Latest news with #VirginieDespentes
BBC News
08-07-2025
- Entertainment
- BBC News
'I never imagined it would be banned': The ultra-violent, sexually explicit French thriller now being reappraised
Back in 2000, a French film was vilified for its tale of two women embarking on a drug-fuelled killing spree. But 25 years on, it's considered revolutionary by some. When a certain French thriller first arrived in May 2000, premiering at the Cannes Film Festival, it generated a maelstrom of controversy. The film had already been threatened with censorship in France, and some audience members at Cannes reportedly donned T-shirts in solidarity with its writer and co-director Virginie Despentes. Others walked out in disgust. And that was just the beginning of the storm. Warning: This article contains descriptions of violence and language and content that some may find offensive Released in French cinemas 25 years ago this month, Baise-moi is a pulpy, ultra-violent odyssey of two women disillusioned with a patriarchal society that is now remembered as one of cinema's biggest cause célèbres. It was created by writer and film-maker Virginie Despentes as a rough-hewn, tongue-in-cheek adaptation of her 1993 debut novel of the same name, and co-directed by adult film actor Coralie Trinh Thi. Partly triggered by a savage act of male violence, during which one of the two lead characters, along with another female friend, is raped, it sees its heroines decide to unleash their anger in revenge, killing off more than a few sexual predators during a drug-fuelled and doomed road trip. In the wake of #MeToo and a new wave of female film-making weaponising "female rage", the film has undergone a reassessment among critics. Where other road movies, such as Bonnie and Clyde (1967) or Thelma & Louise (1991), had also crossed violent terrain and been critically lauded, Baise-moi was vilified from all sides of the political spectrum. The film combines a premise that feels familiar – two outlaws on the run from the authorities – with graphic depictions of sex and murder. It was shot on a shoestring budget – tracking the misdemeanours of its gun-toting heroines through handheld camera footage – and upon its general release in France in June 2000, critics were baffled by its provocatively trashy packaging. "The cinephile press in France tends to be much more interested in aesthetics, in film form, than content and context," Ginette Vincendeau, professor of film studies at King's College, London and critic, tells the BBC. "It was considered ugly." She was one of a handful to review Baise-moi positively when it was released in the UK. Banned and re-banned In France, Baise-moi (the title translating literally as "fuck me") was initially released on 64 screens, but after riling right-wing groups in France, such as conversative values organisation Promouvoir, it was given an X rating by the French high court, effectively making it the first film banned in the country for 28 years, as only a clutch of specialist cinemas could show a film with such a prohibitive rating. When it was then released on dvd, it could only be purchased in sex shops. Meanwhile, the left-wing press objected to it for different reasons, being unconvinced at how effectively it conveyed its message, and accusing it of hypocrisy. As The Guardian's critic Peter Bradshaw put it: "Baise-Moi is an understandable counterblast to fatuous middlebrow dramas [...] But the intellectual penetration of this sour, lifeless movie is pretty shallow." Its pariah status in France came despite a chorus of support from fellow film-makers such as Catherine Breillat, who spearheaded a petition for Baise-moi's re-release, with signatures from other luminaries like Jean Luc-Godard and Claire Denis, which suggested it had fallen victim to "a revival of post-war censorship". Under a new 18 certificate, the film landed back in cinemas without much fanfare the following year. In Australia, campaigns by conservative politicians resulted in the film being pulled out of theatres just two weeks after its release, its distribution squashed there again when it was banned on dvd in 2013. "I absolutely did not expect so much controversy, and I would never have imagined that we would be banned and find ourselves on the news," co-director Trinh Thi tells the BBC. "It was a punk film intended for an underground audience." But the furore had an unexpected upshot, she says: "The ban had us projected to the front of the media scene, and the film became accessible to the general public." Nevertheless it still only gleaned a meagre $940,944 worldwide, falling short of its $1.35m budget. Seven years earlier in France, Despentes's novel had enjoyed widespread success, published when she was 24 years old. Then, in 1999, the former sex shop assistant decided to start developing a film version, enlisting her friend Trinh Thi as a collaborator. They both saw the film and book as "completely different" projects, says Trinh Thi, and cast two leads also hailing, like her, from the adult film industry. "It was Despentes who