Latest news with #Frenchcinema
Yahoo
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
‘The Little Sister' Review: Coming-of-Age Drama About a French Muslim's Lesbian Awakening Is a Low-Key Stunner
Just like American cinema never wearies of road movies, French cinema has long been littered with sexual coming-of-age films: tales of young people exploring their bodies, appetites and identities over the course of a sun-soaked summer vacation, a tumultuous school year or a few formatively horny days. As with any popular category of movie, a certain numbing redundancy — if not laziness — sets in after a while; few recent entries have had the tingle of discovery that allowed Maurice Pialat's To Our Loves, André Téchiné's Wild Reeds and various Catherine Breillat works to fire up our memories and imaginations, to say nothing of our loins. More from The Hollywood Reporter 'The President's Cake' Review: An Iraqi Schoolgirl's Odyssey Among Grown-ups Is a Tragicomic Gem 'All Quiet on the Western Front' Writer Lesley Paterson Penning Bertha Benz Film (Exclusive) 'The Great Arch' Review: Claes Bang Captivates as an Unknown Danish Architect Battling French Bureaucrats to Build His Monumental Work Occasionally, however, a new one comes along that cuts right through the crowd with its confidence and texture, its erotic charge and lingering nostalgic ache. Hafsia Herzi's superb The Little Sister (La petite dernière), about a French Muslim teenager's lesbian awakening, is such a film, joining Abdellatif Kechiche's Blue Is the Warmest Color, Rebecca Zlotowski's An Easy Girl and Téchiné's Being 17 in the very top tier of contemporary examples. Vibrantly felt yet impressively controlled — and blessed with a stone-cold stunner of a central performance — The Little Sister is indeed an instant classic of the genre, as moving in its humanism as it is sexy. The particular intersection of communities depicted here (LGBTQ and Muslim), as well as a handful of Sapphic scenes for the ages, gives the drama an undeniable jolt of freshness. But the film stands easily on its own merits, dispelling any doubts that may have greeted its inclusion in this year's main competition. This third directorial outing from 38-year-old Herzi (a César-winning actress who exploded onto the scene in Kechiche's 2007 The Secret of the Grain) — her first two, while well-received at home, never secured U.S. distribution — is worthy of attention well beyond French borders; in a just world, it would be a major international breakout for both the helmer and lead Nadia Melliti, whose gorgeously modulated body-and-soul performance is one of the most auspicious screen debuts I've seen in a while. Though the subject matter, with its core conflict between personal desires and religious pressures, might have lent itself to didacticism or preachiness, Herzi proves a supremely nimble and nuanced storyteller. Freely adapting Fatima Daas' autobiographical 2020 novel, she boasts an unerring sense of pacing, a ripe naturalistic visual style, and an agile way with tone, marrying humor, heat and surging emotion. Perhaps less surprising is Herzi's success in coaxing across-the-board terrific work from the cast, down to the smallest role; even characters who appear fleetingly make vivid impressions. The film opens on high-school senior Fatima (Melliti) performing religious rituals — washing herself before prayer; kneeling and bowing, dressed in full hijab — at home in the working-class projects outside Paris. It's a world Herzi fills in with warmth and economy, using deft brushstrokes to immerse us in her protagonist's life. The family apartment is full of typical irritations and affections, with teasing older sisters, a doting mother bustling about the kitchen and a TV-glued father griping good-naturedly from the couch. Her long, raven-black hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, Fatima is a watchful tomboy with a talent for soccer and a group of rowdy male friends (one of whose salaciously embellished account of a date with a pair of 'MILFs' is a crude comic high point). She suffers from asthma, attending check-ins with an endearingly nerdy doctor. She's kinda-sorta seeing a courtly but conservative young Muslim man who wants to take things to the next level — marriage, kids, etc. Her halfhearted responses to his overtures amount to a clear 'Thanks, but no thanks.' Fatima is also a gifted student, captivated in class as her buddies goof off around her. When their banter turns homophobic — in that banal way that seems timeless for certain teenage boys — she stays silent. In one wrenching scene, she even contributes to the bullying of a gay classmate, lashing out violently when he shifts the spotlight onto her sexuality. Fatima's terror of being outed is palpable here, her poised stoicism giving way to an almost feral panic and shame. One night, she creates a profile on a lesbian hook-up app. Soon after, Fatima is sitting in a car with an older woman, Ingrid (Sophie Garagnon), getting an explanatory (as opposed to experiential) crash course in lesbian sexual 'specialties.' Part of what makes the scene sweet and spicy and unexpected is how quickly Ingrid pivots from seductress to mentor. Intuiting that what Fatima wants at this point isn't