Is Noémie Merlant’s “The Balconettes” an omnishambles, or what? The word “omnishambles,” connoting an unruly event dogged by misguided decisions, may strike some as dated, coming as it does from a 2009 episode of a British satirical program, “The Thick Of It.” Still, this reference is only marginally more dated than the polemical thrust of Ms. Merlant’s picture, which doesn’t expand upon the parameters of the #MeToo movement so much as cruise on its ripples.

The screenplay was co-written by Ms. Merlant and Céline Sciamma. You may recall that the former was the leading actress in the latter’s “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” (2019), a film that was bestowed with the kind of notice most filmmakers dream about. Ms. Merlant picks up the ball left in the wake of Ms. Sciamma’s meditation on the male gaze and hurtles on, zig-zagging with a ferocity that is over-the-top and in-your-face. Ms. Merlant is giddy with courage and conviction.

“Giddy” is an odd way to approach a movie that is centered on the rape of a main character. Still, our auteur says she hopes “this will also be a movie that makes people feel good, as well as laugh and think.” Persistence in the face of adversity is invariably aided by a sense of humor, and Ms. Merlant employs a surfeit of gallows irony by tapping into the verities of Grand Guignol theater, a French tradition that highlights the grotesque, the disgusting and the violent. “The Balconettes” is a comedy of manners, kind of, but delicate sensibilities will want to steer clear of it.

The story takes place at Marseille during a record-breaking heat wave. Channeling Alfred Hitchcock, Ms. Merlant drops the camera from the sky and begins exploring the windows of a sizable apartment complex. This opening has a charming, almost frivolous buoyancy — this is France, after all — until we alight on a particular terrace. It is there that we discover Denise (Nadège Beausson-Diagne) flat on her back and covered with bruises. When Denise’s abusive husband saunters in and splashes cold water in her face, she gets up, brains him with a dustpan, and sets about killing him in a manner too novel to mention in polite company.

Denise subsequently wanders into the apartment of a neighbor, frustrated novelist Nicole (Sanda Codreanu), and mentions the death of her husband and how she hesitates to call the police because “I’m scared I might not conceal my delight.” The women giggle over the course of these events, whereupon Denise meanders back home and forever out of the film. However blue the skies of Marseille may be, a dark tone has been set.

We subsequently meet Nicole’s besties: Ruby (Souheila Yacoub), an online cam girl with extravagant make-up and a paucity of clothing, and an actress, Élise (Ms. Merlant), who enters the film with a blonde wig and in a rush. She has just finished up as Marilyn Monroe and is eager to get away from her husband, the ever-calling, ever-texting Paul (Christophe Montenez). The ladies settle in on the terrace, open a bottle of wine, and begin commiserating over their fortunes. The bonhomie that accrues between longstanding friends is convincingly embodied by each of the actresses involved.

Our heroines take note of a hunky guy, often in a state of undress, glimpsed in a window across the way. The ladies like what they see, particularly Nicole, and after some mutual flirting from afar, Magnani (Lucas Bravo) invites them over for a drink. He’s a photographer, our Adonis, and works in the manner of Helmut Newton, concentrating on sleek and sexy nudes. Music and dancing follow, as does Magnani’s interest in Ruby. As the evening goes on, Elise and Nicole exit the premises, taking a hint from the increasing frisson between Ruby and Magnani.

Upon awakening, Elise and Nicole encounter a horror show: Ruby returns to the homestead bloodied and in a state of shock. A follow-up trip to Magnani’s apartment finds him not just dead, but spectacularly dead. It is at this point that Ms. Merlant and Ms. Sciamma go off the deep end in terms of story and temper: “The Balconettes” becomes, by neck-snapping turns, absurdist, ghostly, and ghastly. The shenanigans centering on the corpse of Magnani have a Three Stooges meets John Waters gratuitousness, though Ms. Merlant exhibits more cinematic flair than either of these examples.

When formal invention becomes inseparable from self-righteousness a certain dullness tends to set in, and “The Balconettes” is diminished by the stridency of its grievances. Not that those grievances don’t have a basis in history or are without merit, but one is left to wonder if misandry, extravagantly applied and self-congratulatory, is an effective antidote for past injustices. 

In the cartoon universe Ms. Merlant has whipped up, maybe so. In the world that the rest of us navigate, not so much. Caveat cinephile, in so many words, but don’t think Ms. Merlant won’t come up with something, some day, that will be worth your time.