the opinion of the “world” – not to be missed
The hour has come. It is the resumption of the hissed entertainment, the head still on the pandemic anvil. So we will go, with a heavy heart but in an exalted quest for lightness, to see if we can still laugh at something. Who knows. To this end, Mandibles, by Quentin Dupieux, wins hands down in the pile-up of the titles offered.
The film invites us to the frugal meal of happy idiocy, carries us around without failing on the horizon of its infinite rest. French Riviera. Sea of oil. Time before. Even before the front. Time of a fledged and Californian France, which smacks of the vague boredom of an era without waves, the agony of mopeds, the luxury of a recklessness that will soon sink. Something that smacks of the second oil shock, even if Mandibles remains, in its relation to time as to cinema, fundamentally insituable.
From this fuzzy area emerges the holy pair baptized Jean Gab and Manu – in this case David Marsais and Grégoire Ludig, extricated from Palmashow and its pastille humor, suddenly densified, magnified, so to speak, by the grace of cinema. Greasy hair, a hyena sneer, a drawling accent. Slowly. With this personal rallying sign, index and little finger outstretched, hands gnoring on a sound “Bull” pronounced with the same voice, with an intensely complicit air. Understand who can. This should be seen as the sign of an election. The assurance of an agreement whose main purpose is to exclude others.
The fly would be seen as the faithful and secret companion of an off-center story that flies and sports through various states of our society
Worthy descendants of the Hirsutes or the Zutists, the two ragged poetics – mandated by a dealer of who knows what to deliver a mysterious briefcase a short distance away – find in the trunk of a stolen car the roaring symbol of their absolute singularity. Or a groggy fly the size of a large farmed chicken, the body greyish green and the eyes with orange facets, sleeping in the shelter of a beige Merco registered in Switzerland, history of saying that the giant insect , far from its cousins in the gallery of monsters, aspires to an amiable neutrality.
Domesticated Diptera
Big articulated puppet, partly, old-fashioned with its nodding head, the Diptera, faithful to Alfred Jarry, seems to say “shit” to the genre film. Jean Gab and Manu, who have understood this, decide to tame it for an uncertain future exercise from which they expect to make their fortune. Here is evoked a transformation into a drone of the domesticated fly for the illicit transport of goods. Happy men.
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