Having strayed from his home turf for 2021's largely Paris-set France, director Bruno Dumont once again finds himself on the familiar territory of the Opal Coast with The Empire (curiously, Dumont's Outside Satan was filmed under the same working title). As with Outside Satan, The Empire is concerned with the age-old battle between good and evil. Yet despite sharing the same broad theme and setting, the two films are very different from one another, with Outside Satan's Bressonian austerity nowhere in evidence as The Empire firmly aligns itself with the absurdist comedies Dumont has been making for the past decade. Out of Dumont's post-Camille Claudel 1915output, only 2019's Jeanne can be classed as a mostly "straight" film, but even that punishing, rigorous exercise was the sequel to a deranged heavy metal musical centring on Joan of Arc.
Dumont's shift into comedy began with the 2014 miniseries Li'l Quinquin, which kicked off a loose trilogy that is now capped with The Empire (in between came a second TV series, Coincoin and the Extra-Humans). These three works are linked by a pair of bumbling cops, Van der Weyden (Bernard Pruvost) and Carpentier (Philippe Jore), who over the course of the past ten years have been investigating increasingly bizarre crimes. Coincoin and the Extra-Humans introduced a sci-fi element to proceedings, and The Empire sees Dumont make the leap to full-bore science fiction, with his latest film playing as a Ch'timi take on Star Wars, lightsabres and all. As far as Dumont's oeuvre is concerned, it has been posited that The Empire is a mix of Ma Loute and The Life of Jesus, but it is difficult to see much of the latter—barring the general locale—in this light divertissement.
At its most basic level, The Empire pits two alien factions against each other as they vie to take control of Earth. The Queen (Camille Cottin) spearheads the benevolent 1s, while Beelzebub (Fabrice Luchini) is the leader of the nefarious 0s; each side has taken a foothold in a small fishing village by inhabiting the bodies of locals. Thus, 0-fuelled fisherman Jony (Brandon Vlieghe) has fathered a baby who, it is foretold, will lead the dark side to triumph—sound familiar? Jane (Anamaria Vartolomei) works on behalf of the 1s, and is devoted to preserving mankind; she has a sidekick in the form of Rudy (Jeanne's Julien Manier), while Jony is backed up by Line (Lyna Khoudri). Although these otherworldly beings should have loftier matters on their minds, their earthly bodies serve as a major distraction—particularly when opposing numbers Jane and Jony develop a mutual attraction.
Just as France saw its male lead replaced prior to the start of filming, Dumont was forced into recasting no less than three of The Empire's main roles, with Vartolomei, Khoudri and Cottin replacing Adèle Haenel, Lily-Rose Depp and Belgian actress Virginie Efira, respectively. While Vartolomei is the standout performer here, it is a pity that the film gives Pruvost, Jore and Cottin so little to do, especially as Luchini has way too much screen time as the tiresomely unfunny Beelzebub. The Empire marks Luchini and Dumont's third collaboration together, but there's a sense that this time the director has indulged his star to the point of the film's detriment. As a coda to the Quinquin cycle, The Empire possesses a sloppy charm, and while it's certainly the slightest entry in the trilogy, there is nevertheless some fun to be had from its splicing of the fantastic with the workaday.
Sylvie (Virginie Efira, above) lives in Brest with her two children, Sofiane and Jean-Jacques. Together they form a tight, happy family. One night, Sofiane hurts himself, alone in the apartment while his mother is out at work. The incident is reported and Sofiane is placed in foster care. Armed with a lawyer, her brothers and her children’s love, Sylvie is confident she can overcome the bureaucratic and legal machines.
Omen (Dir: Baloji Tshiani)
Following Kofi’s return to his birthplace after he has been ostracized by his family, Omen explores the weight of beliefs on one’s destiny through four characters accused of being witches and sorcerers, all of them intertwined and guiding each other into the phantasmagoria of Africa.
The (Ex)perience of Love (Dirs: Ann Sirot, Raphaël Balboni)
Rémy and Sandra (Lucie Debay, above) are unable to have a child as they suffer from “Past Love Syndrome”. In order to be cured, they only have one solution: they have to sleep once again with each and every one of their past lovers.
Vincent Must Die (Dir: Stéphan Castang)
Random strangers have suddenly started attacking Vincent with murderous intent. His life as an unremarkable man is overturned, and as things spiral violently out of control, he is forced to flee and change his life completely.
The Other Laurens (Dir: Claude Schmitz)
Gabriel Laurens is a private detective. When his niece, Jade, asks him to investigate her father’s death, the detective must confronts the ghosts of his past. Gabriel finds himself caught up in a strange investigation mixing pretence, fantasy, and drug trafficking.
