A common trope for people like me in 2021 is recounting the moment that you finally returned to theaters. There was this exuberance in every post, pictures of those lit-up hallways lined with posters filling you with excitement for the future. Having been vaccinated, the risks of illness had been greatly lowered and, if they were like me, they chose hours when attendance would be lower than expected. With that said, it was interesting to note which movie people broke the silence with, often relying on big screen spectacle. A common answer was something like Black Widow (2021), people eager to hear the title music playing over the credits. For me personally, I chose In the Heights (2021) – which even three times later I think is the best movie musical of the past decade.
But the thing that never quite felt right was that while the populous genres came back strong, I found myself dissuaded by the indie market. In the months leading up to my triumphant return, I discovered that UA Marketplace in Long Beach, CA had shut down. Few theaters had as formative of a line-up at any given time for me in the past decade. While most other theaters played a handful of indies, The Marketplace was predominantly where I saw the smaller films that wouldn’t fare well in other venues, including films by Desiree Akhavan and Gia Coppola. It was a place of discovery and no place has compared. It’s the sensation I’ve missed the most. Sure, Cruella (2021) was a fun movie, but what I wanted was an indie that genuinely could throw me for a loop, surprising me with every ballsy decision.
I don’t know if I’ll ever truly get that feeling back, at least not without driving into the traffic-laced cities of Los Angeles or Hollywood. It is why, for now, I take my wins where I can. In this case, it was discovering something that had me in utter disbelief as I searched on Fandango. Having heard stories of people driving 2.5 hours to see Titane (2021), I had given up hope that it would ever play around me. When you have a film that caters to such bold decision making as a serial killer with a car fetish changing genders while pregnant, it feels like a title I’d catch whenever it showed up on Amazon Prime’s algorithm. It didn’t feel like something marketable to theaters trying to draw in a crowd, especially since I had just seen Zola (2021) there three months ago in an empty theater during its very brief window.
Titane is an arthouse movie. It’s the type of film where you walk up to the cashier and have to spell out the title, T-I-T-A-N-E, because a proper French pronunciation reads as too abrupt. I think the only real advantage the film had was winning The Palme d’Or at Cannes, giving it a platform that is only shared by prestigious titles like Tree of Life (2011), Amour (2012), and Parasite (2019). This is the top of international cinema, and Julia Ducournau became only the second woman to win the prize. Given that this is the same year as Annette (2021), it’s clear that Cannes favored the weird, the films that took risks and provided complex conversations that were missing for all of 2020. At least, that’s the only argument for why a body horror story that’s been discussed as a gender fluid David Cronenberg won a prize that should feel like it goes to a much more reserved, pretentious work of art.
A major plus for me is that I managed to go in completely blind. In an era where every movie feels vulnerable to public scrutiny immediately, I managed to get into the actual theater before knowing what Titane was even about. All I knew was that it was supposed to be the craziest movie of the year. Whereas an American movie saying that would be laughable, having the director of Raw (2015) be advertised as such felt more encouraging. The discourse, while discreet, only made sitting in that theater more anticipatory. This was my first international film in so long. No matter what happened, it would be special.
And just like that, I felt like I was back at The Marketplace. A small crowd had emerged to pique their curiosity. The feeling of discovery ran through my veins as the Neon logo appeared. The audio captions appeared in-between dialogue, presenting this world in such glorious, grotesque detail that from the first minute left me both repelled and excited. By the time that the film cuts to a long take set to The Kills, there was this visual splendor. In a room of men looking at souped-up cars, Alexia (Agathe Rousselle) donned erotically gyrates over the hood. Given that we had just seen her suffer a body-altering car crash as a child, the clash is already erratic, making one wonder just what is going on.
I’m sure there are those who have seen the trailers and have a better idea of what’s to follow. For me, the lack of awareness made everything much more engrossing. For Ducournau, the body horror isn’t always designed as a splatterfest. Sometimes it comes in painfully simple ways, such as a shower incident that involves hair being tangled up in a nipple piercing. In these small ways, the director is already making you recoil, finding these small moments of inanimate imagery fusing with the human body.
Rousselle gives an incredible performance, capturing the pain of every new development, of an unexpected pregnancy overwhelming her body. It’s clear how much she rejects this decision from the way that she winces as she wraps up her body in a homemade binder, trying to hide the obvious as she becomes Adrien. It’s a physical transformation that turns the film from a serial killer narrative into a genderqueer study that is strangely affecting. From behind a bruised face, Adrien is the complete opposite. He is silent, reserved, unwilling to give into comments from her new male coworkers who call him a Gay Jesus.
