Have mercy!
Misericordia is a patient film. This art-house thriller takes its time revealing its characters and even its central murder scenario, which doesn’t occur until the end of the first act. Heck, it doesn’t even reveal that it’s a comedy alongside its drama until pretty deep into its runtime.
And so I spent the film’s opening minutes convinced I didn’t like it, only to steadily reverse course and realize why many critics are hailing it as among the year’s very best films. While I don’t expect it to place among my own end-of-year list, I do recognize it as an excellently constructed slow burn, if that’s your jam. To call it a “boil” wouldn’t quite be right — the film never gains enough momentum to justify that description — but it steadily accumulates heft. It boasts enough bizarre and memorable moments that I immediately wished more of my cinephile pals had seen it, eager to compare notes on our favorite scenes and what to make of the ending. If that’s not a mark of a worthwhile film, I’m not sure what is.
The story kicks off as Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), a baker from Toulouse, returns to his sleepy hometown, Saint-Martial, for the funeral of his former boss. He ends up staying a few extra days at the house of the boss’s widow, Martine (Catherine Frot). This seemingly benign arrangement provokes the hostility of Martine’s son, Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), and before long, a violent confrontation between Jérémie and Vincent leaves the latter brained. The rest of the movie tracks the fallout of Vincent’s death as Jérémie desperately tries to cover up his crime and avoid suspicion, roping in the village priest, Father Abbé (Jacques Develay), who has made Jérémie his pet redemption case.
Misericordia is written and directed by Alain Guiraudie, a French filmmaker known for quiet but intense thrillers bubbling with queer longing. Some of his works, notably 2013’s Stranger by the Lake, have even earned the label “erotic thrillers.” Misericordia marks my first experience with the director, so I can’t speak to his other films, but I wouldn’t quite use the “erotic thriller” genre label here. Although sexuality and desire are constant themes, the overall mood remains quite chilly and non-erotic.
And yet, a key dynamic of the film is how Jérémie arrives in town like a horny wrecking ball, forcing the townspeople to confront their own repressed desires. Guiraudie gives the film an almost fairy-tale quality in the way Jérémie drifts through the village, ghostlike, reflecting and refracting dark anxieties that bloom in the town’s small population. His spirit matches mushrooms in the damp forest where he spends so much time.
A recurring image in Misericordia is clothing as a lens onto Jérémie’s desires and shifting identity. He is keenly observant of others’ apparel, sometimes borrowing or donning the garments of those around him in moments that mirror morphing character dynamics. Characters frequently disrobe, but not in the expected manner where less clothes means more sexual charge. A pivotal scene near the film’s climax features nudity under bedcovers that feels, in fact, anti-sexual and submissive, like Jérémie is retreating back to the womb as he gives in to his knot of guilt and the suspicion surrounding him.
Much of the film unfolds in scenes of protracted dialogue between Jérémie and the other villagers, conversations that grow increasingly elliptical as the runtime progresses, edging into surreal territory during a few key moments. A dry irony slowly emerges, occasionally bordering on outright comedy, especially through role reversals. For instance, the village priest subverts expectations during two memorable scenes: First, a reverse-confession of sins when he admits to lying to Jérémie in a church confessional booth. Later, the priest plays the anti-moralist by suggesting to Jérémie that perhaps evil isn’t so bad, provided one can comfortably live with the consequences. So the comedy is more structural and clever than it is laugh-out-loud funny, though a couple of moments have the cadence of a jump scare or punchline.
Guiraudie’s visual mood is equal parts lovely and dreary, epitomized by the dank woods surrounding the village so central to its inhabitants’ lives. His camera favors static long takes, but Claire Mathon’s cinematography captures these shots exquisitely, especially those woods, lush and shadowy. So it’s an attractive film, but the beauty is never distracting. It never drowns out the story around it, instead bringing out the somber, clammy mood of the rest of the production.
Overall, I enjoyed Misericordia quite a bit, especially in its second half. That said, the film operates squarely in the realm of European art-house cinema, complete with a slightly miserabilist tone and characters who are ordinary and/or troubled people. Every year a couple of these kind of movies get festival buzz, and the better ones are worth the dour mood they bring along (see, e.g., Passages). I count this film in that group. Misericordia ends up having enough sharp, slow-build storytelling, bizarre character development, and bleak irony in its murder drama that it really sucked me in.
Is It Good?
Good (5/8)
Dan is the founder and head critic of The Goods. Follow Dan on Letterboxd. Join the Discord for updates and discussion.