Winner as best documentary at Berlin, Olivier Meyrou’s 16mm-shot Au delà de la haine details the aftermath of a heinous hate crime in Léo-Lagrange Park in Rheims, France. The incident occurred on the evening of September 13, 2002. Three neo-Nazi skinheads, one a minor in his teens, the others 22 and 20, decide to find an Arab to beat up but, finding none, target instead François Chenu, a 29-year-old white gay, whom they beat unconscious, savaging his face, before dumping him in a river to drown. This outburst of violence beyond what the attackers intended was triggered by Chenu’s calling them “cowards.”
Meyrou doesn’t show the crime. He doesn’t show the victim, even in photographs, even predating the deadly assault. He shows none of the killers. There is no filmmaker voiceover. There isn’t an ounce of sentimentality. This is a harrowing film of legal process and reactions from the devastated parents, Jean-Paul and Marie-Cecile Chenu, and François’s three siblings, and others; Meyrou records scenes of conversations in court building corridors, in a bar, in offices, and so forth. Among the matters discussed are parenting—it turns out that the attackers, Michael Regnier, Fabien Lavenus and Franck Billette, suffered brutal childhoods—and justice versus revenge. We watch the victim’s family prepare for court and learn the sentences that the defendants incur: 20 years; 15 years, in the case of the boy who was a minor when he participated in the crime. The film concludes with François’s parents reading aloud a condescending, even vicious letter to the imprisoned trio, part of which is aimed at stirring their consciences and (at least ostensibly) urging rehabilitation. Reviewers typically emphasize how the Chenus work through their grief, but when I heard the letter I recalled Marie-Cecile’s earlier remark concerning her self-discovery; as a result of the crime and her loss, she has found violence in herself she never knew existed. In the film’s most brilliant passage, surely indebted to Alain Resnais’s Nuit et brouillard (1955), although Meyrou’s camera is (typically) static throughout, we see at dusk the tree-cloaked winding path down which François was slaughtered and hear his sister’s voiceover as she relates the event’s impact on her, including her identification of her brother’s body. The elegant verdant appearance with its sad irony, the quietude, the mockery—the continuation of anonymous, inconsiderate life as joggers emerge into sight: reminiscent also of Chabrol, this is haunting stuff.
This entry was posted on July 6, 2009 at 3:33 am and is filed under Informal Capsule Film Comments. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.
BEYOND HATRED (Olivier Meyrou, 2005)
By grunesWinner as best documentary at Berlin, Olivier Meyrou’s 16mm-shot Au delà de la haine details the aftermath of a heinous hate crime in Léo-Lagrange Park in Rheims, France. The incident occurred on the evening of September 13, 2002. Three neo-Nazi skinheads, one a minor in his teens, the others 22 and 20, decide to find an Arab to beat up but, finding none, target instead François Chenu, a 29-year-old white gay, whom they beat unconscious, savaging his face, before dumping him in a river to drown. This outburst of violence beyond what the attackers intended was triggered by Chenu’s calling them “cowards.”
Meyrou doesn’t show the crime. He doesn’t show the victim, even in photographs, even predating the deadly assault. He shows none of the killers. There is no filmmaker voiceover. There isn’t an ounce of sentimentality. This is a harrowing film of legal process and reactions from the devastated parents, Jean-Paul and Marie-Cecile Chenu, and François’s three siblings, and others; Meyrou records scenes of conversations in court building corridors, in a bar, in offices, and so forth. Among the matters discussed are parenting—it turns out that the attackers, Michael Regnier, Fabien Lavenus and Franck Billette, suffered brutal childhoods—and justice versus revenge. We watch the victim’s family prepare for court and learn the sentences that the defendants incur: 20 years; 15 years, in the case of the boy who was a minor when he participated in the crime. The film concludes with François’s parents reading aloud a condescending, even vicious letter to the imprisoned trio, part of which is aimed at stirring their consciences and (at least ostensibly) urging rehabilitation. Reviewers typically emphasize how the Chenus work through their grief, but when I heard the letter I recalled Marie-Cecile’s earlier remark concerning her self-discovery; as a result of the crime and her loss, she has found violence in herself she never knew existed. In the film’s most brilliant passage, surely indebted to Alain Resnais’s Nuit et brouillard (1955), although Meyrou’s camera is (typically) static throughout, we see at dusk the tree-cloaked winding path down which François was slaughtered and hear his sister’s voiceover as she relates the event’s impact on her, including her identification of her brother’s body. The elegant verdant appearance with its sad irony, the quietude, the mockery—the continuation of anonymous, inconsiderate life as joggers emerge into sight: reminiscent also of Chabrol, this is haunting stuff.
This entry was posted on July 6, 2009 at 3:33 am and is filed under Informal Capsule Film Comments. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.