to have sex, but to talk about sex — to hear it demystified and destigmatized — Ingrid draws her out of her shell, fielding questions with flirty, faintly wistful amusement. It's an initiation that readies Fatima for a more lasting connection with Ji-Na, a 20something nurse (the electric Park Ji-Min of Return to Seoul) whom she meets-cute at an asthma management seminar. Later, as the two quiz each other about their backgrounds, hobbies and hopes over a Seine-side dinner, we feel the ticklish pleasure of their mutual curiosity. Herzi shows us something simple, and universal, yet rarely actually captured onscreen: the bit-by-bit building of a human connection. Fatima and Ji-Na are something of an odd couple, the former's panther-like litheness and circumspection contrasting with the latter's more direct, puppyish energy. But their bond makes sense, partly because both are ethnic outsiders in France: Fatima is the only member of her family not born in Algeria, while Ji-Na moved to Paris from Korea at age five. As their relationship progresses from first kisses (this is a film in which people really kiss) to Pride March, nights on the town to noodles at home, the movie conjures a whole world of intimacy and freedom beginning to open to Fatima. Things, of course, don't go as planned, but life goes on. Fatima starts university, studying philosophy and making new friends — a merry band of queer boys, quite the corrective to her macho high-school crew. She also falls in with some slightly older lesbians, led by Cassandra (Mouna Soualem, divine), an irrepressible, ringlet-headed sexpot with a smoky gasp of a voice. Immediately clocking Fatima's broken heart, Cassandra barrels past her defenses, taking our protagonist under her wing (and into her and her girlfriend's bed). Scenes of them together nail the euphoric thrill of youthful experimentation and self-discovery. But following every night of ecstasy comes a lonely, bleary-eyed morning-after. Melliti has a proud, almost regal gaze that, in these moments, clouds over with melancholy and anxiousness. Fatima knows she's changing — drifting in fundamental ways from her family and upbringing, but also remaining on the margins of a community she doesn't yet claim as her own. That type of liminal existence feels untenable for someone as essentially honest as Fatima, and the question that haunts the film is why she, or anyone in today's France, should have to choose between integral parts of herself. The Little Sister is clear-eyed about the virtual impossibility, for some religious LGBTQ people, of disclosing their sexual preference to loved ones. Still, Herzi is steadfastly non-judgmental in her vision of Islam and its centrality in Fatima's life. The filmmaker isn't interested in any scathing indictment of religion, but rather in how layered and complex identities are, and in how Fatima's refusal to deny either her sexuality or her spirituality is in itself an act of faith — in herself, in an Islam that doesn't seem to have room for her, and in a country whose historic disdain for multiculturalism and communitarianism means that it may be unprepared for her as well. In some ways, The Little Sister brings to mind Dee Rees' Pariah, another queer coming-of-age story set against a tradition-bound domestic backdrop. But while the main character's mother in that movie was an antagonistic figure, Fatima's parents are portrayed as kind, not dogmatic or ostentatiously pious. (Islamic strictures are articulated only late in the film by an imam whom Fatima consults in desperation.) Fatima's mom (Amina Ben Mohamed), especially, is a nurturing presence; her sighing with pride as she affixes her daughter's diploma to the wall is a touching grace note. She also appears at least outwardly oblivious to the nature of her daughter's struggle — or so we think until a penultimate scene that's like a small exhalation of breath we weren't even aware of holding. That this exchange between Fatima and her mother stops short of being an explicit breakthrough is significant, an acknowledgement that the outcomes of situations like these are often imperfect. The Little Sister is imbued, finally, with a bittersweet acceptance of the limitations of the people, institutions and communities we hold dear. Herzi's filmmaking is polished and precise, though never fastidious; the movie crackles with loose, lived-in vitality and moment-to-moment authenticity. Working with DP Jérémie Attard, Herzi frames her actors tenderly, making generous use of close-ups without hovering or ogling. Géraldine Mangenot's editing and Amine Bouhafa's lovely score, by tuns churning and contemplative, help give the proceedings an enrapturing ebb and flow. The film's perfect final shot has a piercing ambiguity. A casual glimpse of Fatima that blossoms with meaning in retrospect, epitomizing her individuality, her tenacity and resolve, it's at once shattering and profoundly hopeful. That it can be felt in such diametrically differing ways at the same time is a testament to the unassuming richness of this wise, altogether wonderful film. 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CTV News
16-05-2025
- Entertainment
- CTV News
Depardieu convicted. Cannes reacts. But did #MeToo finally win in France?