had the idea to make Baise-Moi into a movie when she saw Karen and Raffaëla in the film Exhibition 99 that I lent her," Trinh Thi explains. "Upon seeing them, she immediately imagined them in the roles of Nadine and Manu. She called me right away to talk to me about it. And at first I didn't see what she meant, but I reread the book imagining Karen and Raffaëla in the roles, and it worked perfectly." The directors sought to address the saturation of hypersexualised – and often brutalised – imagery of women. But they commandeered this flagrant imagery to do so. Wry nods to exploitation flicks such as Abel Ferrara's Ms 45 (1981) or Wes Craven's The Last House on the Left (1972) are littered throughout, from the use of lurid red filters to the pose-striking of its two protagonists, while it features hardcore unsimulated sex scenes. This is self-referentiality capped off with the self-aware, third-wall-breaking dialogue of Manu, who despairs at the absence of "witty lines". Beneath its flame-fanning of controversy, though, Baise-moi deals with serious subject matter. Its unflinching, uncensored rape scene takes on a bitter resonance in light of Despentes's 2006 feminist manifesto King Kong Theory, which detailed her own experience of sexual assault at age 17. "Rape doesn't disturb the peace, it's already part and parcel of the city," she writes. Its unalloyed and unsimulated use of sex was a recognisable feature of the "French New Extremity" movement – a term coined by Canadian critic James Quandt to describe a transgressive, boundary-flouting wave in French film-making in the 1990s and early 2000s, which also included films by Claire Denis, Olivier Assayas and Gaspar Noé in its ranks. "Part of it is to do with the cultural myth of France as a country of libertinage – non-repressed sexuality – and the Marquis de Sade," says Vincendeau of Despentes, as well as Breillat's, portrayals of real-life sex in films like Baise Moi and Romance (1999). Vincendeau suggests the directors saw the explicitness of these scenes as a part of a tradition of creative freedom in the country. However in today's age of the intimacy coordinator, their choice to film actual sex would most likely raise a few eyebrows. Vincendeau notes last year's uproar around Breillat's alleged mishandling of sex scenes on Romance, as detailed in a book by the film's lead actor Caroline Ducey called La Prédation. "These women saw themselves as part of auteur cinema which is considered as expressing and valorising a sense of freedom, breaking boundaries, braving censorship and so on as a marker of artistic excellence. [... Baise-moi] is at the most extreme end of that extreme movement," she adds. The 'female rage' films it inspired Arguably, Baise-moi provided the lethal prototype for many female-directed films in a similar vein, especially within the "revenge thriller" genre, where characters exact vengeance against enemies or those who have wronged them. These range from Julia Ducournau's Raw (2016), Ana Lily Amirpour's A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014) and Coralie Fargeat's Revenge (2017) to post-MeToo films like Ducournau's Titane (2021), Emerald Fennell's Promising Young Woman (2020) and Rose's Glass's Love Lies Bleeding (2024); all of these also opt for a violent cinematic language to explore issues of gender or violence against women. In an interview in 2021, Ducournau said that many female film-makers of were concerned with 'reclaiming the narrative and taking over the male gaze' right now, and that Despentes had been doing that "for a very long time". "It is all about seizing power and control in the most visceral way possible, about confronting the traditional male gaze and violently turning it on its head," says critic Nikki Baughan of this grisly new feminist wave. "It only feels subversive because we're not used to seeing female characters take such violent charge of their actions and behaviour, physically or sexually [...] If the protagonists of Baise-moi were male, would the film have been met with such consternation or banned? "The very idea that these women have decided enough is enough, and are given – or give themselves – carte blanche to seek their own justice for everything they have been subjected to, and take pleasure in doing so, plays like a cathartic fantasy." But many critics were – and remain – unconvinced by Baise-moi's deliberately inflammatory way of conveying its anti-patriarchal message. Among the reviewers who couldn't get onboard with the film upon its release was Ian Mantgani, now a film-maker and director of Nosepicker (2023), who called it "adolescent". "At the time, I thought it was amateurish and posturing; provocative without cohesive philosophy, flippant without being funny," says Mantgani. More like this:The story of the wildest film shoot everHow Brokeback Mountain challenged HollywoodThe only X-rated winner of the best picture Oscar In the past 25 years, Mantgani's opinion has shifted. "Maybe some of that holds true, but I'd be less sanctimonious now," he says. "It's an