From a mostly western perspective, this time of year is one in which we normally spend time with family, reflect on the memories of the past and simply just dive into our own experiences, all through a vaguely melancholic, nostalgic lens. This festive season, I chose to spend some time watching home movies with my family – and there’s something very special about this form of capturing the past and recording it for future generations to see, although very rarely do outsiders appreciate such a novelty. However, one person who seems to struggle with this concept is Maïwenn, who has made a film in the form of DNA (French: ADN) which has the overly-personal sensation of a candid home video, but the arrogance of someone who believed that audiences actually care about hearing what she has to say about it, especially when what she’s saying is so banal and without even the slightest degree of merit. Vaguely autobiographical for some absurd reason, and inspired by her life as a woman coming to terms with her ancestry, which is some mix of French and Algerian (although this film leads you to believe there was some strain of inborn pretentiousness woven into her somewhere), DNA is one of the most bewildering films of the year, and a puzzling work of filmmaking in every conceivable way, the kind that leaves us entirely confused and perhaps even quite unsettled, since we’re forced to scramble to find a reason to keep going on with this atrocity of a film. When it comes to bad films, we can normally attribute it to an ambitious idea that just failed, or a failed idea that just didn’t have any merit to it, instead resting on a familiar pattern – but on both account, we can somehow decipher the reason for that film being made. This particular film belongs in a very elite category, one that we don’t come across very often, where its very existence itself is bewildering. It’s not clear what drove Maïwenn to actually make DNA, or the deranged executives and industry professionals that told her that it would be a good idea – but what can be said with absolute certainty is that DNA is truly one of the year’s most unfortunate experiences, and a film that is so bad, it challenges the very concept of being called one in the first place.

Finding a perfect film is impossible, but it’s equally as difficult to encounter one that is made almost entirely out of imperfections, to the point where its the defining quality and the factor that is most memorable. As far as one looks into DNA, you simply can’t find anything redeeming about it, other than a few specks of promise when it comes to looking into the history of relations between France and Algeria, which is unfortunately limited to a few brief moments that exist solely to complement the stroking of the ego of the bewilderingly self-centred director and star, who seems to be on a quest to prove her own brilliance, without actually putting in any of the work, or even trying to make something coherent. DNA is a film-shaped disaster that simply exudes arrogance at every corner and fails to deliver on a single one of its misguided promises, instead being an overly-indulgent abomination of a film. It’s not even enough to say that this film meant well, since the very circumstances of its creation suggest that it was concocted in a laboratory of Maïwenn’s hedonistic attempts at pandering to an audience that seems to be composed entirely of herself and whatever alter egos she is trying to entertain with this bloated film, which is a peculiar way to approach a film, since she is essentially alienating the entire potential viewership through her bizarre attempts to tell a deeply personal story, to the point where it almost falls apart completely. It’s difficult to discern who is in more urgent need of some serious emotional support and guidance – the audience or the director, but by the end of DNA, there’s very little room for merit, since so much of the oxygen has been taken up by a director who does everything she possibly can to disprove any sense of talent, replacing it instead with a meandering, nonsensical family saga that contributes absolutely nothing to the discourse it seems to be so exceptionally proud of, which is a fatal mistake in any already limp, overly-convoluted jumble of a film that fails to do anything right, which is an achievement on its own. It takes a lot to find a film that fails in every conceivable way and still finds time for self-indulgence, but Maïwenn proves that when it comes to emotional torture, no one does it better.

As any critically-thinking writer or viewer knows, it’s always better to give an artist the benefit of the doubt, which is something I try and adhere to, since there are traces of hard work to be found anywhere if we’re open enough to look beyond our own personal opinions. There’s always some merit to be found in any work, even if it’s difficult to find at first. At a glance, you’d imagine that Maïwenn would be someone who would be an invaluable guide into the industry – someone thrust into the world of stardom from before she was a teenager, and who navigated the many perilous avenues of fame (particularly through her controversial marriage to Luc Besson), before rising above and becoming a notable voice all on her own terms, which would be considered a triumphant moment, had she demonstrated even an iota of humility in how she ventured towards positioning herself as a filmmaker, as opposed to becoming the poster-child for the inability to recognize one’s shortcomings. She doesn’t really have anything to say, and she makes the mistake of thinking that her perspective is valuable enough to convince audiences to take her seriously – as an actress and as a director, Maïwenn is just the definition of unremarkable, leaving as paltry an impression as possible, while somehow purporting to be the definitive voice on whatever matter is concerning her at a particular moment. It’s truly puzzling to consider how she has been able to convincingly make three films up to this point without establishing herself as someone with a voice that beckons us to listen to it, let alone convince us that she’s particularly good at her chosen vocation. DNA does very little to change this, and possibly even just consolidates the director as someone who should radically change her approach to filmmaking, since her current modus operandi not only detracts from any merit she may have as an artistic voice, but puts the audience through the torment of having to be witness to her self-centred ramblings that are only made worse by her totally unapologetic obliviousness to the immense arrogance that underpins this work, which not only makes DNA a badly-made film, but also one that shows very little interest in looking beyond its own myopic perspective, which is bewildering for a film that claims to be about the human condition as a whole. It is honestly quite shocking that there are other actors in this film, since Maïwenn seems to genuinely think she can do absolutely anything, so it wouldn’t have been surprising had she chosen to play all the roles herself.