Beyond the horror of the physical, Ducournau’s ability to make Adrien feel like a three-dimensional character in the story is nothing short of a miracle. This is a story that could easily give into easy deception, of Rousselle playing a woman on the lam and playing into negative stereotypes. Instead, it plays into the ambiguous, something uncomfortable that exists underneath many transgender experiences. It’s as much the dysphoria as it is the sense that the world around them is judging, laughing at the small ways that they don’t fit. Adrien rarely feels like he fits the look of a conventional male, constantly doing makeshift tricks to hide his pregnancy. It’s abusive, uncomfortable, and the repression in Rousselle’s performance shines through. There is never a comfort that Adrien fits inside the world of Titane, especially when Alexia could’ve had a sustainable career if she just went along with things.
Maybe that is part of the film’s disconnect. Maybe Alexia’s violent streak was itself some repression, a lack of personal acceptance. While this is an easy read, it makes sense why Adrien is more submissive, likely to attack himself than others. Alexia fails to get close to anyone, always falling back on her femininity as a weapon. She never uses it as something to be proud of, or at least for herself. It may be why Ducournau’s use of nudity slowly evolves from more conventional forms of beauty into something more complex, so filled with scars and bruises, reflecting a shift that comes with trying to be oneself. Even if the gender eventually aligns with how Ducournau designed the character, Titane paints it as something confusing, constantly changing, and never without some perverse compromise.
To be completely honest, I come out the other side not entirely sure just what is being said about gender. While certain things about the female-to-male transition feel easy to pinpoint, there’s enough ambiguity in the rest of things to provide pause, making one wonder what is going on. Is there some greater subtext to the car imagery, where oil oozes from certain frames like a leak in the camera? Maybe it’s another small way that transgender characters ultimately feel like they’re different, not entirely human, or having desires that go beyond the cisgender heteronormative. Part of the film’s brilliance is its unwillingness to answer any of this, not even willing to criticize a single action that Rousselle does. As an actress, she is given room to explore and it’s such an exciting experience to see a role live up to the challenge.
This is a simple read of the film. There’s so much more going on that I’d encourage you to personally track down. I imagine that this is the type of film that teenage cinephiles will watch at home and have parents bust in and ask “What are you watching?” as sexual imagery blends with something more horrific. Titane is unable to be predictable or “normal” for more than five minutes at a time, constantly throwing in anxiety and isolation that hasn’t been this prevalent since Under the Skin (2013). It thrives in the uncomfortable reality that certain questions don’t have clear answers. In fact, it may be what makes it especially appealing to queer viewers who themselves live in the confusion of their own identity, the feeling that something is perpetually at odds with bigger society and that you don’t have anyone you totally confide in. In that way, the abstraction is perfect.
I’m still amazed that this film played anywhere near me, especially at a mainstream theater. Sometimes I fear that films like this are doomed to play there because someone with more conservative tastes could complain about its offensiveness. It would be one thing if it was just visual body horror, but Ducournau wants to dive into the interior. You feel this in every movement Alexia and Adrien make, where the very idea of existing has discomfort. Given how much nudity and violence is in this, it feels like a target for a conversation that mainstream cinema is openly going to reject. In that regard, I feel excited to know that something inherently successful in its edginess could potentially reach that audience with validation from Cannes.
It amuses me that Titane won The Palme d’Or now that I’ve seen it. There’s such violent urgency in every frame that makes you realize how unlikely it is to gain awards traction, following Parasite’s road to Best Picture victory. On the one hand, I’m happy that a film this strange is getting such positive attention. However, it also makes me realize that the only way I’m ever going to see indies this esoteric in theaters again is if they have that sort of backing. The pandemic took with it the businesses that didn’t have secure backing, and unfortunately, indies were always going to be the first victims to fall.
Which is a shame because if one ever stops and asks me what type of movies I would love to see on the big screen, it’s Titane. As much as I enjoy blockbusters that bring out crowds, I’m more of a fan of showing up to a theater and recognizing that people with the same weird tastes exist. Even if Twitter works like an echo chamber for certain indies, to witness people walking into something like Titane reflects a desire to be entertained, surprised by something they had never seen before. I may never meet these people, but for two hours, we are together and having a good time. I have rarely felt as engrossed in cinema this year as I have getting lost in every moment, hoping that it would never end while staring in absolute befuddlement of where things could go. This is a film that exists from beyond conventions. It’s just an experience that consumes you, staring in awe at the audacity and potential of a medium that clearly has so many bold voices waiting to tell stories we haven’t seen a million times before.
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