Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but the consequences that come when pursuing it can often be quite dreadful if one isn’t careful. It took Catherine Breillat over a decade to return to the medium of film after what we can only imagine was a daunting process when forming the autobiographical Abuse of Weakness, by no means an easy film to watch, let alone make. Yet, as one of the most engaging and unique artists of her generation, her return to this medium was always inevitable, even if it took a substantial amount of time. Her most recent offering takes the form of Last Summer (French: L’Été dernier), in which she adapts the Danish film Queen of Hearts, a somewhat controversial drama that featured many elements that align perfectly with her sensibilities and artistic curiosities. We are introduced to Anne, who has found the perfect balance between a successful career and seemingly loving domestic life, with her dedicated husband and two adorable daughters bringing her an abundance of joy and a sense of genuine fulfilment. This all changes with the arrival of Théo, her husband’s son from a previous marriage, and a free-spirited rebel who relishes causing trouble wherever he goes. This tendency towards unsettling the status quo is initially an annoyance for Anne, who enjoys a life that is ordered and linear, but she soon sees the excitement that comes with having such a mischievous soul around their pastoral home. Eventually, she succumbs to these budding desires and soon finds herself engaged in a passionate affair with the young man, who reciprocates her feelings, almost to the point where the end of their relationship brings out the worst in them both, leading to their loving affair turning into a destructive battle for dominance. A daring and provocative work of socially-conscious (or some would say outright repulsive) filmmaking, Last Summer is a staggering achievement that finds Breillat returning to a place of profound discomfort as she weaves a captivating and intriguing tale of the human condition, searching for something deeper beneath the surface.

Desire is a peculiar sensation – it plays on both the mind and the body, often being felt holistically more than being restricted to one particular part of the being. It can also be beautifully poetic or hopelessly destructive, depending on the target and the relationship one develops with it, and how they navigate the challenges that come with handling these urges, whether acting upon them or suppressing them to prevent unwanted complications. Breillat has a storied history exploring these themes, and Last Summer is one of her most explosive, daring attempts at unearthing something more profound about the human condition, which she does with remarkable aplomb, even if the results are not always particularly comfortable. There are so few subjects that are considered taboo, even in a contemporary artistic landscape, and while they’re not forbidden to explore, a more nuanced approach is always required to prevent any sense of ambiguity when engaging with these ideas. The relationship between a woman and her stepson (who also happens to be a teenager, only standing on the precipice of adulthood) is not a particularly endearing theme, and from the first encounter between the two characters, Breillat’s camera makes it very clear that this is going to be a story about how rabid desire can descend into something much darker and more bleak when it is allowed to fester. Last Summer is not a love story – in fact, it can be considered akin to a horror film in the sheer amount of disconcerting emotions that pulsate throughout, and the disturbing nature of this narrative is not ever trivialised by the director, who understands that the purpose of such a film is not to justify its themes, but rather investigate the circumstances that can lead to someone falling victim to such despicable thoughts, and the consequences that emerge once they are acted upon, creating an unsettling examination of lust and its darkest, most sinister implications.

Last Summer is a film that doesn’t feature heroes or villains, with every character being ambiguous and morally corrupt in some way or another. The boundary between good and evil is not at all clear throughout this film, which allows the director to develop these characters as much more complex figures that don’t need to adhere to traditional tropes, and can instead be entirely original, while also being crafted in such a way that this story could be easily based in reality. Léa Drucker is a remarkable actor who can easily oscillate between fragile and formidable in the briefest of moments, and still be thoroughly convincing – and this is the precise quality that makes her performance as Anne so incredibly rich and evocative. There is something so wonderfully subtle about the work she is doing as this woman who possesses such a perfect life, but who decides to test her luck by starting a relationship with someone who is not only underage, but also her stepson, the controversial nature of which seems to quietly excite them both, even though they’re aware of its potential to derail their lives. Drucker finds a strong scene partner in the form of Samuel Kircher, who delivers his breakthrough performance as the rebellious young woman who becomes the object of his stepmother’s affections, and whose radical worldview and ability to somehow be both wise beyond his years and profoundly juvenile only further confuses Anne, causing her to descend into a state of existential despair. The pair work well together, but Breillat intentionally avoids giving them too many opportunities to form any real chemistry – the relationship is not supposed to be one we understand, but rather a controversial, uncomfortable pairing that is primarily disturbing, particularly in how the film eventually starts to explore the imbalance of power between these two people and their efforts to hide their illicit affair, as well as the eventual fallout that occurs when they inevitably find their secret being revealed to the wider world, which is where both Drucker and Kircher deliver some of their very best work in the entire film. 

The approach the director takes with this film and its underlying themes is to plunge us into a state of complete existential confusion, since we are positioned as voyeurs into this taboo subject, forced to become transgressive in our own perception, all through how she chooses to frame these characters and their innermost desires. This is not a case of a film that intends to repel through the usual means, and instead stirs in the viewer a sense of conflict and confusion, which plays on the central ideas beautifully. Comfort is most definitely not a priority for Breillat, who chooses instead to draw our attention to the transgressive nature of this narrative, presenting it to us as something that we are tempted to attempt to justify, putting the audience in a position where our own morality is called into question – surely we are to understand why Anne fell for this young man when he is clearly acting in a truly seductive way? The manipulation that comes with this film mirrors that of the story itself, and it can feel truly disconcerting to be confronted with such implications, which is precisely why Last Summer is so effective, since it doesn’t give the viewer the benefit of the doubt, nor does it operate on the belief that we are somehow morally superior to the characters in this film. Hopefully, most have not engaged in the kind of taboo relationship that anchors this film, since it is a scathing indictment of those self-righteous people who allow their desires to derail whatever decency they claim to possess. Considering the scope of ideas that punctuate this film, it’s astonishing that Breillat managed to create a story that avoided being overwrought or too dense in how it chooses to examine its ideas, and instead moves at a very distinct pace that may come across as slow or unnecessarily detailed. but which evokes an atmospheric quality that feels very much aligned with the principles of this film and everything that it ultimately intends to represent, both formally and in terms of its broader and slightly more sinister implications that instill a sense of disquiet and uncomfortable despair in the viewer.

Last Summer is not an easy film, and many viewers may be entirely repulsed by its approach to subject matter that is already deeply unnerving and difficult to embrace. Breillat has always had a tendency to use the audience as a tool, playing on our emotions to get a very visceral, harsh reaction, and testing our boundaries to see whether we align with these provocative values, which is quite a daunting prospect for anyone stepping into her films. The beautiful pastoral locations and colourful filmmaking are merely a distraction that forces us into a false sense of comfort, since we soon discover that every frame of this film exudes a harrowing, deeply disturbing set of ideas, each one pieced together to create this haunting psychological drama in which desire is reconfigured to show its darker, more sinister side. It’s difficult to refer to it as a triumphant return to the medium, since there is nothing particularly endearing about this film, despite it being quite remarkable in how it evokes some truly unsettling emotions, and is obviously handsomely crafted by a director who understands both visual and narrative cues and how they can work together. Ultimately, its a film that will not be particularly endearing to anyone, and which ultimately serves the purpose to explore a taboo relationship and the intersection between desire and power, two related concepts that can provoke either immense joy or the most heartbreaking sense of despair, depending on the specific perspective and how these moments of crisis are handled by the parties that found themselves in this precarious situation. Complex and difficult to watch, but also very effective, Last Summer is a strong effort from a director who is not anything short of an acquired taste, but who knows precisely how to evoke the most powerful reactions, all of which are uncomfortable and seemingly impossible to extinguish.