Où va la nuit (2011) - film review

Fed up with being a victim, Rose Mayer decides to take charge of her own destiny and murder the aggressive husband who has made her life hell.  She then takes flight to Brussels, where she meets up with her son who left home many years ago.  Rose may be free but her newfound freedom cannot erase her burgeoning sense of guilt.  She must learn to accept the traumas of the past if she is to move on and start a new life...

The talented duo that brought us the mesmerising biopic Séraphine (2008) - director Martin Provost and actress Yolande Moreau - once more pool their resources to deliver a film on inner conflict and extreme family disharmony that is almost as gripping and starkly humane.  Adapted from the novel The Long Falling by the Irish writer Keith Ridgway, Où va la nuit is an exquisitely moulded synthesis of social drama and traditional French policier which, whilst not as inspired nor as devastatingly poignant as Provost’s previous film, is rendered enthralling by Moreau’s enigmatic portrayal of a middle-aged woman struggling, and failing, to find a way out of her personal hell.  

Où va la nuit is particularly effective in its first half, which presents a harrowing picture of domestic violence that can only lead to the crisis point, a premeditated murder, on which the rest of the drama hinges.  Agnès Godard’s moody photography and the sheer intensity of Moreau’s performance convey, with chilling realism, a bleak, unremitting sense of oppression and despair.  Such is the degree of suffering evoked by Moreau that we are compelled to align our sympathies with the woman who is impelled to murder the man who has made her life a misery.  The themes are those you will find in any Greek tragedy, the atmosphere - a brooding, quietly escalating sense of desperation - is that of a Georges Simenon novel, but the barrage of conflicting emotions that assail us is something unfamiliar and deeply uncomforting, the product of Yolande Moreau’s arresting portrayal of a woman teetering on the edge of the abyss, the tragically fated prisoner of her circumstances and flawed personality traits.

When the location shifts to Brussels and the heroine Rose attempts to patch things up with her estranged son, this is where the film begins to slacken its grip on the audience’s emotions and interest and starts to resemble a more conventional police drama.   Despite an excellent performance from Pierre Moure, who brings a tortured introspection to his interpretation of the gay son who is traumatised by guilt and an inability to accept the past, the dramatic possibilities of Rose’s attempts to rebuild her relationship with her son are not exploited sufficiently and so the film loses much of its focus and authenticity as it becomes enmeshed in the tedious mechanics of its plot.  Provost’s mise-en-scène also suffers as a result of the shortcomings in the script, visibly lacking the inspired touch with which the film began, luring us into Rose’s solitary nightmare existence.  The film is, however, magnificently redeemed by a faultless, richly nuanced performance from Yolande Moreau, who once again leaves us in no doubt that she is one of the finest actresses working in France today.

© James Travers 2011

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