unbowed, scattershot punk riff; Karen Lancaume and Rafaella Anderson give two forceful, often quite joyous lead performances." In light of Lancaume's death by suicide five years after Baise-moi's release, Mantgani adds: "The fact that Karen got to play this indomitable outlaw in the midst of her porn career before her untimely death gives it a special poignancy too." Certainly, part of why Baise-moi helped lead a revolution in more extreme women-helmed cinema in France and elsewhere is that it tapped into the same impulses that film had no issue portraying for male characters. "Unlike other films in the French Extremism category, the women actually seem to enjoy sex," Vincendeau highlights. It's worth noting, however, that some people, such as former Telegraph and Daily Mail reviewer Christopher Tookey, have continued to express concern at the films' levels of explicit violence. In a 2021 interview, Tookey discussed how after the release of David Cronenberg's controversial Crash, numerous films had come through which were "brutal and perverted", name-checking Baise-moi among them. Above all, Baise-moi's divisiveness lies in the fact that it is designed to be uncomfortable, not "likeable", as Sophia Takal – director of Green (2011) and Always Shine (2016), whose work has been categorised as part of female horror's renaissance – adds. "The film was derided for depicting female sexuality and violence without the typical moral framework that would make it palatable: there's no redemption arc, nor any clear condemnation of the characters' choices... the rawness of the performances and the handheld aesthetic created an authenticity that was uncomfortable." As Despentes mused in a recent interview, she sees the film's confrontation of the dark side of male sexuality as Baise-moi's most enduring element, especially in a digital era of increased misogyny and violent online imagery. "It showed that women could make films about female experience that didn't seek approval or understanding from audiences," Takal says. "It was trying to be honest about rage and trauma in ways that are difficult to watch." -- If you liked this story sign up for The Essential List newsletter, a handpicked selection of features, videos and can't-miss news, delivered to your inbox twice a week. For more Culture stories from the BBC, follow us on Facebook, X and Instagram.
New York Times
27-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Her Books and Movies Provoked France. Will Her Plays Do the Same?
Over the past three decades, Virginie Despentes has cemented her place as one of the most admired — and argued over — feminist authors in France. 'King Kong Theory,' her 2006 book about sex, gender and her own experience of rape, sparked conversations around sexual violence in the country; her award-winning 'Vernon Subutex' trilogy of novels, released between 2015 and 2017, drew international attention for its vivid depiction of misfits adrift in French society. (The first volume made the Booker International Prize shortlist in 2018.) Yet recently, Despentes, 55, has been quietly pivoting from books toward writing and directing for the stage. In 2024, she wrote the play 'Woke' with three other authors, Julien Delmaire, Anne Pauly and Paul B. Preciado; in it, they confronted France's reaction to progressive ideas on race and gender. Despentes directed the production at the Théâtre du Nord in Lille, in northern France, and now she's back with a follow-up: 'Romancero Queer,' which had its premiere last week at Théâtre National de la Colline in Paris and runs through June 29. In 'Romancero Queer,' she explores power imbalances in the making of a stage show: Behind the scenes of a new production of Federico García Lorca's 'The House of Bernarda Alba,' a fictional group of actors struggle with their older male director for greater creative control. While Despentes has directed several movies, including 'Baise-Moi' (2000) and a documentary about pro-sex feminists, 'Mutantes (Féminisme Porno Punk)' (2009), she said in an interview in Paris that theater has turned out to be a better fit. Shortly after 'Romancero Queer' had debuted, she spoke about the art forms that she has tried her hand at: literature, film and theater. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity. What prompted your pivot to theater? I attend a lot of plays, and I realized that theater audiences are very curious. They really show up, even for demanding or radical works, which made me want to try it. I feel good when I'm in a theater auditorium — and these non-virtual moments feel important nowadays. I'm not at all technophobic — I spend quite a bit of time online — but I enjoy this kind of counter-rhythm, away from social media. During performances of 'Romancero Queer,' I sit in the back, behind the audience, and I have yet to see anyone take out their phone. Was theater part of your life from a young age? I first went in middle school: we were taken to the local community center to see plays like Lorca's 'The House of Bernarda Alba,' the work the characters of 'Romancero