French actor Gerard Depardieu, left, and Belgian actress Cecile de France pose at the 59th International film festival in Cannes, southern France, on May 26, 2006. (AP Photo/Francois Mori) PARIS — For powerful men in France's film industry, this was a week of reckoning. Gérard Depardieu — the country's most famous male actor — was convicted of sexual assault. Two days later, the Cannes Film Festival barred another actor accused of rape from walking the red carpet. Together, the decisions sent a message that France had long resisted: that artistic brilliance may no longer shield those who abuse their power. For decades, Depardieu was revered as French cinema's 'sacred monster' — a towering talent whose gluttony, volatility and magnetism became part of his myth. With more than 250 films to his name, many believed he would remain untouchable even after more than 20 women accused him of sexual misconduct. Now, that myth has cracked. The verdict has revived a broader question France has ducked since the dawn of #MeToo: Can a country that celebrates seduction and irreverence finally hold its male icons to account? France has long lived its own #MeToo contradiction. That talent, charm, or intellect forgives misconduct. That the art excuses the artist. This is the land that gave the world Brigitte Bardot's pout and Catherine Deneuve's poise — and then watched both recoil when the movement came knocking. Deneuve has defended 'the right' to seduce, while Bardot has dismissed feminism outright: 'I like men.' But the ground is shifting — fast. Cannes' seismic shift Depardieu was handed an 18-month suspended sentence Tuesday for groping two women on a 2021 film set. He denies the charges and is appealing. 'It's the end of impunity of artists with a capital A,' Carine Durrieu Diebolt, a lawyer for one of the two women who won their case against Depardieu, told The Associated Press. The verdict represented 'a bookend for putting actors on a pedestal because they were talented,' she added. Two days later, the prestigious Cannes Film Festival barred actor Théo Navarro-Mussy — accused of rape by three former partners — from attending the premiere of a film he stars in, even though the file was dropped for lack of evidence. The women are launching a civil complaint. Navarro-Mussy denies wrongdoing. His lawyer said that she's unaware of any ongoing proceedings against him. What stunned wasn't just the decision, but who made it. Cannes director Thierry Frémaux had long been seen as emblematic of the old guard. He defended Roman Polanski for years and continued to screen his films despite the director's 1977 guilty plea in the U.S. for sex with a 13-year-old. In 2018, when asked why Cannes still included Polanski, Frémaux said: 'These are complicated matters.' Frémaux opened 2023's festival with a film starring Johnny Depp, despite the actor's highly public legal battle with ex-wife Amber Heard over allegations of domestic abuse, in which he was never criminally charged. When asked about the backlash, Frémaux replied: 'I only have one rule: it's the freedom of thinking, and the freedom of speech and acting within a legal framework.' This week, the rules changed. 'The Cannes decision is of course linked to the Depardieu verdict,' said Céline Piques of Osez le féminisme ('Dare Feminism!'), a group that campaigns against sexual violence. '(They've) realized which way the wind is blowing. Frémaux is trying to right the wrongs.' Resistance remains Not everyone welcomed the verdict — or what followed — as a cultural turning point. Fanny Ardant, one of French cinema's grandes dames and a longtime friend of Depardieu, sat on his side in court. She is now directing him in a film in Portugal, despite the conviction. 'Fanny Ardant? She completely missed the point,' said Piques. 'She downplayed the violence, normalized it. That's rape culture, plain and simple.' Juliette Binoche, Cannes jury president and one of France's most respected actors, struck a note of restraint: 'He's not a monster. He's a man — one who has, apparently, been desacralized.' Her caution captured something deeper: a country caught between the urge to change and the instinct to protect its giants. A justice system slowly opening In 2024, more than 22,000 rapes were reported in France. Fewer than 3% led to convictions. 'The Depardieu verdict shows there's progress,' said lawyer Anne-Sophie Laguens, who works with victims of sexual assault. 'But for most women, the barriers to justice remain enormous.' When Bertrand Cantat — front man of Noir Désir and once one of France's bestselling rock singers — launched a 2018 comeback tour, he had served just four years in prison for killing his partner, actor Marie Trintignant, during a violent assault. Despite public outrage, he returned to the stage and performed. 'That would be unthinkable today,' said Piques. 'The public mood has changed. What we tolerate has changed.' The shift in shame One breakthrough came not from a film set, but an Avignon courtroom. The conviction of 51 men for drugging and raping Gisele Pelicot — a case long ignored despite her pleas — marked a turning point. For years, shame was hers. Now, it belongs to the perpetrators. 'It proved rapists aren't just strangers in alleys,' said Piques. 'They're husbands. Colleagues. Respected men.' That shift in shame is now rippling through the cultural world — once seen as a bastion of male privilege. Recently. director Christophe Ruggia was convicted of abusing actor Adèle Haenel when she was a minor, though he is appealing; and actor-director Nicolas Bedos, was sentenced for sexual assault. So did #MeToo win? Slowly but surely, yes. The system that long protected men like Depardieu is not yet dismantled, but it is shifting. As one of the actor's accusers said through tears after the ruling: 'I'm very, very much satisfied with the decision. That's a victory for me, really. And a big progress, a step forward. I feel justice was made.' Thomas Adamson, The Associated Press Resources for sexual assault survivors in Canada If you or someone you know is struggling with sexual assault or trauma, the following resources are available to support people in crisis:
