France

Imagine a woman whose entire existence is curated to the point of structural collapse, then give her the most famous face in French cinema and a camera crew that treats a tragedy like a fashion shoot. That is the baseline for France, a movie that manages to be both a screeching satire of our hyper-mediated reality and a bizarrely sincere melodrama. I watched this on a Tuesday afternoon while my neighbor was loudly pressure-washing their driveway, and the relentless, rhythmic thrum of the water against the pavement weirdly complimented the film’s repetitive, hypnotic cycles of celebrity narcissism.

Directed by Bruno Dumont, a man previously known for austere, grueling dramas about saints and sinners in the muddy French countryside, France feels like a radical pivot. It’s glossy, it’s loud, and it’s obsessed with the surface of things. Specifically, it’s obsessed with the surface of Léa Seydoux, who plays the titular France de Meurs. She’s a superstar journalist who doesn't just report the news; she directs it. In the opening scenes, we see her at a press conference with the President of the Republic, flirting with the camera and signaling to her assistant to ensure her best angles are captured. She’s not looking for the truth; she’s looking for the "money shot" of her own empathy.

A War Zone with Craft Services

The first half of the film is a savage, often hilarious takedown of modern media. France travels to war zones, but she doesn't do much reporting. Instead, we see her staging shots with breathless local fighters, telling them where to stand and when to look heroic, all while she wears high-fashion desert gear that probably costs more than the armored vehicle she arrived in. Her producer and assistant, Lou—played with a wonderful, cynical electricity by Blanche Gardin—is constantly whispering in her ear, "You’re a legend! The ratings are exploding!"

Blanche Gardin is the secret weapon here. While France is busy performing a soul, Lou is the one acknowledging that the soul is just a commodity. Their relationship is the most honest thing in the movie because it’s built entirely on the mutual understanding that reality is for people who aren't on television. However, the satire takes a sharp turn when France is involved in a minor car accident, clipping a young courier on a motorbike. This "freak accident" doesn't just dent her car; it punctures her ego. She begins to spiral, crying at the drop of a hat, searching for a genuine emotion in a life that has been entirely performative.

The Crying Game

As the film shifts into its second act, it moves away from the newsroom and into the territory of high-stakes melodrama. France heads to a retreat in the Alps to "find herself," leading to a subplot involving a mysterious man named Charles Castro (Emanuele Arioli). It’s here that the movie gets truly strange. Dumont uses a score by the late French pop legend Christophe that is sweeping, romantic, and intentionally over-the-top.

I found myself oscillating between being moved and being deeply suspicious. Dumont seems to hate his protagonist almost as much as he loves looking at her. Every time France has a moment of perceived growth, the film undercuts it with a reminder of her vanity. She spends a lot of time crying—beautiful, cinematic tears that roll down Léa Seydoux’s perfectly lit cheeks. Watching France de Meurs cry is like watching a luxury watch slowly rust—it’s expensive, hypnotic, and kind of annoying. You’re never quite sure if she’s actually sad or if she’s just subconsciously aware that "Sad France" is a great pivot for her personal brand.

Stuff You Didn't Notice

One of the most fascinating things about France is how it was received. When it premiered at Cannes, critics were divided. Some saw it as a clumsy critique of "fake news," while others recognized it as something much more experimental. Interestingly, the car accident that triggers France's breakdown was filmed with a very specific, almost "uncanny valley" digital sheen. The cinematography by David Chambille alternates between the harsh, flat light of a television studio and the lush, romantic landscapes of the French countryside, making the whole world feel slightly artificial.

Even the casting of Benjamin Biolay as France's husband, Fred, adds a layer of meta-commentary for French audiences. Biolay is a famous musician and something of a public figure himself, playing a man who is essentially a ghost in his own home, overshadowed by his wife’s gravitational pull. It captures that specific 2020s brand of "celebrity fatigue"—the idea that being watched by millions is a form of radiation that eventually deforms the person at the center of the lens.

This isn't a film that wants to be liked. It’s too prickly and too cynical for that. But as a piece of contemporary cinema, it’s essential viewing for anyone who feels exhausted by the constant performance of life on social media. It captures the hollowness of the digital age with a visual flair that most "serious" dramas lack. By the time the credits roll, you might not feel like you know France de Meurs any better than you did at the start, but you’ll certainly have a better understanding of why we can't stop looking at people like her. It’s a glittering, jagged little pill of a movie that lingers in the mind long after the TV is turned off.