylactics.

Resisting closure.

Residual repose.

I think this is how Quentin Dupieux approached Réalité.

I'm probably wrong.

Often in bizarre films concerned with the pointless mundane aspects of existence there are still some exceptionally peculiar hooks that pull you in to consider attaching the cult classification to their inanities.

These aspects, while present in Rubber and Wrong, are largely absent from Réalité, it's hopelessly unconcerned.

Its firm contempt for any kind of interlinking commonality, for any kind of rapport with films other than those I've already mentioned, is bold and risky if not rash and burdensome.

Unfortunately, while this bold risk takes a rebellious stand, the hooks that made Rubber and Wrong so commendable are missing in action, and although it's possible that Quentin Dupieux is comically ripping himself off, thinking, I'll make this as obtuse as possible just to see if my reputation can still guarantee unconditional applause, there's nothing really present in the film that would make me want to see it again.

Unless there's a Quentin Dupieux night being held somewhere.

At which point I would give it another shot.