The problem with DNA isn’t so much the premise – which is inarguably admirable enough to justify consideration – but rather the execution of it, with very few recent attempts to plumb the emotional depths of family and identity in the modern world coming across quite as deeply offensive as it did here, which is almost surprising, considering how much Maïwenn claims to care about this premise. We’ve seen many films that focus on the director’s quest to answer questions derived from their own life, whether exploring the past or provoking dormant aspects of their family history, as a way of gaining insights into a world they have struggled to understand, so it only stands to reason that DNA‘s consistent failure to say anything of value, instead constantly just relitigating the same self-centred quirks, is one of the primary reasons for its failure. Further, considering how the relationship between France and Algeria has been a constant source of fascinating storytelling over the past half-century, the director certainly wasn’t wrong in using it as the basis for this work. Yet, it’s how Maïwenn uses this material that becomes quite worrisome, since DNA proves to be a work rife with bad taste and exploitative content. Consider the fact that an enormous portion of this film focuses on vitriolic family arguments, to the point where the entire premise begins to appear as nothing but a series of hostile conflicts strung together, with only occasional moments of warmth peppered throughout as a means to soften the blow, and move from one fight to another. It becomes an unintentional comedy, and not one that can be considered particularly entertaining, especially when we realize that Maïwenn has nothing but umbrage for her own story – scenes of the family fighting over the corpse of their deceased patriarch, or battling over the kind of casket he is getting, or pushing each other off the stage at the funeral, all come across as inauthentic and mean-spirited (as well as wildly inappropriate in how they’re framed as being somewhat comedic, even if the content of the scene is vastly different – tonally, DNA is an absolute disaster), and not at all indicative of a filmmaker who genuinely cared about exploring her familial roots, and instead is more interested in presenting her own personal quandaries of identity, as if we actually care enough to consider it endearing.

Ultimately, Maïwenn cares about one person, and that’s herself – and the self-centred nature of this film ultimately annihilates any hopes of this film being considered profound or worthwhile, with even the most intricate moments coming across as exploitative and unnecessary, and a chance for the director to just hear herself speak, since she clearly adores the sound of her own voice. Maïwenn is certainly a unique specimen of an artist, someone who genuinely believes making something as vitriolic and bad-natured as DNA is acceptable, as long as there are moments of sporadic tenderness scattered throughout, not realizing that the formula to making an effective, character-driven drama isn’t at all difficult when you realize that there is so much more to life than just one’s own self-serving interests, and that perhaps audiences may want something that they can actually relate to in some way. There’s a complete lack of awareness pulsating throughout Maïwenn’s approach here, to the point where she makes even the most egocentric artists look like the epitome of humility, since they at all strive to make something that will resonate with a wider audience, rather than being an excuse for long-winded conversations about nothing at all. DNA is ultimately one of the most insidious, acidic films I’ve seen in quite a while – not only does it lack any redeeming qualities, its consistent refusal to do anything other than centre on the rambling quandaries of its star (who becomes genuinely unlikeable, which is almost unprecedented for a film like this, where we’re supposed to genuinely connect with her), makes for an excruciatingly banal experience that fails to deliver even the slightest bit of emotional resonance, replacing those moments that would appear to be profound with scenes of self-serving, egotistical meanderings that hold very little meaning, and only serve to prove why Maïwenn should never again be allowed near a camera, whether in front of it, or behind it, since it’s proven to be a recipe for disaster, since the refusal to limit whatever authorial voice she has resulted in quite simply one of the worst films of the new decade, and a truly poor effort that can only hope to be called a mess, since that’s the absolute least of its problems. The lesson is that everyone has their own story – but not everyone should be given the chance to tell it, because for every work of intimate, complex filmmaking, there’s a film like DNA that simply just ruins it for everyone else.