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French cinema may well be of remarkable diversity and vitality, but it reserves an unenviable fate for directors who venture into spectacular thrillers, hybrid genres or action cinema. The professional bifurcations of Florent Emilio-Siri, Jan Kounen or even Fred Cavayé, all more or less forced to retrain on the side of industrial comedy in order to be able to shoot. Olivier Marchal has followed a paradoxical path, simultaneously similar and contradictory.

The Green Night

The one who was once the ambassador of a possible revival of the hexagonal thriller has also turned to humorous radioactivity. But no one saw fit to warn him. Indeed, if his involuntary moult was completed from Bronx, his previous film, solid precipitates of the first degree still floated on the surface of the Marchalien nectar. Nothing of the sort here, the story abandoning all apparent complexity, in favor of a chase led by a gallery of fanatics personifying with genius the concept of cerebral oedema.

The director, whose creations, recognizable among a thousand, form a singular corpus within French production, we do not often recall enough, completes here the liquefaction of his first style, to lead to a new medium. An art form whose codes are still fallow, but that Marchal degreases with the rage of passion. Photography, cutting, editing, space management, mixing, music, rhythm, so many notions that are no longer current in this new space cleared before our eyes.

Overdose: photo, Kool Shen, Sofia Essaïdi

He is cool Shen


Welcome to a world populated by real men, where in the morning, we sprinkle the unshaven goiter with essential oils from bison gonads snacked at dawn, on the belly of a newly nubile woman. A world without limit or barrier where when you don’t shoot yourself, you cut your throat, unless you are busy forking a restaurant customer who is too noisy. A terra incognita where thugs fornicate like scrap dogs on a moonless nightwhen the lonely cops tuck their hairs in the soft roughness of a bluish hotel room, where the whitish foam of nostalgia mixes with the creaking undertow of springs more twisted than a tax audit.

Overdose: picture

We don’t do it to Jean-Michel Grossecouilles

Poetry bursts there in graceful bubbles of musk, piercing the wall of the ass at the speed of light. The women here are always alone, or not enough. Sometimes police and prudish, they are more often criminal and hot as a fougasse glued to the reactor of a Rafale, as evidenced by two of the film’s most hilarious sequences. The unfortunate Naïma Rodric interprets a form of life there which tries (with a certain degree of success) to push the constabulary into formidable traps with her vagina, during passages where the camera itself seems to be laughing.

But, and this is one of the graces of new art that emerges from Olivier Marchal’s gesture: we are not yet in a position to completely circumscribe it. Of course, we could list each of his follies, but would this list à la Prévert even manage to touch the finger (and would it only be the appropriate organ?) the hallucinogenic dimension of the project? Obviously, the temptation is great to stop on these dialogues which hope to ooze the true badassery of chicks with big pursesbut rather evoke the awkwardness of a day after a binge ending with a lost bet.

Overdose: photo, Alberto Amman

Cergy Lopez is very angry


It will be easy to point the finger at the supposed snobbery with which these big burps of polar are received by a necessarily Parisianist and elitist critic. It would be to forget that the only frankly successful element of this Overdoseis his refreshing anti-Parisianism. Indeed, we follow Inspector Caliméroupettes, a fine sleuth of the capital who is very affected by the barbaric murder of two poor teenagers. To elucidate this dark affair and find a smile, he will simultaneously undertake to join forces with a Toulouse-based investigation based on Go Fast, and to bring in the hairs of a competent colleague.

Not only is his first investigation, much more exciting than the pursuit of the pathetic traffickers led by Cergy Lopez, dispatched with a spectacular I-don’t care, but the regularity with which the intrigue takes care of unravel the Parisian investigator, from floodgates to headbutts, is as transparent as it is rejoicing in regression. It must be said that few nanars will have succeeded in orchestrating the accession of Philippe Corti, ex-DJ for talk shows of the 90s, by misogynistic trafficker breaking chicken mouths.

Overdose: photo, Assaad Bouab

“Where have these charisma thieves gone?”

Because that’s what we’re dealing with. This caricatural story in everything, interesting in nothing, characterized in a hurry and filmed anyhow marks the entry of its director into the restricted circle of authentic masters of cosmic nanar. This is how you have to receive this gift from heaven, where hordes of nags line up to stuff “the motherfuckers” with pellets, before fucking “the sluts”. It’s silly. It’s fat. But it’s quite funny. Ultimate curiosity of this beautiful bubo: Sofia Essaïdi.

The actress is miraculously good at it, as if the surrounding histrionic acts inspired him with a form of transcendence. Symbolically, it is at his side that the spectator crosses this shootout where the risk of stroke rains down harder than lead.

Overdose: poster


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