Like the rest of the world, I was both shocked and entranced by Raw, the directorial debut of Julia Ducournau, who immediately established herself as one of the most exciting voices in contemporary horror when she stepped behind the camera to tell the story of a young woman who discovers that she is acquiring a taste for human flesh, which is a subtle allegory for her development into maturity. A few years have elapsed since that incredible film, and the director has finally returned with her sophomore effort, the equally unsettling but absolutely fascinating Titane, which treads similar narrative territory insofar as it combines body horror with subversive social commentary to tell a story that has its roots in a recognizable version of reality, all the while making use of a set of genre conventions that Ducournau utilizes in profoundly terrifying the audience, placing us in a grime-filled, dark version of our world, from which there is seemingly very little opportunity to escape, which is all part of the impact made by this film. Titane is the kind of film that, as soon as the ending credits begin to roll, we have to wonder whether what we watched as real, or just some doom-laden, feverish fantasy concocted by one of the most demented minds working in modern horror – and while it may be repulsive to many viewers who are desensitized to the unhinged, brutal violence of New French Extremity (from which Titane was clearly borne, while not necessarily being the most accurate depiction of one of the most demented artistic movements of the past few decades), there is always something that pulls us closer into this story, an enticing quality that is both hypnotic and utterly grotesque, which only makes this film linger on in our minds much longer than it would had it been less intent on disturbing us with its unconventional approach to a few oddly common themes.

In order to understand Titane, we have to understand the approach the director was taking in putting this film together. This film came about likely as a response to the growing movement towards more visceral horror that carries something of a social message, or at least one that is relevant to reality to a certain degree, rather than just being frightful for the sake of terrorizing the audience. Ducournau is an exceptionally gifted craftsman of horror that may be rough around the edges, and perhaps even surreal to a certain point (both Raw and Titane have moments of dark humour that exist not to lighten the mood, but rather to make it even more disturbing, adding a level of perverted absurdism that isn’t very common in contemporary horror), but have a sense of nuance that counteracts the more uneven aspects of the storyline. Inarguably, Titane was never going to be designed as a film that would be widely appreciated – even amongst horror aficionados, it has been quite divisive, with some calling it a needlessly convoluted love letter to the works of David Cronenberg and his use of the body as a mechanical device from which the most unsettling horrors could be produced, others seeing it as a proto-Lynchian psychological horror that digs deep into the mind of its characters, who become surrogates for the audience, as Ducournau ventures through this unnavigable, hostile world. It’s even more difficult to classify this film when you realize that it can easily contain elements of both, leading us to wonder exactly what the intention of the film was. Yet, there is a liberating feeling of being entirely unaware of the direction such a film is going, and if we can get into its wavelength and just hold on for a few brief moments, it evolves into provocative entry into a genre that is constantly benefitting from visionary filmmakers succumbing to their curiosities and taking a few risks in order to have these artistic cravings realized on screen.

As was the case with the story she told in Raw, Ducournau has a preoccupation with the concept of identity – we first meet the character of Alexia when she’s a young girl who is enamoured with the mechanical world, to the point where she develops a sexual fetish for cars, which informs much of her adult life, which is where the film is situated narratively. This is also the case for the character of Vincent, who is a man feverishly trying to hold onto his youth, not necessarily for the sake of maintaining a certain aesthetic, but rather not giving up the athleticism that helps keep him confident and at the peak of his career as a first responder, often called to save the lives of those who desperately need it. It’s easy to view Titane as a film about a young woman who engages in intercourse with vehicles, but not only is this reductive to what is often an achingly beautiful character study, it removes the very clear metaphysical commentary that exists between the two central protagonists, who are drawn together by accident, but are proven to be kindred spirits. at least in terms of how they question their identities and attempt to make their way through a world that is becoming increasingly hostile to them as a result of their internal struggles with adhering to the status quo. There are many layers to Titane that are not visible at first – the director almost seems to relish in misleading us to look at this film as just a brutal and grotesque body horror, since this is the form it takes at a cursory glance, and its where the more myopic viewer might find their firmest stance, because there isn’t much done to persuade the viewer to look beneath the surface – and this only makes the experience more rewarding for those willing to plumb for meaning and find that there is something much deeper simmering below the surface of this film, which succeeds primarily through subverting expectations and leading us astray in the moments when a more traditional film would want to direct us towards a particular coherent conclusion.

Considering the character-based nature of the film, credit must be given to the two leads, who command the screen and help guide us through the director’s peculiar version of the world. Agathe Rousselle is making her film acting debut as Alexia, and while she is clearly more inexperienced as an actress, she certainly doesn’t show much weakness in terms of conveying the internal life of this character – and her career as a model is well-used (perhaps even intentionally so, as casting a more professional and polished actor would have changed the nature of the performance considerably), since a vast portion of this film requires Rousselle to remain entirely silent, communicating through non-verbal cues, each penetrating glance or subtle gesture being important in developing the character beyond the archetypal body horror protagonist. Vincent Lindon, who is (by contrast) a far more experienced actor, with countless memorable roles scattered throughout his prolific career, proves to be a perfect match for Rousselle, a complement to her more reserved and brooding protagonist. Lindon may only show up at the start of the second act, but the moment the camera captures the aching pain present in this character as he is informed that his missing son has been found, we know that we are going to be guided through this story by a seasoned veteran who has had a lot of experience, his empathetic and authentic method of finding his characters being effective, even in a film as abstract as Titane. Without these actors, it’s highly likely that Ducournau would’ve been at something of a disadvantage, since not only are these excellent individually, they work together well, complementing each other in a way that we don’t often see in such films, proving that Titane is the rare kind of horror that prioritizes character-based commentary over the spectacle, at nearly every corner.

