Natural Born Liar

The sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of being a compulsive liar is something cinema usually treats as a tragedy or a slick caper, but Olivier Baroux’s Natural Born Liar (2022)—or Menteur in its original French—decides to take that exhaustion and turn it into a literal, physical nightmare. We’ve all met a Jérôme. He’s the guy at the office who claims he helped design the building, the friend who says he once saved a puppy from a shark, and the salesman who promises the yacht you're buying was previously owned by royalty. In this case, Tarek Boudali steps into the expensive, lying loafers of Jérôme, a man whose imagination is essentially a runaway freight train.

I’ll be honest: I went into this expecting a French retread of Jim Carrey's Liar Liar, but the DNA here is actually quite different. While Carrey’s iconic character was cursed with the truth, Jérôme is cursed with his own fictions. During the sequence where a literal plane lands in the middle of a neighborhood because Jérôme lied about being a pilot, I was distracted by a particularly stubborn piece of popcorn stuck in my left molar, which felt like a tiny, physical manifestation of Jérôme’s mounting guilt. It’s that kind of movie—a high-concept comedy that forces its protagonist to look at the wreckage of his own exaggerations.

The French Connection of Modern Remakes

It’s worth noting for the trivia buffs that this isn't an entirely original story; it’s a remake of the 2019 Quebecois film of the same name. In the current landscape of contemporary cinema, we’re seeing a fascinating "localization" trend where successful high-concept comedies from one Francophone territory are rapidly polished and re-released for another. Olivier Baroux, a veteran of broad, crowd-pleasing comedies like Les Tuche, knows exactly how to tune this for a 2022 audience.

The film arrived in a post-pandemic theatrical window where audiences were hungry for escapism that didn't involve a cape or a multiverse. It doesn’t try to be high art, and it doesn't try to reinvent the camera. Instead, it leans into the "What If?" scenario with the kind of kinetic energy that Tarek Boudali has mastered as a member of La Bande à Fifi. Jérôme is essentially a human 'Terms and Conditions' page—nobody believes a word, but we all just click 'Agree' to get to the good stuff. The production values are surprisingly slick for a mid-budget comedy, especially when the "lies" start manifesting. When Jérôme’s claim of being a karate world champion suddenly requires him to actually fight, the choreography hits that sweet spot between genuine action and slapstick panic.

A Masterclass in Escalating Absurdity

The real heavy lifting, however, is done by the supporting cast. Artus, playing Jérôme’s brother Thibault, serves as the perfect audience surrogate. He’s the one who has to endure the fallout of his brother’s nonsense, and his deadpan reactions provide the necessary anchor when the plot goes into overdrive. There’s a fantastic chemistry between Tarek Boudali and Artus that feels earned; they play off each other like siblings who have spent thirty years alternating between wanting to hug and wanting to commit fratricide.

Then you have Pauline Clément, a standout from the Comédie-Française, who brings a much-needed layer of grounded charm to the role of Chloé. In a film where a man’s lies are becoming reality, you need someone who represents the "real" world Jérôme is so desperate to escape. The humor is a mix of classic farce and very contemporary observational comedy. The script takes aim at the "fake it 'til you make it" culture that permeates social media today. In an era of filters and curated lifestyles, Jérôme is just a guy who forgot to turn the filters off, and the movie delights in watching him drown in his own digital-age hubris.

Apparently, the production had to use a significant amount of CGI to handle the more outlandish "manifestations," such as the aforementioned plane and some fairly aggressive animals. While some of the effects look a bit "streaming-budget" around the edges, they serve the joke rather than trying to win an Oscar for technical achievement. Turns out, the film’s biggest challenge wasn't the CGI, but keeping the cast from breaking during some of the more absurd improvisations—especially during the scenes involving Catherine Hosmalin, who plays Jérôme’s mother with a hilarious, oblivious warmth.

Does the Gag Hold Up?

By the time we hit the third act, the film leans a bit more into the "heart" than the "har-har," which is standard for the genre. It asks if a man can ever truly be known if he’s built his life out of Lego bricks and tall tales. Does it stick the landing? Mostly. Some of the jokes feel a bit dated, relying on the kind of "men are like this, women are like that" tropes that are starting to feel a little dusty in the 2020s. However, the sheer pace of the thing—clocking in at a tight 93 minutes—means that if a joke doesn't land, there’s another one falling out of the sky (sometimes literally) thirty seconds later.

The film serves as a snapshot of the French "Commercial Cinema" machine—efficient, glossy, and unashamedly aimed at a broad demographic. It lacks the bite of a satire like Don't Look Up, but it has more genuine affection for its characters than your average American studio comedy of the same era. It’s a film that knows exactly what it is: a popcorn-munching distraction that reminds us that honesty is the best policy, mostly because lying is just too much damn work.

In the end, Natural Born Liar is a fun, light-footed romp that thrives on the charisma of its leads. It doesn't aim to change the world, just to provide a few laughs at the expense of a man whose tongue is far too clever for his own good. If you're looking for an easy watch on a Tuesday night that won't make you think too hard about the state of the world, Jérôme’s catastrophic day is a solid bet. Just don't believe him if he tells you it's the greatest movie ever made.