The Devil and the Ten Commandments (1962)

What makes The Devil and the Ten Commandments special is the way it turns moral fables into sparkling cinema: seven brisk episodes that bounce between wicked comedy and surprisingly sharp suspense, all guided by Julien Duvivier’s confident, elegant hand. It’s the kind of anthology where the pleasure is watching a sensational ensemble find new shades of mischief and humanity every fifteen minutes, with Fernandel’s unforgettable turn lending the film a sly, almost comforting authority even when the jokes bite. The tone is playful but not featherweight—some stories flirt with darkness, and that contrast is exactly what gives the humor its kick and the stakes their snap. If you want a single, continuous story you may find it a bit fragmentary, but if you enjoy memorable vignettes with strong performances and a mischievous moral wink, this is an impressive treat.

The Devil and the Ten Commandments is trying to be a witty, star-studded moral sketchbook—seven short tales poking at human weakness through the lens of the commandments. When it clicks, the humor is sharp and the cast sells the satire with effortless charm, giving you that polished early-’60s French comic bite. The problem is it’s an anthology that never really builds momentum: a couple segments feel thin or oddly paced, and the whole thing can come off more “clever idea” than satisfying payoff. If you want a cohesive comedy with a strong through-line, this may feel slick but slight; if you’re happy sampling uneven but occasionally delightful mini-stories, it’s an easy enough watch.