From here we witness Carole’s cascade into full blown mania; perhaps one of the most scintillating litanies of madness committed to celluloid – Deneuve’s pristine, inimitably chiselled features serve as tantalizing catnip for the greasy haracters lining the streets of London. Persistently ogled and unabashedly gawked at – Carole flounders under the weight of her burdensome beauty, the city posing all kinds of jeopardies to Carole’s quaint, Gallic reserve.
     What’s clear is Carole’s perception of human behavior as inordinately gruesome – save for a couple of brief, intimate moments with her sister and co-worker – people never steer far from their animalistic, atavistic tendencies. The women Carole tends to in the salon, smothered with face pack, appear almost reptilian; the leech-like, cat calling passersby, the abrasive boss and perverted landlord appear as grotesque, hybrid figures. Worse still – Carole’s own dysmorphic reflection in a kettle – deformed, distorted.