J Paul Johnson
The tantalizing thriller Misericordia, handsomely shot and set in the pastoral French countryside, revolves nearly entirely around sex—or, to be more precise, the lack thereof. Nearly every one of its characters wants it, none of them gets it, and their projections and desires create a complex storm of murder and misericordia, that last a Latin word for compassion and mercy, especially for those in misery. It’s a concept that explains a key turn in the film that might otherwise appear inexplicable and lends the film a depth that transcends its otherwise apparently-pulpy plot.
Director Alain Guiraudie’s film begins with a long, first-person drive through the Occitanie countryside towards the small village where the entirely of that plot will ensue. Only at that journey’s conclusion do we learn the driver’s identity: he is a young man named Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), returning to his hometown for a funeral. There, his beloved former boss, the village baker, has passed away, leaving behind a grieving widow, Martine (Catherine Frot), and their cloddish, angry son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), with whom Jérémie shared a childhood friendship. It all seems innocent enough, but when Jérémie stares a little too long and lovingly at a snapshot of the shirtless deceased on a beach vacation, one questions the nature of their relationship. It won’t be the first time in Misericordia that one of its handful of central characters pines for another.
The first of several thorny complications arises when Jérémie, out of work and driftless, stays just a little too long after the funeral, taking up residence in Vincent’s childhood bedroom at the behest of widow Martine. While Martine seems delighted to have Jérémie around (and keeps running into him in states of undress), Vincent is perturbed and takes to threatening Jérémie should the drifter overstay his welcome. They engage in a little queer-coded roughhousing before Vincent’s threats turn more serious.
Two other locals figure prominently. There is a mutual acquaintance, Walter (David Ayala), a gentle bear of a man whom Jérémie surprisingly befriends, again to Vincent’s vehement disapproval, and a local priest, Phillippe (Jacques Develay), who seems to appear suddenly in the forest—it’s where the locals go to forage for mushrooms—whenever Jérémie appears there. As the seemingly benign Jérémie further insinuates himself into his mentor’s family and the local scene, his rumpled appeal sets desires alight in both the widow and the priest, and Vincent’s threats turn to a rage that explodes in violence.
For a film that operates nearly entirely on the principles of sex and violence, there is surprisingly little of either depicted in Misericordia. There is, though Jérémie’s presence rouses the latent desires of several of the locals, no sex extant in the film. The single episode of violence, escalating incrementally in a long and detailed scene at the film’s midpoint, is brutal and consequential, setting the narrative and particularly its protagonist on an entirely new tack. The film’s second half concerns an investigation into one character’s mysterious disappearance, yet that investigation exacerbates, rather than quells, the sexual tensions run practically amok.
Misericordia‘s cast bring to the film a range of enigmatic charisma. As the driftless Jérémie, Félix Kysyl brings a rumpled, casual appeal to the role; his character seems practically devoid of agency, opting for whichever path of least resistance presents itself—until he is pushed into a corner and forced to act. As the widow Martine, César nominee Catherine Frot is a delight, her sly glances and penetrating stares suggesting grief is not the only strong emotion she experiences in Jérémie’s presence. Perhaps the most challenging and complex role is that of the Monsignor, whose actions stand the plot on its head: Jacques Develay (also a César nominee), all bulging eyes and doughy features, often silent but practically always present, is wonderful. His own latent desires may surprise, but his actions are grounded in his own very particular interpretation of theology.
Nearly every action the central characters take in the wake of the mysterious disappearance seem, in fact, motivated by desire. As the local gendarmes (Sébastien Faglain and Salomé Lopes) plod through their investigation, the notion of misericordia—of finding compassion and even mercy or clemency for those in misery—informs a key and surprising turn of events. As it turns out, the trope of a mysterious stranger unsettling the dynamic of a small town is one still full of cinematic potential. Guiraudie’s is a queer-coded and carnal carnival of a world in Misericordia, one where eroticism and violence pop up, like morel mushrooms in a lush forest, surprisingly and sometimes unpredictably. It’s an unsettling and morally riddling film, and it certainly won’t satisfy all comers, but once you’re on its weird journey, there’s no looking away from what it depicts.
