Alain Guiraudie, a director renowned for his unconventional approach to cinema, has solidified his reputation as a master of quirky, boundary-pushing humor in French filmmaking. His latest work, Misericordia, is undoubtedly one of the most bizarre films of the year, blurring the lines between comedy, absurdity, and deadpan wit. The film’s tone is so peculiar that at times, it’s difficult to determine whether the actors, especially a police officer, are on the verge of laughing, or if the entire cast was subtly struggling to contain their amusement throughout the production. Guiraudie’s direction seems to invite this ambiguity, as if every time the word “Cut” was shouted, everyone would burst into laughter.
Misericordia could easily be categorized as queer cinema, but not in the conventional sense. While its themes are steeped in sexual ambiguity, it also explores the broader concept of “queer” as a disruption of norms and expectations. Guiraudie’s 2013 film Stranger By the Lake marked his international breakthrough, but Misericordia showcases the director’s true sensibilities—his inclination toward unpredictability, mischief, and a playful disregard for narrative convention. This film embodies a sense of whimsical spontaneity, suggesting that Guiraudie may have been making it up as he went along.
The film follows Jérémie (played by Félix Kysyl), a young man who arrives in a small village to attend the funeral of his former employer, a baker with whom he seemingly shared a deep emotional bond. The baker’s widow, Martine (Catherine Frot), recalls her fondness for Jérémie, offering him a place to stay. This offer is met with disdain by her son, Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), who believes Jérémie’s intentions towards his mother are inappropriate. However, Jérémie’s true romantic and sexual interests lie with the unattractive and unkempt neighbor, Walter (David Ayala), who has a penchant for wearing disheveled vests reminiscent of Rab C. Nesbitt. As tensions between Jérémie and Vincent escalate, the situation becomes more complicated when a mysterious priest named Philippe (Jacques Develay) intervenes, his own desires adding layers to the film’s complex emotional and sexual dynamics.
While Misericordia is undeniably odd, it feels almost like a dream—one that has been meticulously transcribed and brought to life. The actors appear to be sleepwalking through their roles, delivering performances that are at once vivid and oddly detached. The film also stands out for its unapologetic portrayal of sexuality, including candid depictions of semi-erect penises, pushing the boundaries of what’s considered acceptable in mainstream cinema.
Ultimately, Misericordia is a film that defies easy categorization. It’s too self-consciously strange to be easily understood, and yet its unorthodox humor and exploration of desire, sexuality, and emotional turmoil make it an intriguing addition to Guiraudie’s body of work. Whether the film succeeds or fails in its ambition to shock and amuse is up for debate, but it undoubtedly leaves a lasting impression as one of the most unconventional cinematic experiences of the year.
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