In the film, and in life, the Speed-Typing Championship probably stemmed from a cigar-fuelled "I bet my secretary types faster than yours" argument, and the exclusively female competitors inhabit a space somewhere between real sportsman(woman?)ship and simply being allowed to play. The rocky ground of post-war sexual power-play is tested with bright colours and the happy clack-clack of a typewriter, and leads us somewhere a little more patronising than first-time director Regis Roinsard may have been hoping for.
But even considering all of this, Roinsard still manages to get us on the edge of our seats. A sport played entirely sitting-down, and which demands as much mental taxation as it does physical, shouldn't have us as intoxicated and desperate for our champion to win, but it does- a sign of great film-making if ever there was one. A chirpy fifties' setting gives the film pace, costume and music from the era which makes it charming, if a little cliché* and the relationship between Pamphyle and her boss-come-trainer Louis (Romain Duris) is a mixture of Pride and Prejudice, My Fair Lady and just a splash of Rocky. Yes, there is even a training montage.
All of this does go a long way to distract the angry feminist watching behind our eyes, but she's still angry. Pamphyle only entered the competition because Louis practically forced her to, establishing it as a condition of her employment. Despite various wins at ever-expanding levels of competition, she's still just a secretary, an underling to an increasingly smarmy man with a weird face who is seduced only when the highly talented, witty and driven woman puts on a red dress with a slit up the leg. And then there's the bit where she happily cries "AND it's pink!" and giggles. No, inner angry feminist did not like that one little bit.
*(those of you who know your etymology will get that clever pun)
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