Demonlover

Synopsis: Diane (Connie Nielsen) and Hervé (Charles Berling) work for a congomerate which is looking to invest in internet porn, specifically extreme Japanese animé versions of it. The stakes are high and the game is ruthless. Diane thinks she knows how to play hardball but things are not what they seem.

The French invented haute couture so it is little wonder that their taste for expensive seamstressing extends to the cinema. Cinéma-du-look directors such as Luc Besson and Jean-Jacques Beineix have inflicted on us their celluloid equivalents to the empty pretensions of the catwalk. Judging by this film Assayas shares their fascination with the meretricious. Mercifully however he has a more acerbic and critical vision, closer to Gaspard Noé’s Irreversible or Virginie Despentes & Coralie Trinh Thi’s Baise Moi. If none of these reference points appealed to you, chances are that you will not enjoy this decidedly overlong film. If you are not familiar with them chances are you won't anyway.

Demonlover is essentially a thriller, or at least that is Assayas’ narrative foundation. This aspect accounts for the designer chic component of the film - hence the hi-tech digital transnational steel and glass corporatised environment in which the film is (mostly) set. There’s the usual indulgence in leggy brunettes, stubbly dudes, Paris at night and of course, le sexe. So much for the Besson and Beineix look-alike aspect of things. Assayas, however, seems to have trouble in keeping within these style guidelines both in terms of plot and technical execution. Not only are there some awful continuity edits, Assayas indifferently shrugs off constraints of credibility. The director seems to be saying, “look, you know these are simply genre devices so I’m not even going to bother rationalizing them” – so, for instance Diane can get belted on the head with an ashtray in one scene and appear in the next morning-after scene not a jot worse for wear. Not only is he cavalier with such narrative conventions, he feels no particular need to be hasty about it and the film drags the viewer's bruised carcass well into groan territory. One assumes Assayas had his reasons for these things (although an artist's ego can be a terrible thing) but the outcome is, unfortunately, alienating to no benefit.

Assayas’ real interest seems to be less with story or character than with his vision of post-modern society. The ruthless world of cyberporn that he depicts here can be taken as a metaphor for and symptom of the venality of big business in general and a statement about the sickness of the globalised, digitalised culture which we are feverishly developing (Australia gets a guernsey as a hotbed of porn production although whether because to the French it’s the southern hemispherical equivalent to Siberia or because there is a substantial reason I do not know). This is the strength of the film and in this respect it is arguably more effective than many in the recent slew of after-the-fact anti-globalisation documentaries we’ve been seeing of late. If you wanted confirmation that we’re heading to hell in a haycart, you’ll be well-satisfied with this film, whichever way you want to take it.

 

 

Want more about this film?

    

Want something different?