The Conventional Unconventionality of László Nemes’s *Moulin*
There’s something oddly comforting—and yet deeply unsettling—about László Nemes’s latest film, Moulin. On the surface, it’s a wartime drama that ticks all the boxes: sepia tones, heroic resistance, and a battle of wills between good and evil. But knowing Nemes’s track record—from the gut-wrenching Son of Saul to the enigmatic Sunset—I couldn’t help but approach this film with a mix of anticipation and skepticism. What I found was a director who seems to have traded his avant-garde edge for something more… conventional. And yet, it’s this very conventionality that sparks the most intriguing questions.
The Hero We Expect, But Do We Deserve?
Gilles Lellouche’s portrayal of Jean Moulin is, in many ways, the epitome of what we’ve come to expect from a resistance hero: stoic, principled, and unyielding. But what makes this particularly fascinating is how Nemes frames Moulin’s heroism. It’s not just about his refusal to break under torture—a detail that’s historically well-known—but about the quiet, almost melancholic way he navigates the moral complexities of his mission. Personally, I think this is where the film shines. Moulin isn’t just a symbol; he’s a man grappling with the weight of leadership, the betrayal of comrades, and the amorous advances of a fictionalized Comtesse de Forez. It’s a humanizing touch that feels both fresh and oddly familiar.
Klaus Barbie: The Villain We Love to Hate, But Should We?
Lars Eidinger’s Klaus Barbie is a performance that’s impossible to ignore. His portrayal is theatrical, bordering on caricature, and yet there’s a method to this madness. One thing that immediately stands out is how Nemes and Eidinger lean into Barbie’s psychopathy, almost to the point of excess. The mock executions, the electric shocks, the grotesque recollections of infant slaughter—it’s all there, laid bare. But what many people don’t realize is that this over-the-top villainy serves a purpose. It forces us to confront the banality of evil, not just its spectacle. Barbie isn’t just a monster; he’s a mirror reflecting the darkest corners of humanity. If you take a step back and think about it, his petulant temper tantrums aren’t just unsubtle—they’re a chilling reminder of how power corrupts, even in the most absurd ways.
Craftsmanship vs. Ambition: Where Does Moulin Land?
There’s no denying that Moulin is a well-crafted film. The production design is impeccable, the performances are strong, and the cinematography captures the wartime era with a subdued elegance. But here’s where I struggle: is it enough? Nemes has built his career on pushing boundaries, on challenging audiences with unconventional narratives and immersive techniques. Moulin, by contrast, feels safe. It’s a mainstream drama that, while stirring, doesn’t quite reach the heights of his earlier work. This raises a deeper question: is Nemes evolving, or is he retreating? Personally, I think it’s a bit of both. The film’s sentimental final scene, followed by a jarring premonition of the death camps, feels like a director trying to have it both ways—to appeal to a broader audience while maintaining his artistic integrity.
The Broader Implications: What Does Moulin Say About Wartime Narratives?
What this film really suggests is that even the most well-trodden stories can still offer new insights—if we’re willing to look closely enough. Moulin isn’t just a tale of resistance; it’s a meditation on the cost of unity, the nature of sacrifice, and the blurred lines between hero and martyr. From my perspective, the film’s greatest strength lies in its ability to make us question what we think we know about wartime narratives. Why do we romanticize resistance? What does it mean to refuse to break, even when breaking might save lives? These aren’t easy questions, and Nemes doesn’t provide easy answers.
Final Thoughts: A Step Forward or a Step Back?
As I reflect on Moulin, I’m left with a mix of admiration and disappointment. Admiration for Nemes’s craftsmanship and his willingness to tackle a story as weighty as Jean Moulin’s. Disappointment that he didn’t push the boundaries further, that he settled for something more conventional. But perhaps that’s the point. Maybe Moulin is a reminder that even the most unconventional filmmakers need to take a step back sometimes, to explore the familiar before venturing into the unknown again. In the end, it’s not just a film about resistance—it’s a film about the resistance to change, both in history and in art. And that, I think, is what makes it worth watching.
