WILD GRASS is in love with cinema like few films are; INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS is the only one I can think of in recent memory.
WILD GRASS is the first film I've seen since THE CONSEQUENCES OF LOVE whose form kept taking my breath from start to finish: always unpredictable, fluid, exciting.
WILD GRASS made me think of CONTEMPT (and, in particular, my response to the score of CONTEMPT); how, no matter how evident we make the mechanics of melodrama in film, reveling in it automatically creates an autonomous response in it.
WILD GRASS makes me wonder in what universe this film could possibly have been funded (to the tune of 11 million euros).
WILD GRASS is the work of an octogenarian whose filmmaking ideas are, by and large, fresher than 98% of those half his age.
To provide a plot summary is largely besides the point; the story here is how the story is told.
This movie has one major flaw: we are supposed to believe that someone would be married to Anne Consigny and yet have wandering eyes.
I mean, yeah, it's French and all, but still.
I'm curious to read the book when I invent a "spare-time machine" that gives me spare time to do so, to see if it is the source of the least predictable ending in the history of cinema.
In summation, I doubt I could recommend this movie in good conscience to anybody, but I absolutely loved it.