Written and directed by Bruno Dumont
Starring Léa Seydoux, Blanche Gardin, Benjamin Biolay, and Emanuele Arioli
Unrated
Running time: 2 hours 13 minutes
Opens in NY and LA on December 10

by Jaime Davis, Staff Writer, The Fixer

The media world right now is completely baffling - outlets are biased, news stories are treated as entertainment, anchors and political pundits are considered high profile stars, the 24-7 news cycle is exhausting, and we may never know who will take over as CEO of Waystar Royco. Succession reference aside, the whole media industry these days feels like a huge incoherent mess, much like French auteur Bruno Dumont’s latest, France. Ever since I first read about Léa Seydoux’s upcoming turn as fictional France de Meurs, the most powerful, well-known news anchor in all of France, I couldn’t wait to watch. Her character is like if Christiane Amanpour, Anderson Cooper, Savannah Guthrie, AND Hoda were all rolled into one sparkly, smarty, newsy super-being. The film’s marketing promised a “biting media satire” but what I got was a whole bunch of confusion with a side of melodrama. Quelle poisse.

Part of the issue is the character of France - I don’t necessarily mean Seydoux’s performance, which is just fine. France’s emotions run the gamut but tend to land on one of a few key themes: Mean Girl, Boss Bitch, Hard-Hitting International Journalist, Unfulfilled Mom/Wife, and Poor Little Rich Girl. We don’t get much in the way of a nuanced understanding of who she is, which is highly problematic given her character’s name is also the title of the film.

As a viewer, it’s hard to figure out how to feel about France. Hate her? Love her? Hate to love her? We’re given only a cursory glance at our “heroine.”. Here’s what we do know about France, the character:

France is cold, as are the people around her. Her husband and young son skulk around their disgustingly huge Parisian apartment looking like they have a permanent case of the sads. No one is happy in this apartment.
Which makes sense, because the production design of this apartment is...strange. It’s all blood reds and inky blacks with a private art collection that screams nouveau riche, honey. It looks like it was designed by Delia from Beetlejuice...if Delia was way more rich, famous, and French.
France makes five times more money than her husband, Fred (a fact he hates).
Speaking of hate, I think France hates Fred? And maybe her young son Jo.
She has a love-hate relationship with being famous.
She and her assistant have a running gag where they make “bok bok” noises, akin to chickens, behind the backs of fans, other members of the press, and well, anyone.
She has more than enough of everything, affording her the privilege and the time to be so goddamn unhappy.
She might possibly have a martyr complex.
France cries. A lot. Like almost every scene this woman is in tears.
She is insufferable!
But I really and truly wouldn’t mind taking a lap through her closet.

The film starts out in promising, biting satire territory - France and her loyal compatriot Lou (a delightful Blanche Gardin) descend on a press conference with French President Emmanuel Macron. Dumont takes an actual press conference with Macron, adds a little trickery, and voilà! Movie magic. France and Lou make crude hand gestures at each other, laughing and mucking about in a way that suggests France has the power to be this disrespectful, making such a big joke of her meal ticket. Once the President is seated, France begins her assault, asking a very difficult journalistic question with absolutely zero fear behind her cold, bored eyes. Ooh, she’s bad! She also, I must say, looks fabulous as she slays our dear President Macron.

This is about all we get towards the witty media satire I was expecting. Not long after, the story takes a tumble into serious melodrama. Maybe something’s lost in translation for me, but France feels like three different films in one: part satire, screwball comedy, and vintage melodrama. French pop singer Christophe provides a unique and engaging original score that perhaps is meant for a few different films. At times it’s dark, others swelling and romantic, or cold and electronic. It begs the question: what is France, the movie, supposed to be anyway? I’m really not sure what Dumont’s objective is here, outside of putting forth a general “kill your idols” vibe. Unintentionally though, the film feels detached and hard to read, much like France herself.

As France dives more sharply into Sad France territory, France suffers a series of setbacks that, to an ordinary person, would be highly annoying and inconvenient. Yet to France, they only cause serious pain and more tears, tears, tears. Eventually, she packs it in, leaving the tv world (temporarily) before ensconcing herself at one of those blissful spas where rich people get their groove back. Nestled high up in the Alps, you’d think she could get a moment of peace and tranquility. But no. The other rich guests (including a name-dropped former German Chancellor Angela Merkel complete with look-a-like!) recognize France and ask for the obligatory selfie and autograph (are people still asking celebs for autographs these days?). Later, she meets a young Latin teacher from France who proclaims not to know who she is because he doesn’t own a television. Red flag! How could a Latin teacher afford to stay at this place?? I know that trust fund babies are indeed a real and true thing, but this would set off serious warning bells for me. Nevertheless, the two begin a “torrid” (read: snoozy) affair with disastrous consequences. For it seems our dear Latin teacher is...an undercover journalist! An undercover journalist who profiles their whole encounter for some French gossip rag. Cue the tears.

But wait! There’s more! Because in a terrifying four-minute-long car accident sequence that is both unnecessary and horrific, France is again subjected to more pain. And then again, when she’s insulted by a nasty French politico. And then again, when she’s caught making fun of refugees with Lou live on the air. All of which prompts more, you guessed it, tears! {Puts head in hands}. This is all too much for me, movie.

Listen, I am not saying that we shouldn’t express human emotions. Crying is a healthy, cathartic, necessary part of life. People should cry more! In public! But in France, the crying coupled with the implausibility of so much just starts to wear thin. So much of the story feels unbelievable: her reputation as being an expert interviewer when her demeanor throughout the film suggests otherwise, the barely-there romance that seems to keep coming back up over and over until the end of the film, the tragic car accident and its aftermath, her god awful apartment. I just kept screaming, “Why??” while viewing this, which I guess is fitting considering I tend to have the same reaction to U.S. news on a daily basis. Once we finally, thankfully get to the film’s last few seconds, the camera fixes itself on Seydoux’s steely face, her smug smile infuriating until it fades, giving way to, you guessed it, tears. C'est très ennuyant!