Some Like It Rare

There is a specific kind of squint you get when looking at a deli counter after watching a French cannibal comedy. I call it the "charcuterie suspicion." I experienced it most recently after stumbling upon Some Like It Rare (originally titled Barbaque), a 2021 film that feels like the cinematic equivalent of a middle finger dipped in peppercorn sauce. I watched it while wearing a sweater with a small coffee stain that looked suspiciously like a map of Italy, and honestly, the sheer absurdity of the film made me completely forget about my ruined knitwear.

In an era where "elevated horror" often demands we spend two hours analyzing generational trauma and grief, Fabrice Eboué decides to give us something much more direct: a meat cleaver to the skull of modern sensitivity. It’s a contemporary satire that doesn't just poke the bear of the culture war—it skin-dresses it and sells it at a premium price per kilo.

A Cut Above the Rest

The premise is deceptively simple, echoing the dark DNA of Sweeney Todd but trading 19th-century London for a struggling French suburb. Vincent (Fabrice Eboué) and Sophie (Marina Foïs) are butchers whose marriage has gone as stale as a week-old baguette. Their shop is failing, their "friends" are pretentious prats who flaunt their wealth, and militant vegan activists are smashing their windows. When Vincent accidentally kills one of the vandals in a moment of road-rage-fueled panic, he does what any sensible, bankrupt businessman would do: he disposes of the evidence via the meat slicer.

What follows is a delightfully twisted sequence where the "Iranian pork" (their euphemism for the activist) becomes a neighborhood sensation. Suddenly, the shop has lines around the block. The irony is thicker than a ribeye: the only thing that can save their small-business soul is the literal consumption of their ideological enemies. Marina Foïs is particularly brilliant here; her transition from a bored, neglected wife to a bloodthirsty "Lady Macbeth of the Loin" is chilling and hilarious. I found myself cackling at how quickly she leans into the "hunt," treating human procurement with the same clinical detachment one might use for sourcing organic kale.

The Mechanics of the Meat

Horror-comedies are notoriously difficult to balance. Lean too hard into the jokes, and the stakes vanish; lean too hard into the gore, and the audience stops laughing. Eboué, who also directed and co-wrote the script, manages to keep the tone surprisingly jaunty. The "fear mechanics" here aren't based on jump scares—they’re based on the cringe-inducing tension of "will they get caught?" and the physical reality of the butcher’s trade.

The practical effects deserve a shout-out. There’s a tactile, "crunchy" quality to the shop scenes that made me genuinely appreciate the craft. The cinematography by Thomas Brémond uses a warm, amber palette that makes the butcher shop look cozy and inviting, which only serves to highlight the grisly nature of what’s happening on the chopping block. It’s a visual trick that forces you to participate in the couple's delusion: if the shop looks this nice, how bad can the "ham" really be? It’s essentially a rom-com where the 'meet-cute' is replaced by a meat-grinder.

Lost in the Deli Case

Despite its sharp wit and tight 88-minute runtime, Some Like It Rare remains a bit of an obscure find for international audiences. Released in 2021 as the world was gingerly stepping back into theaters, it didn't benefit from a massive marketing machine. In the U.S., it mostly lived on specialized streaming services like Shudder, tucked away behind more traditional slashers. It’s a shame, because it captures the "now" better than most big-budget releases. It tackles the polarization of 2020s discourse—the carnivore vs. vegan, the small-town vs. city elite—without ever feeling like a preachy lecture.

The film's obscurity might also stem from its refusal to take a side. It mocks the preachy activists, yes, but it also mocks the greedy, middle-class butchers and their vapid, status-obsessed friends (Virginie Hocq and Jean-François Cayrey). Everyone is terrible, and everyone is potentially delicious. It’s a nihilistic streak that feels very much like a product of our current moment, where the world feels like it's falling apart and our only response is to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

If you’re looking for a film that challenges your moral compass while making you crave a snack, this is your best bet. It’s a lean, mean, slightly offensive little gem that proves French cinema isn’t all just people smoking in black-and-white and talking about their feelings; sometimes, it’s about making a really good ham. Just maybe avoid watching it right before you go to a dinner party at your local co-op. You'll never look at the "special of the day" the same way again.