Reviewed: Our Children by Joachim Lafosse

Tears for fears.

Our Children (15)
Joachim Lafosse

There can be few larger gulfs between marketing and product than the one that exists in the case of the new film Our Children. UK cinemagoers contemplating the poster image of a young woman and her smiling husband laden with adorable moppets would be forgiven for expecting to have their faith in familial love renewed. But then infanticide is such a hard sell, don’t you find? The movie gets straight to the point. Its second image is a wide shot of the tarmac on an airport runway. Four tiny, white coffins are being fed along a conveyor belt into the hold of a plane. From this distance, they might be sugar lumps or baby teeth.

The director and co-writer, Joachim Lafosse, employs two recurring visual devices throughout the film, both gently disorienting. The first is a sudden cut from a wide shot to a close-up, or vice versa, as though reminding us to appreciate the bigger picture (or the smaller one). No sooner are our eyes lulled by the procession of those faroff caskets than Lafosse jumps to a tight close-up of Murielle (Émilie Dequenne) and Mounir (Tahar Rahim) in an intimate embrace several years earlier. They are fabulously in love and blissfully unaware that their happiness exists only in flashback.

Lafosse’s other favourite device is to observe his actors with a handheld camera positioned slightly off to one side. Nothing radical about that, except that he takes special care to include in these shots the blurred edge of a door frame or lamp post to suggest that the cinematographer is shooting surreptitiously like a paparazzo or peeping Tom. There’s a reason for this. As one of the great philosophers of our age once put it, there are three people in this marriage. When Murielle agrees to live with Mounir, she is moving in also with his adoptive father, André (Niels Arestrup), a GP who is always there when he’s needed – and also when he isn’t. He provides money with invisible strings attached. When he coughs up for the couple’s honeymoon, Mounir invites him along too. André placates their first baby when Murielle cannot. Soon she finds she cannot gain a toehold with her own offspring. Or, it transpires, with her husband.

It looks at first as though Mounir, who yearns sentimentally for the Moroccan village where his mother and brother still live, will be the subject of the picture. The camera can certainly be excused for doting on Rahim, who played the scrawny convict maturing into a crime boss in A Prophet. With his Valentino handsomeness, inky black locks and lupine grin, he is part-lout, partmatinee idol. How inspiring to pair him again with Arestrup, who bullied and mentored him in A Prophet and performs some of the same duties here. Arestrup has off-white hair like a department-store Santa; his grizzled face is rigid with resentment. We know from Murielle’s first meeting with André that this will be an unequal fight.

Eventually the young woman is squeezed out of marriage and motherhood. The movie shifts its focus toward Murielle, as if in sympathy, as Mounir’s interest in her starts to wane. Dequenne can be an implacable tough-nut, as she proved in her debut performance at the age of 18 in the Dardenne brothers’ 1999 film Rosetta. In Our Children, she’s more haunted than hunted. Her feline eyes glow in her blunt hexagonal face; if Rachel Weisz had endured a life of chimneysweeping and coal-mining rather than Bulgari and L’Oréal contracts, she might look something like this. Dequenne makes Murielle sorrowful without pleading for our pity; she is simply a bright woman outsmarted by callous men.

Before the film’s inevitably distressing conclusion, which is based on real events, Dequenne is given the colossal task of visualising the exact point of Murielle’s breakdown. In an unbroken, three-and-a-halfminute take, she sings along to the radio as she drives, her melodious voice gradually sabotaged by sobs. Those of us who are forever citing Nicole Kidman’s tear-stained close-up in Birth as the ultimate example of wordless acting will now have to update our reference points.

Tahar Rahim and Émilie Dequenne in Our Children.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 13 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Eton Mess

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Brexit… Leg-sit

A new poem by Jo-Ella Sarich. 

Forgot Brexit. An ostrich just walked into the room. Actually,
forget ostriches too. Armadillos also have legs, and shoulder plates
like a Kardashian.  Then I walked in, the other version of me, the one
with legs like wilding pines, when all of them

are the lumberjacks. Forget forests. Carbon sinks are down
this month; Switzerland is the neutral territory
that carved out an island for itself. My body
is the battleground you sketch. My body is
the greenfield development, and you
are the heavy earthmoving equipment. Forget
the artillery in the hills
and the rooftops opening up like nesting boxes. Forget about

the arms race. Cheekbones are the new upper arms
since Michelle lost out to Melania. My cheekbones
are the Horsehead Nebula and you are the Russians
at warp speed. Race you to the finish. North Korea

will go away if you stop thinking
about it. South Korea will, too. Stop thinking
about my sternum. Stop thinking about
the intricacy of my mitochondria. Thigh gaps
are the new wage gaps, and mine is like
the space between the redwood stand
and the plane headed for the mountains. Look,

I’ve pulled up a presentation
with seven different eschatologies
you might like to try. Forget that my arms
are the yellow tape around the heritage tree. Forget
about my exoskeleton. Forget
that the hermit crab
has no shell of its own. Forget that the crab ever
walked sideways into the room.
Pay attention, people.

Jo-Ella Sarich is a New Zealand-based lawyer and poet. Her poems have appeared in the Galway Review and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2017.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear