Two Women – Film Review

In 1970, Claude Fournier’s Two Women in Gold (Deux femmes en or) shocked and delighted Quebec audiences with its blend of sexual frankness, suburban satire, and cheeky irreverence. It was a film very much of its time—both a product of the sexual revolution and a sly critique of post-Quiet Revolution ennui. Now, in 2025, director Chloé Robichaud (Sarah Prefers to Run, Days of Happiness) takes on the ambitious task of modernizing that classic in Two Women (Deux femmes en or). The result is a film that balances sharp performances and contemporary feminist commentary with uneven tonal execution. The outcome is engaging, frequently funny, sometimes incisive, but ultimately more admirable in ambition than consistent in effect.

Robichaud’s film stars Karine Gonthier-Hyndman as Florence and Laurence Leboeuf as Violette, two suburban mothers whose lives are stalled by dissatisfaction. Florence, on maternity leave, feels disconnected from her own desires, while Violette, on a temporary break from her job, teeters on the edge of burnout. Both women are ostensibly “successful”: they have partners, children, stable lives. And yet, neither is fulfilled. When Florence unexpectedly begins an affair with a delivery man, it jolts both her and Violette into a deeper reflection about their identities, priorities, and the way society polices women’s desires.

At the heart of Two Women lies a deceptively simple premise: what if an extramarital affair could be framed not as a moral failing, but as a radical act of rebellion against societal conformity? Robichaud mines this provocative question for both comedy and poignancy. Florence’s first sexual encounter outside her marriage is shot with both absurd humor and a sense of liberation; it is at once clumsy and exhilarating, a rupture in the fabric of suburban monotony.

Violette, initially scandalized, slowly becomes infected by Florence’s energy. What begins as hushed gossip between neighbors evolves into a kind of feminist solidarity. Together, they embark on an emotional journey that’s less about sex per se than about reclaiming the right to joy, spontaneity, and risk-taking in a world that reduces women to their domestic roles.

This thematic underpinning is where Robichaud’s remake distinguishes itself from Fournier’s original. While the 1970 version leaned heavily into bawdy comedy, this modern incarnation is sharper in its social critique. The laughter is still there—awkward sex scenes, nosy neighbors, and self-serious men provide plenty of comedic beats—but the humor is shaded with frustration, disillusionment, and yearning.

The film’s strongest asset is its cast, particularly the chemistry between Karine Gonthier-Hyndman and Laurence Leboeuf. Gonthier-Hyndman’s Florence exudes restless energy; she is the kind of woman who seems perpetually on the verge of exploding, her smile stretched thin, her voice just a little too sharp. When she finally crosses the line into infidelity, the release feels earned, both for her character and the audience.

Leboeuf, on the other hand, plays Violette with understated melancholy. Her character is not overtly unhappy, but rather hollowed out, going through the motions of her suburban existence. Watching her transformation—subtle shifts in posture, in tone, in the sparkle of her eyes—is one of the film’s quiet pleasures.

Supporting performances add texture without stealing focus. Félix Moati as Benoit, Florence’s husband, is convincing as the oblivious yet well-meaning partner who cannot quite grasp the emotional chasm between him and his wife. Mani Soleymanlou’s David, Violette’s husband, is more defensive, embodying the fragility of a man whose identity is tied to his role as provider. Meanwhile, Sophie Nélisse appears as Jessica, a younger woman whose presence in Florence and Violette’s orbit underscores generational shifts in how women perceive independence and sexuality.

Robichaud directs with confidence, though not always consistency. Visually, the film alternates between glossy suburban naturalism and playful stylization. Some sequences—particularly the fantasy-laden daydreams of Florence and Violette—veer into surrealist comedy, echoing the audacious irreverence of Fournier’s original. At their best, these flourishes amplify the absurdity of suburban repression. At their worst, they interrupt the pacing and dilute the film’s emotional resonance.

The screenplay by Catherine Léger strives to balance sex comedy with social commentary, but it occasionally falters in tone. Certain jokes feel forced, as if the film is trying too hard to wink at its own naughtiness. Conversely, the more dramatic exchanges—particularly when Florence and Violette confront their husbands—sometimes dip into earnestness that feels at odds with the playful setup. The result is a film that is intelligent, often entertaining, but not as tonally seamless as it aspires to be.

One of the more fascinating aspects of Two Women is how it reframes the 1970s narrative for contemporary audiences. In the original, women’s liberation was emerging as a disruptive force in Quebec society; infidelity, framed comedically, was an allegory for liberation from tradition. In 2025, however, the stakes are different. Women today may have formal equality, but they remain constrained by societal expectations around motherhood, domesticity, and “having it all.”

Robichaud taps into this paradox. Florence and Violette are not oppressed in the overt sense, but their lives are structured by an invisible architecture of labor, performance, and obligation. Their rebellion is not against husbands who forbid them from working or voting, but against a culture that subtly erases their individuality beneath the veneer of success. In this way, Two Women is less about sex than about selfhood.

The film also gestures toward class commentary. The affair with a delivery man, a figure literally bringing goods into the insulated world of suburban privilege, underscores the women’s longing for connection outside their bubble. Yet this thread is underdeveloped, leaving one wishing the film had dug deeper into the intersections of gender, class, and desire.

As a comedy, Two Women delivers chuckles more than belly laughs. The humor is situational, deriving from awkward conversations, clashing expectations, and the absurdity of suburban life. When Florence and Violette awkwardly attempt to cover up their misadventures, the farcical energy recalls classic sex comedies. But the pacing can be inconsistent, with some comedic sequences dragging longer than necessary.

Still, there is a warmth to the humor that prevents it from feeling mean-spirited. Robichaud clearly cares about her characters, and the film resists turning Florence and Violette into caricatures. Even at their most ridiculous, they are portrayed with empathy, as women simply yearning to feel alive again.

Two Women is an intriguing, imperfect film. It doesn’t quite capture the anarchic energy of Fournier’s 1970 classic, nor does it fully achieve the tonal precision it aims for. But it succeeds in offering a fresh, feminist reimagining that feels both relevant and entertaining. Its greatest strength lies in the central performances of Karine Gonthier-Hyndman and Laurence Leboeuf, who imbue Florence and Violette with a mix of humor, vulnerability, and defiance.

While the film may leave some viewers wishing for sharper comedy or deeper social critique, it also leaves a lingering resonance. Florence and Violette’s journey is not so much about sex as it is about reclaiming agency in a world that asks women to perform endlessly but rarely invites them to play.

Two Women may not be revolutionary, but it is refreshingly candid, often funny, and occasionally moving—a worthy, if uneven, companion to its audacious predecessor.