Queer' are staging. As a young adult, I saw a lot of comedy and dance, and I was taken with the work of playwrights like Bernard-Marie Koltès and Jean-Luc Lagarce. From the current generation, I really admire what Rébecca Chaillon is doing, at the intersection of theater and performance art. You wrote your first play, 'Woke,' with three other writers. What was that process like? I wanted to spend time with other writers, to talk about our writing habits and what we have in common. On a human level, we had some really incredible moments. We would start the day with an idea, then share what we wrote in the evening. We were able to talk about what we're afraid of, what's blocking us, what we haven't yet dared to speak about. We rarely get to have these conversations. The hardest part was the editing. We had a massive amount of text and we had to make cuts to each other's work. It's not easy, because we all relate to writing differently. Do you also make adjustments to your own texts when you stage them? Yes. Once I'm working with actors, I often realize half of what I wrote isn't necessary. There's humility in giving the actor space to tell you that something isn't useful. I've had to say goodbye to some beautiful sentences. Maybe I should keep them in a special folder to recycle later. How does directing for theater compare to directing films? It's very different for me. I didn't enjoy working for the screen, even though I met wonderful people. I felt like I was constantly talking about money, from the moment I wrote the script. In French public theater, we barely talk about it. There's a budget and time constraints, sure, but you work within them. It's the first project I have worked on in which no one worries whether or not we're going to be profitable. It's such a luxury. Your essays and novels have often been staged by other theater directors. How do you feel about that? Much better than when they're adapted for the screen. One theater production doesn't stop others from being made, whereas there is a sense of exclusivity with film: once a book is adapted, it probably won't be again for at least a couple of decades. There is just one book that I won't go and see onstage anymore, 'King Kong Theory,' even though it's been performed in many languages. It's too troubling to hear an actor talking about my own rape. Was your venture into theater also a move away from publishing novels and essays? It was a good time for a break. It coincided with changes at my publishing house, Grasset, which was bought by Vincent Bolloré [the French billionaire owner of Vivendi, a conservative media conglomerate]. I have no desire to leave Grasset, because I've been there for 30 years and I love the whole team, from the press officers to the copywriters. I also don't want to leave my existing books behind if I go. But I don't feel like working for Bolloré right now. In 2022, the French magazine Livres-Hebdo reported that you were about to launch your own publishing house, La Légende Éditions, but no books have been released so far. What happened? We never actually made an announcement. We registered it, then a journalist saw the filing and made it public. And in the end, we didn't go through with it — it was too much work, and I didn't have the time. 'Woke,' your first play, attracted a lot of public attention, but it didn't tour much in France. (It will be revived at the Théâtre Public de Montreuil in September.) Why do you think that is? I'm still new to theater, and perhaps we made some mistakes. It was bad timing to have 12 people onstage — it's expensive, and playhouses are facing budget cuts everywhere. I think the title also scared people. They thought: 'We'll have to put 'woke' in our program, it's going to cause trouble, and we don't want trouble.' If we'd called it 'Grenadine,' we might have toured more. So did you approach making 'Romancero Queer' differently? Not really. There are still eight people onstage, and it has 'queer' in the title. I tend to write about whatever interests me at a given moment, and when I was writing 'Romancero Queer,' I thought a lot about power dynamics in theater, and what it means to direct. What it is like to exert power in that sense, to tell actors to speak faster, or differently? How much collective power is there to resist? Since 'Woke,' I've had conversations with a lot of people in theater, and it's a question that comes up again and again, in relation also to France's #MeTooThéâtre movement. 'Romancero Queer' is really about actors, and what their position is in the creative process. Many L.G.B.T.Q. people, particularly in the U.S., are worried that their rights are being eroded, and you're working with performers with backgrounds in queer cabaret and drag. What does it mean to put on a show like this now? As queer people, we seldom see ourselves represented onstage. For lesbians especially, it's rare to find a play that simply celebrates the joy of being a gay woman. It feels like Pride every night, and this year especially, given the context, I think we need a bonus Pride.