The Divide, which screens as part of this year's BFI Flare from March 25–27, is director Catherine Corsini's 14th feature film. Incidentally, each of Corsini's two most recent efforts starred a prominent Belgian actress: Cécile de France headed the cast of 2015's Summertime, while Virginie Efira played the lead in 2018's An Impossible Love. For her latest film, Corsini has opted for Franco-Italian actress Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi, a performer who might best be described as an acquired taste; over the course of her not inconsiderable career, Bruni-Tedeschi's performances have ranged from reasonably affecting (5x2) to downright insufferable (The Color of Lies), and you're never quite sure what she's going to deliver. The same cannot be said for Bruni-Tedeschi's co-star in The Divide, the terrific Marina Foïs, who manages to light up pretty much anything she appears in. Although these two actresses boast radically different styles, their pairing here proves to be a highly effective one.
Foïs' Julie and Bruni-Tedeschi's Raf are a couple at the terminus of their relationship, and the former has already made plans to move out when Raf falls, fracturing her elbow. Julie arrives promptly at the hospital where Raf is being treated, whereupon it becomes clear that the clingy patient plans on using this injury as leverage—yet it's equally apparent that the accident has done little to change the state of the relationship, which itself could be said to be in need of emergency treatment. Of course, and as anyone who's had to get in line for urgent care will tell you, the wait in ER can be both long and fraught, and it's going to be a while before Raf's wound is tended to; there's a glimpse of a display board indicating a current waiting time of eight to ten hours. Among the other patients waiting to be seen is Yann (Pio Marmaï), a truck driver and apparent hothead who has sustained some nasty looking leg injuries; yet as his initial aggression subsides, Yann enjoys several conversations with the talkative Raf.
As you'd expect, there are many members of staff circulating among the patients, and one of the most prominent is Kim (Aïssatou Diallo Sagna), a diligent nurse who attends to seemingly countless patients over the duration of her shift. Although the situation in the hospital is suitably stressful in its own right, Corsini cranks up the tension by having the night in the ER unfold against the backdrop of France's "yellow vests" protests—which by this stage have turned very ugly, with violent clashes between police and demonstrators occurring in the streets close to the hospital. While we're waiting for these two pressure cookers to collide, a link between them is already present in the form of Yann, who is in fact a gilet jaune whose leg was injured by shrapnel as he scuffled with police officers. Those inside the hospital follow the running battles via smartphones and TVs, yet we're painfully aware that it won't be too long before the ER's staff and patients will be able to view the mayhem without the need of technology. Many characters come and go, but the film always keeps its main focus on the quartet consisting of Julie, Raf, Kim and Yann.
With The Divide's portrayal of both the emergency room and the gilets jaunes, Catherine Corsini has in effect doubled down: either of these stories, as depicted here, could easily make for a breathlessly fascinating film without the other. While both of the film's two distinct sides make for compelling viewing, it's the stretches in the ER that prove to be stronger; perhaps this is to be expected, given that the film was made during lockdown, a period in which the filming of already-taxing crowd scenes would have involved yet more logistical challenges. But the sequences inside the hospital are little short of electrifying, with an endlessly busy camera capturing the frantic essence of both emergency medicine and those who administer it. The performances are strong, with the non-professional actress Aïssatou Diallo Sagna—a real-life nurse who deservedly won best supporting actress at last month's Césars—warranting a special mention for her portrayal of the seemingly omnipresent Kim, a character who is at the very centre of the film's most intense moment. Expertly made, urgent and taut, The Divide is a draining tour-de-force.
Believe it or not, half a century has now passed since the release of Dutch director Paul Verhoeven's first feature film, Wat zien ik!? (aka Business is Business). In the years since, Verhoeven has shocked audiences both in Europe (Spetters, De vierde man) and across the pond (Robocop, Basic Instinct), all the while cementing a formidable reputation as an enfant terrible with major box-office clout. As time has gone on, Verhoeven has slowed down—perhaps understandably, given that he's now 83 years old—and significant gaps have appeared between his projects; the Dutch-language Zwartboek was his first film in six years, and a full decade would pass between its 2006 release and his return to cinemas with Elle. While his new film, Benedetta, has appeared a mere five years on from Elle, you do wonder when Verhoeven might decide to call it a day. It will be a pity when he does as, ever since the mid-1980s, the release of a new Paul Verhoeven film has always been something of an event, and neither his reduced output nor his return to Europe from Hollywood—it is now over 20 years since his last English-language effort, Hollow Man—has impacted on the anticipation that precedes a new Verhoeven movie.
Benedetta premiered in competition for the Palme d'Or at this year's Cannes Film Festival, and while it didn't win—Titane, which will be reviewed here shortly, scooped the main prize—the film nonetheless enjoyed a high-profile outing at the first post-COVID edition of the festival. As is almost always the case with Verhoeven's films, Benedetta is a work that sets out to ruffle more than a few feathers, yet it falls some way short of the transgressiveness of many of the director's prior films, including its immediate predecessor, the enjoyably trashy Elle. The success of the controversial, highly successful Elle owed much to the committed performance of Isabelle Huppert, who received an Oscar nomination for her electrifying turn; I fully expected Huppert to turn up in Benedetta, and I can only speculate that the role filled by the excellent Charlotte Rampling was originally penned with Huppert in mind. Given that Huppert played a similar part in Guillaume Nicloux's 2013 adaptation of Diderot's The Nun, perhaps it wouldn't have been the best idea for her to be cast here, if indeed she was offered the role; plus, it's always good to see Rampling at work.
