WHO ARE WE COKE OF?
French cinema may well be of remarkable diversity and vitality, but it reserves an unenviable fate for directors who venture into spectacular thrillers, hybrid genres or action films. The professional bifurcations of Florent Emilio-Siri, Jan Kounen or even Fred Cavayé, all more or less forced to retrain on the side of industrial comedy to be able to shoot. ISLANDlivier Marchal has followed a paradoxical path, at the same time similar and contradictory.
The green night
The one-time ambassador for a possible revival of the hexagonal thriller has also approached humoral radioactivity. But no one saw fit to warn him. Indeed, if his involuntary felling was completed from the Bronx, his previous film, solid sediments of the first degree still floated on the surface of the Marchalien nectar. Nothing of the sort here, the story abandons all apparent complexity in favor of a chase led by a gallery of fanatics who brilliantly personify the concept of brain edema.
The director, whose creations, recognizable among thousands, constitute a unique corpus of French production we do not often remember enough, here completes the condensation of his first style to lead to a new medium. An art form whose codes still lie fallow, but that Marchal degreases with the fury of passion. Photography, cutting, editing, space management, mixing, music, rhythm, so many notions that are no longer relevant in this new space are cleared from our eyes.
He is cool Shen
Welcome to a world populated by real men, where in the morning we sprinkle the unshaven goiter with essential oils from bison glands that have been snacked on at dawn, on the belly of a newborn woman. A world without borders or barriers, where you cut your throat when you don’t shoot yourself, unless you’re in a hurry to fork over a restaurant customer who’s making too much noise. A terra incognita, where thugs fornicate like junkyard dogs on a moonless nightwhen the lone cops poke their hair into the soft roughness of a bluish hotel room, where the whitish foam of nostalgia mingles with the creaking undercurrent of springs more tortuous than a tax audit.
We will not do it to Jean-Michel Grossecouilles
Poetry bursts there in graceful bubbles of musk and pierces the ass wall with the speed of light. The women here are always alone, or not enough. Sometimes police and prudish, they are more often criminal and hot as a fool glued to the reactor of a Rafale, as evidenced by two of the film’s funniest sequences. The unfortunate Naïma Rodric plays a life form there who tries (with some success) to push the police officer into formidable traps with her sheath, during passages where the camera itself seems to be laughing.
But, and this is one of the graces of the new art that emerges from Olivier Marchal’s gesture: we are not yet able to completely delimit it. Of course, we could enumerate each of his follies, but would this list à la Prévert even touch (and would it be only the appropriate organ?) the hallucinogenic dimension of the project? It is clear that the temptation is great to stop at these dialogues, which hope to seep out the true badassery of chicks with big walletsbut rather evoke the awkwardness of a day after a binge that ended with a lost bet.
Cergy Lopez is very angry
It will be easy to point the finger at the supposed snobbery with which these great polar belches are received by a necessarily Parisian and elitist critic. That would be to forget it the only honestly successful element of this Overdoseis his refreshing anti-Parisism. In fact, we follow Inspector Caliméroupettes, a fine scout in the capital, who is deeply affected by the barbaric murder of two poor teenagers. To shed light on this dark affair and regain a smile, he will at the same time undertake to team up with a Toulouse-based investigation based on Go Fast, and to put the hairs of a competent colleague.
Not only is his initial investigation, much more exciting than the hunt for the pathetic traffickers led by Cergy Lopez, dispatched with a spectacular I-don’t care, but the regularity with which the plot takes care of unravel the Parisian detective, from locks to headbutts, is as transparent as it is to delight in regression. It must be said that few nanars will have succeeded in orchestrating the accession of Philippe Corti, former talk show DJ in the 90s, by misogynist trafficker breaking chicken mouths.
“Where have these charisma thieves gone?”
Because that’s what we’re dealing with. This caricatured story in everything, interesting in nothing, characterized on the fly and filmed, in any case marks the entry of its director into the limited circle of authentic masters of cosmic nanar. Here’s how to receive this gift from heaven, where hordes of rodents line up to stuff “the motherfuckers” with pellets before they fuck the “tits”. It’s silly. It is awesome. But it’s pretty fun. Ultimate curiosity for this beautiful bubo: Sofia Essaïdi.
The actress is miraculously good at it, as if the surrounding histrionics inspired him with some kind of transcendence. Symbolically, it is at his side that the spectator crosses this gunfight, where the risk of blows rains down harder than lead.