The opulence of the sets, the accumulation of famous actors and the twirling camera movements are evidence of this. This grandiloquent pomp is nevertheless put at the service of a rather light story, whose threads will have been unwound with more panache and originality in countless films, novels or fanfics. It is as flashy as a bad taste painting, but above all, it is as stiff as a compassed dandy. All the paintings in the film seem to be stuck in a mixture of starch and mothballs. Despite the virtuoso camera movements that are mostly ham-handed, each shot is empty, dehumanized, sad to tears. By dint of pastiching himself, there comes a moment when the director loses his originality.