The Tuche Family: The American Dream

I once watched this movie on a rainy Tuesday while wearing a pair of mismatched socks and eating a bag of frozen crinkle-cut fries that were slightly freezer-burned. Somehow, that felt like the most authentic way to experience the Tuche family. If you aren't familiar with the cultural phenomenon that is Les Tuche in France, imagine if the Beverly Hillbillies were obsessed with deep-fat fryers and hailed from a small French village instead of the Ozarks.

By the time 2016 rolled around, the Tuche family had already conquered the French box office, and director Olivier Baroux decided it was time to export their brand of glorious, unrefined chaos to the United States. In The Tuche Family: The American Dream, we find our lottery-winning protagonists relocating to Los Angeles so their youngest son, Donald (played with a charmingly "too-smart-for-this-family" energy by Théo Fernandez), can attend a prestigious university.

Mullets, Mansions, and Malibu

The charm of this film—and I use the word "charm" loosely, like the waistband of Jeff Tuche's tracksuit—lies entirely in the commitment of Jean-Paul Rouve. You might recognize Rouve from his much more somber, dramatic work in La Vie en Rose (2007), but here he is transformed. With a mullet that defies the laws of both physics and aesthetics, his Jeff Tuche is a masterpiece of oblivious confidence. He treats a fancy L.A. country club with the same casual disregard he’d show a village dive bar.

The plot is secondary to the gags. Donald falls for the daughter of an American financier, leading to a clash of civilizations that makes the Hundred Years' War look like a minor misunderstanding. The humor is broad—stretching from physical slapstick to wordplay that, quite frankly, sometimes gets lost in translation. But Isabelle Nanty, as the matriarch Cathy Tuche, provides the heart. Her performance is a reminder that even in a film where a grandmother (Claire Nadeau) communicates primarily through grunts and a love for "Suze" liqueur, you can still find a weirdly touching family dynamic.

A French Fry in a Salad Bowl

What makes this sequel interesting in the context of 2016 cinema is how it ignores the "prestige comedy" trends of the era. While American comedies were leaning into the Judd Apatow-inspired improvisational style or the high-concept satire of the streaming boom, Olivier Baroux stayed rooted in the classic "fish out of water" tropes. It’s essentially the cinematic equivalent of a gas station hot dog—cheap, questionable, yet deeply satisfying if you’re in the right headspace.

The film takes aim at the burgeoning influencer culture and the shiny, vapid veneer of mid-2010s Los Angeles. When the Tuches arrive, they don’t try to fit in; they try to make Los Angeles fit them. Seeing Jean-Paul Rouve try to explain the "fry logic" of his household to a room full of bewildered American billionaires is a highlight. The cinematography by Christian Abomnes captures California in all its saturated, sun-drenched glory, which provides a hilarious contrast to the Tuches, who look like they were accidentally photoshopped into the frame.

The Mystery of the Missing Export

Despite being a massive hit in its home country—it was one of the highest-grossing French films of 2016—this movie barely made a ripple in the English-speaking world. Why? Comedy is notoriously difficult to subtitle. So much of the Tuche appeal is based on "Tuche-isms," a specific way of mangling the French language that doesn't always have an English equivalent.

Turns out, the production itself was a bit of a whirlwind. The crew had to navigate the complexities of filming in L.A. with a French budget and French labor laws, which led to a compressed shooting schedule that actually suits the manic energy of the film. It feels rushed because the Tuches are always in a rush to find the nearest deep-fryer. It’s a "hidden gem" only because the cultural barrier acts as a giant "Keep Out" sign for anyone who isn't prepared for high-octane French absurdity.

The Tuche Family: The American Dream isn't going to win any awards for narrative innovation, and it’s basically a ninety-minute excuse for the director to play with a bigger budget and more sunscreen. However, if you can surrender to the sheer stupidity of it all, there’s a lot to love. It’s a film that celebrates being exactly who you are, even if who you are is a person who thinks a tuxedo is just a fancy pajamas-adjacent outfit.

Seek this one out if you’re tired of the polished, cynical comedies of the current streaming era. It’s loud, it’s garish, and it smells like frying oil. Sometimes, that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Just make sure you have a side of fries ready before you hit play; you’re going to need them.