In addition to the theme of identity that is quite persistent throughout the film, Titane focuses on the concept of parenthood, which is one of the more effective aspects of the story, and one that gives nuance to an otherwise unhinged and complex horror film. We’ve already made allusions to the work of David Lynch, and there are many moments in which it seems like Ducournau is drawing inspiration from Eraserhead, insofar as this is an industrial horror centred on a young woman coming to terms with the fact that there is another being living inside her, which is essentially the embodiment of her existential angst and deeply unnerving feelings of inadequacy surrounding the real world. Her existence has been propelled by compulsions to destroy lives, rather than produce it, so her accidental pregnancy (and the eventual birth of this deformed child) speak to her anxieties around the aforementioned discussions on identity. This is sharply contrasted by the character of Vincent, who is working through his own emotions after having lost his son over a decade before, only to suddenly receive word that his now-grown child has re-emerged – and while it becomes clear that Vincent knows that this version of “Adrien” is not his actual child, it doesn’t stop him from asserting his own fatherly emotions on this mysterious young person who finds their way into his life, allowing him to be the parent he ceased to be a decade before. It merges with the more horrific subject matter surrounding these characters and their relationship to death (Alexia causes it, while Vincent is someone who has dedicated his entire life to trying to preserve it), and creates a very challenging character study that leaps directly into the mind of these complex individuals and their relationship to the outside world.

Unfortunately, it can be extremely redundant to try and become too overly analytical, since Titane isn’t designed to be too invested in the smallest nuances of the struggles around parenthood, but rather uses it as a theme that intermingles effectively with the terror to produce a ferocious, off-kilter version of reality that allows for Ducournau to creatively take this already haunting story further than many would assume was possible, purely because (with the exception of a few underground filmmakers whose morality is not always evident), cinema is guided by a set of conventions – and while Titane may not be the most extreme in terms of the visual scope, there’s a certain unsettling atmosphere that ties everything together. We’re immersed in a nightmarish landscape, where characters behave in increasingly erratic ways, and one in which the laws of social decorum are seemingly dismissed in favour of a more laissez-faire approach to life. In the version of the world Ducournau evokes, it is every man and woman for themselves, and one can either become the perpetrator, or wait around to become a victim. It’s all very abstract in intention, which makes the methods the director takes in telling this story all the more impressive. Undeniably, this is not a film that will be enjoyed by the faint of heart – it isn’t excessively violent or gruesome, but the few well-placed moments of bodily horror are absolutely terrifying. There’s a merit in using the more graphic content sparingly – it strengthens the narrative (rather than allowing it to descend into complete madness) and makes the moments in which it is evoked all the more unforgettable, since the mounting tensions eventually culminate in this harsh but strikingly beautiful work of unhinged terror.

Ducournau has proven that revulsion can be a powerful narrative tool, and through descending down to the point of the most graphic, harrowing content, she manages to facilitate some truly unforgettable and evocative conversations surrounding the major themes of the film, drawing out the fear in these moments, and demonstrating that she has a  knack for accurately capturing and conveying every visceral sensation, to the point where Titane is quite a brutal experience. It plays on our emotions, placing us in a vulnerable psychological position – the more absurd aspects of the story (such as the fact that Alexia gets impregnated by a car) are executed with a degree of sophistication, and the film takes a very peculiar tone that never suggests that it is aiming to make light of any of these matters, but instead use the body horror format as a foundation from which the rest of the film could be constructed, facilitating a few fascinating conversations that may not be clear at first, but do gradually provoke some discussion (alongside stirring controversy, which seems almost like a blessing for a film like this, which depends on viewers not knowing what to expect from it), all centred on themes much deeper than we’d imagine based on a cursory glance and a surface-level analysis of the premise. Unpacking this film and its numerous controversial aspects, it was clearly designed to elicit some strong reaction in the viewer, who will either be repulsed or hypnotized by this story and its execution (if not both), and it certainly achieves it, succeeding with flying colours when it comes to being as deranged as it could possibly be, without crossing that important threshold of morality and decency. Ducournau is a major talent, and while her work is understandably going to be controversial, it’s nonetheless a worthwhile experiment that voyages deep into the darker recesses of the human condition, and emerges more disturbed and unhinged than ever before, proving to be a fascinating entry into a movement that continues to push boundaries and avoid adhering to any of the conventions that guide contemporary, mainstream filmmaking – who needs to play by the rules when breaking them produces something so deeply unnerving and disconcertingly brilliant?