There is something so peculiar about French Exit, a quality that entices the viewer as much as it repulses us. Perhaps it’s the grotesque portrayal of these characters, who we should thoroughly abhor, but simply can’t bring ourselves to even vaguely hate, since simmering beneath their hedonist bourgeois existence are very real individuals with genuine quandaries. It could be the existential dread that is coupled with a kind of darkly comical absurdism that draws us in and keeps us on the edge of our seats (and after a while, sanity). Maybe it’s the wonderfully effervescent story about a mother and son venturing into the unknown as a way of escaping their problems, and finally get to know each other in the process. Whatever it may be, director Azazel Jacobs adapted Patrick DeWitt’s masterful novel with such genuine earnestness and conviction, spinning a fascinating tale that is equal parts surreal dark comedy as it is poignant, character-driven drama in the way that is rarely made anymore. Jacobs, a gifted comedic mind in his own right, seems like the perfect candidate to bring DeWitt’s novel to the screen, as the writer is someone who panders more to the sensibilities of filmmakers with a slightly more off-kilter perspective (consider the incredibly ambitious but woefully underrated adaptation of The Sisters Brothers, which was helmed by the incredible Jacques Audiard), and they make a strangely captivating duo, with the author himself being in charge of translating his enigmatic novel into a screenplay. The result is a wonderfully strange, but incredibly compelling film about two wayward souls, bound together by sheer virtue of their familial relationship, finding their way into a foreign land, and realizing that all they needed to fulfil their empty, lives is to look inward. Layered with a truly exquisite form of comedy, and produced with such magnificent compassion, French Exit is a wonderful, and often incredibly surprising, work of contemporary social commentary.

Describing French Exit is a challenging task, not because the narrative is all that complex (all things considered, it’s almost offensively straightforward), but because of the other components that went into its creation. The atmosphere of the film is one that doesn’t quite feel analogous to anything we’ve experienced before, which only makes it all the more captivating. Despite the very cynical narrative, there’s a sense of enchantment in the air – whether it comes from the Parisian setting (with the city rarely ever being anything less than magical, regardless of who is capturing it on film), or the manner in which Jacobs establishes a certain mood, we can’t avoid the feeling of disquieting joy that comes through amidst all the vitriolic sarcasm that defines most of the film. This is perhaps what takes us by surprise the most – French Exit is a film that wants us to have the most forthright umbrage for its characters. The two protagonists are vapid, manipulative and sour, and struggle to adapt to the reality that their lives are no longer as easy as they have been for decades. However, there is a sense of compassion that conflicts so strongly with our most intrinsic reactions to these characters, it almost feels like the film is provoking us to care for them too much through forging a strong connection between us and the people we see reflected on screen. It’s not too often that a film seems to be mocking us for engaging so strongly with characters who we are supposed to dislike, but if there was ever a story that warrants such a reaction, French Exit would certainly not be any worse an option than another. DeWitt is a seasoned writer – he knows how to capture a particular tone, so his coupling with Jacobs behind the camera only served to make this adaptation all the more fascinating, with every choice being fundamental to the success of the finished project, which may be surprising to those who enter into this film, as we’re inclined to expect something quite different than the final result.

