Flanders (Flandres)

The 6,612,288,369-plus people on earth can be neatly subdivided into three categories. There are people like David Cronenberg who view Bruno Dumont’s oppressive movies as evidence of that director’s genius. Over in the opposing camp we find the likes of J. Hoberman who thinks M. Dumont a belligerent time-waster. And then you have the people who have no idea who the hell we’re talking about.
Oh you know, he’s that caustic French chap whose relentless pursuit of gritty naturalism (non-professional actors, long takes, joyless grunting sex) is surpassed only by his fascination with primal instincts. Following his coruscating depiction of people being no good in The Life Of Jésus and Humanité, the philosopher-director has turned his attentions to the Middle East. Back in the dreary provinces, Samuel Boidin has nothing to do save watching Adélaïde Leroux, the emotionally unstable girl next door, have sex with all takers. He loves her just the same. Indeed, as he embarks on a horrific tour of duty in an unspecified region to the south of Turkey, she may be the only thing that stands between Boidin and his complete debasement.
The combat zone is, of course, perfect for M. Dumont’s ongoing excavation beneath the trappings of civilisation. The fight scenes here aren’t particularly accomplished but images from the grim dirty war underneath are sickeningly potent. The unit gang rape a woman. In turn, one of them is captured and castrated. And so it goes.
As the film progresses one is tempted to shout; “the horrors of war, I get it…” but there’s something hypnotically horrible about Flanders. One is used to seeing soldiers commit atrocities across movies and news items, but unsettlingly, Dumont never lets you forget that they know what they’re doing is wrong.