The Empire (scifi French language film review).
In a universe where the line between the profound and the preposterous is thinner than the plot of a daytime soap opera, Bruno Dumont‘s latest cinematic escapade, The Empire, takes its audience on a wild – if low budget- science fiction ride that’s more twisty than a bag of fusilli. As a devout follower of the church of sci-fi, where the scriptures are written in CGI and the commandments come with a side of quantum mechanics, I dove into Dumont’s universe, prepared for a revelation. What I found was less of an epiphany and more of a head-scratcher, but entertaining? Absolutely.
Set in a French fishing village so ordinary it might as well be a stand-in for “Everytown, Earth,” The Empire dares to ask the question: what if the fate of humanity hinged not on the machinations of world leaders or the might of interstellar armies but on the shoulders of the local fishmonger? In this apocalyptic comedy-drama, Dumont crafts a narrative as daft as a brush with genius—or perhaps as genius with a brush of daft—where the cosmic battle between good and evil plays out in the least likely of theaters.
The cast, a delightful mélange of French cinema royalty and newcomers, navigates a script that feels like it was beamed down by an alien who’d only ever experienced human culture through intercepted broadcasts of Monty Python and Star Wars. Lyna Khoudri, Anamaria Vartolomei, Camille Cottin, and Fabrice Luchini deliver performances that oscillate between the sublimely ridiculous and the ridiculously sublime. Luchini, as the devilishly named Belzébuth, chews scenery with the gusto of a man who’s just been told the world’s ending and there’s nothing left to do but enjoy the buffet.
The premise—a parody of the Star Wars franchise set against the backdrop of Northern France’s picturesque Côte d’Opale—sounds like the kind of idea you’d come up with after a night of too much camembert and cheap red wine. And yet, Dumont goes all in, serving up a dish that’s equal parts farce and philosophy. The alien invasion, spearheaded by the zeros and countered by the ones, turns the quaint village into a battleground for an apocalypse that’s less fire and brimstone, more bumbling and bemusement.
The film’s visual palette, blending the ethereal beauty of the French coastline with the absurdity of CGI blobs and light-saber duels, creates a cinematic experience that’s as bewildering as it is beautiful. The action sequences, if one can call them that, are choreographed with a grace that suggests the participants might have been expecting a dance-off rather than a duel to the death.
Yet, for all its quirks, The Empire stretches its one-gag premise like a piece of bubblegum, pulled from the pack with enthusiasm but quickly losing its flavor. The film’s attempt at blending existential musings with slapstick comedy sometimes feels like mixing champagne with cola—a concoction that’s intriguing on paper but less palatable in practice.
In the end, The Empire is a cinematic curiosity, a bauble in the vast universe of sci-fi that’s sure to delight as many as it baffles. As the latest critique to grace the pages of SFcrowsnest, the film stands as a testament to Dumont’s fearless foray into the absurd. It may not be the droid you’re looking for if you’re in search of a sci-fi epic that takes itself seriously. But for those willing to embrace the madness, The Empire offers a unique voyage to a galaxy not so far away, where the force is strong with whimsy, and the dark side is just another shade of silly.
