For sale. The house looks good. She sits there a bit. The park is not bad either with its sequoia more than a century old. We are in Louveciennes. Is it the former secondary residence of Pierre Lazareff, who invited all of Paris there every weekend? Wahou!, the film by Bruno Podalydès, does not say so. It says many other things.
Inside, there is woodwork. The agent speaks of “stamp”. This professional forgets to specify that the train passes at the end of the garden. These are the tricks of the trade. Potential buyers follow one another. They don’t look alike. It starts with a group of musicians. They argue in the living room. They are artists. The doors slam. A socialite raves about the slightest piece, hoping to convince her husband. If she calls him, the game is half won. Patatras, the guy is odious, snobbish as a louse, and he tumbles along with an architect who plans to install an elevator in the monumental staircase which is surely classified by the heritage. Two brothers neglect to report that they are promoters. The owners watch this ballet with dismay. What if we canceled everything?
Eddy Mitchell locks himself in the toilet: this detail recalls a gag from Versailles Rive gauche. Sabine Azéma is hiding in the attic with her collection of Tintin albums. Karin Viard criss-crosses the chic suburbs on a scooter, fed up with these versatile, complicated, exhausting customers. His colleague Bruno Podalydès taught him b. a.-ba of the profession. It is necessary that by discovering the place, the newcomers push a “Wow!” of enthusiasm. There will be many in this light, modern, spirited comedy, shot with an infectious and obvious pleasure.
Respect the real estate agent. Don’t rush him. Under a rather gray sky, this man armed with files is on a mission. The situation is serious. Its role is crucial. He can confuse in front of a young couple a T3 with a T2 in a building in Bougival (Félix Moati is lucky to have a dad who doesn’t care about the expense), get the wrong keys, try to train a smoker trainee who circulates on a skateboard and whose vocation is not obvious, which does not prevent him from intervening at all times. He has his moments of discouragement. What’s the point? How long will he put up with guys who don’t open their teeth (Denis Podalydès perfect under his woolen hat) or this depressed nurse who doesn’t know what to do with his mother in a wheelchair?
The passion is disintegrating, by dint of using words like estimate, facing south, of evoking a bathroom as if it were a work of art. Meanwhile, people continue to dream of chimney fires, children screaming on the lawn, aperitifs under the trees. Their future is filled with jobs. Their heads are teeming with renovations. Fantasy is king in this series of sketches that follow one another at the speed of sound. The house is still for sale. The film is for rent. In every sense of the term.
La note du Figaro: 3/4
