On the face of it, this film represents six reels of scraped together footage from off the cutting room floor. A more vague or hopeless mess could not have resulted.
Director-writer Jean Cocteau is a Parisian poet, artist and author, one of the finest. He has been called ‘a mad genius.’ No sense to try and explain what happens in this picture. It’s all silent footage with Cocteau personally explaining the action (in French) that’s just as meaningless as the action itself.
Photography is okay but has nothing special to bring attention. The sets are terrible.
[At New York’s Fifth Avenue Playhouse, where the film was reviewed in 1933, a lobby poster offered $25 for an explanation of the film’s meaning.]