If there’s one small relief when it comes to Cousin, Cousine, it’s that the title isn’t exactly pointing to incest. The two lovers at the center of the story—Marthe and Ludovic—are cousins only by marriage, not by blood. Awkward, sure, but not exactly scandalous. Unfortunately, that’s about the only thing in the film that isn’t reprehensible.
The story begins at a family wedding, where Marthe and Ludovic meet and immediately connect—enough to make Marthe’s husband, Pascal (a man who himself is cheating left and right), instantly jealous. Over the course of several family events—weddings, funerals, hospital visits—the bond between Marthe and Ludovic deepens. They confide in each other about their spouses’ betrayals and, eventually, start an affair of their own. The film presents all of this with a breezy, lighthearted tone, as if emotional betrayal were no more serious than forgetting to send a thank-you card.
One trend in films that I truly can’t stand is when a story mistakes a character becoming more selfish for becoming stronger. Cousin, Cousine is built entirely on that false premise. True, Marthe’s husband Pascal is a despicable human being, but rather than facing things head-on or having any kind of honest conversation, the film chooses to frame Marthe’s mirrored betrayal as a form of self-empowerment.
And the frustrating thing is—the setup could have worked. The opening montage, where Pascal goes around breaking up with his former lovers to the sound of Georges Hatzinassios’ grating score (which aggressively insists we find it funny), actually sets the stage for meaningful conflict. But that’s not what the movie wants. It’s not interested in growth or introspection—it just wants to keep things light and “charming,” no matter how hollow the actions become.
Marthe is framed as a woman “finding herself” by tossing aside loyalty, family, and consequence. Her decision to cheat is presented as a moral awakening—and Ludovic, charming but shallow, is her partner in this supposedly liberating act. She kisses him in public, in front of her own children (such a good example for the young ones, ain’t I right?), and nothing happens. No consequences, no fallout. Even when Ludovic’s partner Karine attempts suicide in despair, the moment is played for laughs because she gets queasy at the sight of blood.
What’s worse is how much time we’re asked to spend with these selfish, emotionally stunted characters. In a different context, the romance could have worked. The actors do have chemistry, but even their relationship feels performative. They aren’t doing anything for one another—just indulging themselves.
Despite—or maybe because of—its moral sleight of hand, the film became a hit in 1976. Cousin, Cousine was praised for offering a more “adult” romantic comedy, one that avoided broad slapstick in favor of what critics called a “tender” tone. It earned three Academy Award nominations: Best Actress (Marie-Christine Barrault), Best Original Screenplay, and Best Foreign Language Film. It was even remade in America in 1989 as Cousins—a sure sign that people saw something in it.
To me, though, Cousin, Cousine is a shallow, episodic film that uses “romance” as a smokescreen for selfishness. And because it was French—and therefore seen as sophisticated through a 1970s American lens—it was hailed as progressive, maybe even revelatory.
It wasn’t. It was just European gloss on a morally hollow story.