France – first-look review | Little White Lies

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France – first-look review

18 Jul 2021

Words by Mark Asch

A person wearing a police helmet and vest, standing in front of a blurry urban backdrop.
A person wearing a police helmet and vest, standing in front of a blurry urban backdrop.
Léa Sey­doux plays a TV jour­nal­ist in Bruno Dumont’s satire-of-sorts about France’s rela­tion­ship with its media and itself.

Bruno Dumont’s lat­est opens with the film’s title, in white text on a black back­ground: France”. Then a shot of the French flag, and a pan down to Léa Sey­doux, who stars as a tele­vi­sion jour­nal­ist named, yes, France. (Her full name is France de Meurs.) Her first order of busi­ness is to grill Emmanuel Macron at a press con­fer­ence, which Dumont assem­bles out of real news footage, insert­ing Sey­doux into the pro­ceed­ings with shot-reverse-shot pat­terns and dig­i­tal compositing.

Sey­doux has been near­ly ubiq­ui­tous at Cannes this year; she risks wear­ing too nar­row a groove with her per­for­mances, which often call forth a famil­iar con­trolled flir­ta­tious­ness, a with­hold­ing smile and a secret sad­ness. It’s so refresh­ing to see Sey­doux in a more broad, loose mode as France flirts with the Pres­i­dent before slam­ming him with a Pax­man-tier pos­er, then ges­tic­u­lates excit­ed­ly with her producer/​assistant Lou (Blanche Gardin) at the back of the room, pulling faces and hump­ing the air.

The open­ing scenes of France promise a brazen slash through the upper ech­e­lons of con­tem­po­rary French pol­i­tics and media, but that’s not what Dumont has in mind. Instead, the reck­on­ing promised by the title comes through a some­what cryp­tic diag­no­sis of France’s depres­sion and disillusionment.

Though France, befit­ting her celebri­ty, wears expen­sive, styl­ist-approved out­fits, she’s often stuck in a mood of tear­ful iner­tia. Sey­doux is still going self-con­scious­ly big with the per­for­mance, France is still suck­ing up all the oxy­gen in the room, but there’s actu­al pathos to it since France’s depres­sive errat­ic behav­iour coex­ists with damp, low-ener­gy wal­lows. (Gardin’s snap­py, avid per­for­mance as the ever-hus­tling Lou makes an amus­ing contrast.)

Woman in bright patterned dress seated at news desk with Paris skyline in background.

Oppressed by her fame, and guilty at her priv­i­lege, France attempts tone-deaf acts of semi-pub­lic con­tri­tion and a trip to a Ger­man alpine san­i­tar­i­um – shades, with the lat­ter, of The Mag­ic Moun­tain, with a sim­i­lar ambi­ent back­drop of a dying Euro­pean order.

The glib elites who serve as France’s pan­el show guests and ben­e­fit din­ner table mates are con­stant reminders of late-stage neolib­er­al­ism and the anaemic EU; the malaise also hits clos­er to home, where France endures an unhap­py mar­riage to an ego­tis­ti­cal nov­el­ist in a frigid and immense bour­geois mai­son, and in Dumont’s direc­tion, in which cam­era place­ment, pac­ing and tone can some­times seem arbi­trary and resis­tant to interpretation.

What’s wrong with France? On fre­quent report­ing trips to war zones, which she broad­casts on her night­ly news­magazine show, she directs her cam­era­man to get staged shots of real dan­ger, and swears at her­self and says vari­a­tions on We’ll do it again,” as the bul­lets fly. Some­times breaks down and cries for no rea­son, which she some­times decides is good tele­vi­sion, heart­strings-tug­ging report­ing. Her seg­ments pro­ceed in more or less chrono­log­i­cal order, from joint war-on-ter­ror mis­sions, to depop­u­lat­ed Mid­dle East­ern cities reduced to rub­ble, to the migrant cri­sis on the Mediterranean.

Her seg­ments are shal­low and staged, but despite being Exhib­it A in Dumont’s diag­no­sis of a sick soci­ety, they’re not obvi­ous­ly sen­sa­tion­al­ist or irre­spon­si­ble com­pared to so much actu­al Euro­pean tabloid media. France’s dis­ease – the per­son and the coun­try – is hard to pin down. Dumont’s indict­ment is holis­tic, maybe even spir­i­tu­al, and satire with­out an artic­u­lat­ed tar­get is a tricky and sub­tle thing to pull off. France some­times feels like a state-of-the-nation address writ­ten in invis­i­ble ink.

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