Benedetta is adapted from Judith Brown's book Immodest Acts, and the title character is played one of Isabelle Huppert's Elle co-stars: the terrific Belgian actress Virginie Efira, who can consider herself very unlucky not to have been among the winners when Albert Dupontel's superb Bye Bye Morons netted a glut of César awards earlier this year. In Benedetta, Efira's nun has been in a convent since the age of eight, and during her time there she's claimed to have been on the business end of several miraculous happenings—such as visions of Jesus and the acquisition of stigmata. All of this is viewed with some scepticism by Rampling's stern abbess, whose demeanour grows yet more severe upon the arrival of a new charge in the form of Bartolomea (Efira's fellow Belgian Daphné Patakia), a rebellious type who wastes little time in entering into a romantic relationship with Benedetta. On Bartolomea's frantic introduction—she's trying to escape her abusive family—the abbess points out that the convent isn't a charity, and asks the desperate girl if she has money; this frank discussion brilliantly illustrates how quick God's earthly ambassadors can be to move the goalposts when the time comes to help those in need. 1-0 to Verhoeven.
With Benedetta, Paul Verhoeven has set out his stall somewhere between Jacques Rivette's stately La Religieuse and Ken Russell's scabrous The Devils, yet the end product serves up neither the emotional point of the former nor the biting critique of the latter; furthermore, Verhoeven's film doesn't give the viewer much of an opportunity to invest in its characters, despite the sterling efforts of both Efira and Rampling. And in spite of its best efforts to offend, Benedetta feels an oddly tame, muted affair—compared to 30 years ago, the bar has been raised considerably vis-à-vis what is considered to be outré, and Verhoeven is doing little more than treading water here as he rifles through the index cards of his past successes; in all honesty, it's quite disappointing to discover that this director's attempt at nunsploitation has resulted in one of the subgenre's milder entries. It all feels a bit reheated, and the casting of Lambert Wilson and Olivier Rabourdin only serves to recall their work in Of Gods and Men—a much more affecting tale of monastic life. Still, for all that, Benedetta generally works as lurid, pulpy fun, which is pretty much what we all want and expect from a Paul Verhoeven film. You won't change him now.
With the likes of Our Children and After Love, writer-director Joachim Lafosse has proved to be the go-to guy if you want a film focusing on fraught family
situations. His habit of essaying extremely dysfunctional relationships
continues with Keep Going, a film which sees Lafosse step outside of his usual
domestic setting as mother and son Sybille and Samuel (Virginie Efira, Kacey
Mottet Klein) undertake a horseback trek across Kyrgyzstan. The backdrop may be
radically different, but the dynamic is typical Lafosse; the surly, aggressive
son is either listening to his iPod or berating his reasonably patient mother
and/or the natives they encounter in the remote region they ride across. Samuel
is further isolated in that he speaks no Russian, yet Sybille is fluent in the
language; you can sense his seething resentment towards his mother as she
frequently explains what others are saying.
The pair's journey is a dangerous one, not only in terms of the rugged terrain but also because their sparsely-populated route frequently puts them in very vulnerable positions, where no help would be available should nefarious types swoop on them; warnings from locals go unheeded by these Western European tourists. The film isn't very old when Sybille furnishes Samuel with a pistol - if you've seen Mottet Klein's impressive performance in Shock Waves (which also plays at the LFF), you'll be very aware that this is not a guy you should hand a gun to. Given that the two have taken this break partly to get Sam away from some violence-related trouble back home (he assaulted a teacher and may well be facing a jail term), this really does not look like one of Sybille's better decisions. That said, who better to have on your side than a hothead who doesn't mind wading into a fight? But of course, that assumes he's on your side.
This setup instils a sense, pretty much from the off, that something very nasty is just around the corner. Such feelings are intensified through this being Lafosse; the shattering Our Children has conditioned us to expect a difficult family situation to develop into something truly hellish. As such, you can never really relax while watching Keep Going, and the shots of Samuel and Sybille setting up their tents and campfire each night make you wonder if they'll see the dawn. At one stage, Samuel even claims that a reptile has found its way into his tent, and asks if he can sleep next to his mum; but is it really something else in the environment which spooks the young man?
While Keep Going is very much a two-handler, the huge, sweeping vistas ensure the film is never in any danger of feeling stagey. And although it may at times look like an epic western, the intimate clashes between mother and son are at the core of the film; both Efira and Mottet Klein are terrifically believable here. Joachim Lafosse may well be overdue a bad film, but thankfully Keep Going isn't it. Its unfamiliar (for this director, anyway) milieu proves that Lafosse can take his own brand of unsettling drama far from home and not miss a beat. In the age of bloated running times, its 80 minutes or so is a refreshing change, and there's a wonderful economy to the storytelling here. You can catch it at the London Film Festival today and tomorrow.