The character of Frances Price is one that is practically begging to become an iconic figure of modern literature, if only for the fact that she’s one of the most captivating anti-heroes we’ve seen in quite a while. A woman rapidly approaching the other side of middle-age, but more intent on holding onto the remnants of her social status that is rapidly depleting, she seems like a common archetype – but DeWitt knows how to write her in such a way that she’s far more than just this vapid socialite grasping onto what is left of her reputation. In casting the role, very few choices were better than Michelle Pfeiffer, an actress who has always exuded a kind of complex glamour that is difficult to describe in isolation. Her every movement is defined by a kind of elegance that contains multitudes, a depth that has carried over into nearly every one of her roles. Perhaps calling French Exit her finest performance to date is too bold, since it may invalidate nearly four decades of exceptional work – however, it’s the kind of performance that serves as the culmination of a varied career, one that may not be over (if anything, this film should reinvigorate her status as one of the very best performers working today), but has been leading up to a role like this. Her work as Frances is absolutely enthralling – her expressivity is exceptional, and her way of carrying herself with such tortured sophistication, is a sight to behold. She’s contrasted wonderfully by Lucas Hedges, who proves himself to be a young actor whose rapid rise has been anything but accidental – making his career through starring across from a very impressive roster of actors, but still managing to hold his own throughout all of it, confirms that Hedges is here to stay. A discussion of French Exit would not be complete without mentioning Valerie Mahaffey, a character actress who previously peddled her wares in small roles on television before this, but proves to be the definition of a scene-stealer here. Playing the frazzled but good-hearted Madame Reynard, she’s just a revelation – ifthis film was a return to form for Pfeiffer, and a confirmation of Hedges’ brilliance, then it’s a breakthrough for an actress who is familiar to many of us, but now seems to be on the verge of a new burst of appreciation.

The performances in French Exit are understandably strong, considering the fact that the story lends itself to character-based meditations – most of the film consists of the two main characters encountering a range of other individuals, who weave their way into their lives, whether intentionally or not. This converges in a delightful scene towards the beginning of the third act, when many of these same characters, for some reason or another, find themselves passing the time in the Parisian apartment that serves as the stage for most of the story – and what’s even more interesting is this process was so gradual, we didn’t even notice it happening until it was pointed out. That’s the magic of Jacobs’ filmmaking – his work is so mesmerizing, and he is capable of fully immersing us in the world he’s constructing, we aren’t aware of the specific details, but rather engaging with a range of metaphysical ideas. This is where French Exit is most successful – the story itself isn’t all that remarkable, since these same narrative avenues have been trodden many times before. Instead, it’s the vaguely surreal situations that we encounter that makes the difference – the film isn’t too divorced from reality that it becomes too implausible, but there is a degree of carefully-calibrated absurdism that encroaches on the story so gradually, by the time we’re confronted with something as stark as the revelation that the family cat is actually the reincarnated soul of Frances’ deceased husband, or the séance that evokes his spirit, we don’t even notice anything out of the ordinary. It’s a remarkable achievement for an artist to not only create a world that is so absurd, but have everything in it make perfect sense – yet Jacob accomplishes this without too much difficulty, throwing together a carnivalesque image of the world that would be haunting had it not been contrasted so heavily with a strong sense of compassion, which balances out the cynicism and allows the story to have a happy ending, which is perhaps the most unexpected aspect of this entire film.

French Exit utilizes a practical kind of nihilism, functioning as a strange but captivating deconstruction of social conventions. It’s a challenging work that dares us to think outside the box, but without putting us through the self-serving pretensions that would almost be expected from a story like this. We’re constantly surprised at the directions this film goes – it doesn’t have a clear destination, other than the frequent use of the depleting money as a motif, which turns out to be something of a non-sequitur, since it doesn’t really lead anywhere meaningful, at least not in the sense that we’d expect. There is a degree of commentary centred around the main character finally appreciating life once she has eventually liberated herself from the influence of wealth, but this is a lot more abstract, and only marginally factors into the plot. We’re more engaged with the focus on the growing relationship between a mother and son, who finally realize their value of family when they’re forced to endure difficult circumstances, proof of the taut maxim that you never know the value of what you have until its gone, or at least on the verge of disappearing. Through the frequent illusion that this film is somehow going to become some frantic dark comedy about a loss of wealth, French Exit is able to take us by surprise and actually become unexpectedly moving – there’s a poignancy to the film that is both unpredictable and entirely welcome, especially when the rest of the story seems to be a lot more cynical. Ultimately, Jacobs made a rousing, meaningful odyssey that uses many different techniques to tell us a very simple story of the value of life, and the importance of cherishing that which can’t be bought, but rather experienced. The smallest moment is repurposed as a bold stroke of authentic, moving commentary, and when layered with an abundance of practical absurdity, it becomes quite an experience. It’s not often that a film like this can take one by surprise, but French Exit manages to be both melancholy and outrageously funny, a combination to which very few films can aspire.