Looking through the spotty glass of a car window at a winding rural road is a fitting opening to Alain Guiraudie's intriguing, carefully studied Misericordia (the title, in part, references the Latin word for "mercy"). Taking place within a quaint French village, with its characters consisting of only a handful of folks, who seem to be the only ones shown of its citizenry, Guiraudie's film is muddy and knotty. It's a morality tale that's anti-morality, yet also one that resists the declarative. The film renders a jumble of tones: perversely comic, dry, sensitive, addled.
The enigmatic Jérémie (Félix Kysyl) comes back to his hometown after the death of an older man he once worked with as a baker. The film suggests that Jérémie was fond of the departed, and perhaps had a sexual relationship with him, or at least, a desire for one. Jérémie stays with the man's widow, Martine (Catherine Frot), for a lodging that seems to be lasting for an abnormally long amount of time. Over the course of these days, Jérémie is threatened by Martine's son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand). Jérémie has taken over Vincent's adolescent bedroom (walls lined with pictures of footballers), and both seem to be harboring simmering animosities towards one another that quickly escalate.
Meanwhile, Jérémie visits, drinks and conversates with a family friend, Walter (David Ayala), for whom Jérémie seems to be attracted to as well (as with his other works, Guiraudie's portrayal of older, schlubby, overweight men as against-the-norm cinematic objects of sexual desire continues in this film as well, quite delightfully). Throughout, a reserved priest (Jacques Develay) mills about in the background, sometimes popping up in the most inopportune moments. This cluster of townsfolk, of intermingling yearnings, makes for a tense, dryly amusing tinderbox. Much of the characters' most uncouth, secretive, and violent behavior occurs within the attractive backdrop of the village's woods—a damp, leafy, fog-draped setting of mushroom foraging and intimate conversations and clashes.
Guiraudie's film is a well-plotted and characterized tale, its unraveling mostly surprising, with a bevy of understated wit. It doesn't thunder its way to a satisfying conclusion. Instead, it reaffirms its sense of lonesome, dirt-speckled windshield wandering. Claire Mathon, a wonderful cinematographer and frequent collaborator with Guiraudie, shoots the film with a chilly, shrewd feel. The film often cycles through various tones and times of day within its deceptively tranquil settings: the ice blues of morning, the warmth of afternoons, and the unnerving dark of night. When lights suddenly (almost violently so) flick on in a room, the film expresses a flat, unattractive feel (to an amusing degree in one of the priest's later scenes). Through a queer lens, there were some subtleties I was picking up on throughout; there were things resonating with myself deeply that maybe others would feel as strongly about. I sometimes wondered during its screening, Am I the only one seeing this? The film would probably say back to me if it were a person, You aren't that special. ***
-Jeffery Berg
Misericordia, which received praise out of last year's film festivals, is finally making its way to a domestic theatrical release (where best viewed) through Sideshow and Janus Films on March, 21st.
