Despite a vague impression held by many Brits, French film is actually amazingly diverse – and not just the clichéd label of porn as art, whereby “art house” and “French film” had become synonymous with dodgy B-grade (at best) titillation.

I had forewarned Guillaume about this stereotype, which was further confirmed by a lot of nudge-nudge-wink-wink from my brother when he and Guillaume met for the first time. Still, he didn’t believe us.

It was only during a wander through the aisles of the “foreign” film section at the Piccadilly Circus Virgin Megastore (no pun intended) and he saw that the available selection primarily consisted of Baise-Moi, Betty Blue and Swimming Pool.

He was aghast at the selection’s distinct shade of blue – there was nothing like the fun for all the family with the Chorists, not a glimpse of the hereditarily blessed Charlotte Gainsbourg, and not even corny Jean Dujardin spoofs on Riviera surfers (Brice de Nice) or James Bond (OSS 117).

I must admit though, my life has become all the more enriched since becoming acquainted with the films of Jean Dujardin, who is one of the best charismatic comedians “most in their element playing smarmy creeps” in France at the moment.

Sex sold for France… but it’s been a long time since the 1970s pornography boom, so I think it’s time for everyone to clear up the Anglo-Franco cultural misunderstanding of the cross-Channel connotations of French film!