A vast improvement on the absurd and heavy-handed sex romp Ma mère, Christophe Honoré’s Dans Paris nevertheless shares one point of mutual disgust: Louis Garrel, once again naked, whiny, and over-sexed. This is an actor I loathe, on a one-way ticket since The Dreamers to get laid as many times as he can. His father does make good movies though. So often debauched and depressed, the big surprise here is that he plays an energetic free spirit: boyish, affable, and quite content to tag along with Honore’s faux-New Wavy soufflé. Roman Duris is the older brother in the doldrums of a relationship meltdown; Garrel is the incorrigible bum student adept at chasing skirts. As the two siblings board down for the night, a whimsical Paris the backdrop to their toil and trouble, the film careens from one anomaly to the next: narration that breaks the fourth wall, a phone conversation-as-musical duet, lip-service to cinema old and new. None of which falls into the trap of being pretentious or outmoded, and is juggled by Honoré with dexterity and self-control. And while Garrel gets to bed-sit with some lovely girls, it’s Duris whose turn it is to play the miserable mope. Without overstatement or hysterics, his performance is a sombre and sincere wade through depression that offsets many of the film’s brasher moments, especially a fine scene where he discusses the origins of sadness with one of Garrel’s neglected female friends. It’s all rather innocuous in the end though – impulsive filmmaking that never fails to be fun – invigorated by a lively soundtrack that skips effortlessly from Kim Wilde to excellent Canadian band Metric, fittingly gift-wrapped in the Michel Legrand-esque freestylings of Alex Beaupain’s jazz score.—Tim Wong