Another day, another French film stuffed to the gunnels with crying and kissing. In a nutshell, we had a bunch of Gallic miseries on holiday doing a lot of moaning while their supposedly bezzie mate lay dying in hospital, having come off his scooter after a night snorting absinthe in a Parisian brothel. We never did find out what his injuries were although the shockingly bad make-up suggested botox gone wrong. ‘Oh woe is me’, various characters opined, having crashed their water skis or got a bit of cramp on an early morning beach run, after which they’d wail or shout or smash some of the beach hut crockery then drink lots of red wine. For some light relief, we had a few miscreant weasels in the attic and a man dressed as Bonnie Tyler. Oh, and there was an oyster fisherman with the biggest calves I’ve ever seen. However, the best thing about Little White Lies was the three children who spent the entire film looking bemused at the maelstrom of cheesy emotion that was swirling around over their cherubic curls. In the end, the friend dies and they all blub themselves into oblivion at the funeral, climaxed by the oyster fishermen emptying a big bag of sand into the grave. The French eh!