Populaire - film review

     In the 50s, having a job as a secretary may have been considered modern, or even empowering, but mostly, as Rose Pamphyle (Déborah Francois) says in her job interview, it's the chance to work for an important man. Seen in this light, the rise and fall of a Speed-Typing champion is just as much to do with a woman's personal victory as it is to do with her boss' encouragement and coaching, as well as the freedom he allows her to have.
     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)