Polanski's lynchpin is not the curdling of lyricism but the lyricism of curdling, bliss and degradation enlarged so that there's no space separating them, bridged like farce and tragedy, or the sublime and the ridiculous... A smutty joke for a boring voyage, or the unbridled laying out of the salacious essence of the human soul? The nakedness of the film's confessions arouses derision in the puritanical, yet the last laugh remains [Polanski's], with the audience protesting but never leaving.
Fernando F. Croce
January 4, 2006