by Finnlay Dall
Worth: $1.00
FilmInk rates movies out of $20 — the score indicates the amount we believe a ticket to the movie to be worth
Cast:
Anne-Sophie Charron, Stefano Cassetti, Aurélia Mengin, Patricia Barzyk
Intro:
… terrible twists, flat archetypes, and uninspired horror imagery.
‘Style over substance’ is often seen as something negative, especially in art. But as the French have proven time and time again, style, no matter how exaggerated, will always have a meaning; some deeper layer under that glossy surface. And lately there’s been a ‘new wave’, if you will, of female horror directors proving exactly that. Ravenous, shocking and unapologetic, the films of Julia Ducournau (Titane) and Coralie Fargeat (Revenge, The Substance), keep reminding us that film, first and foremost, is a medium of intense emotion, and only by forgoing the snobby pretensions of ‘realism’ can audiences truly achieve catharsis.
Even Cannes agrees. With Titane winning the 2021 Palme d’Or and The Substance (2024) taking home last year’s Prix du scénario, it seems that public opinion is changing on genre films, and it’s all thanks to the masterful female directors guiding horror forward. After all, who else but Fargeat could make a body horror so disgustingly brazen in its depiction of Hollywood – its sexism, body dysmorphia and ageism – that even Oscar voters would feel disillusioned by the glitz and glamour of the film industry. Clearly: style is The Substance.
Unfortunately, Aurélia Mengin’s Scarlet Blue might be the one exception… Partly due to how disparate the story is, let alone the general theme. When our heroine Alter (Anne-Sophie Charron) lies on a hospital bed, things start promisingly. Bloodied from a botched suicide attempt, she can barely keep conscious as her doctor (Stefano Cassetti) whispers cryptic words from her bedside, his piercing blue eyes only adding to his hypnotic powers. Soon, the room begins to spin violently as we’re allowed a glimpse into Alter’s chaotic dreams. Waking up chained in the doctor’s mysterious cave-like lair, we await her fate with dread.
But Texas Chainsaw Massacre this is not. It turns out that Casseti’s doctor is a hypnotist tasked with aiding her recovery, believing that unlocking her repressed childhood memories will alleviate her depression. With so many layers unfolding in quick succession, we’re left in anticipation for what will come next.
But before all that can continue, we absolutely must watch gas station attendant Chris (played by Mengin herself) wash a vintage convertible. Admittedly, the sequence is eye-catching. Chris wiping down surfaces at dutch angles, aglow in neon, the gas station itself seemingly isolated by an endless dark void, making for pretty viewing. Yet, when it’s not behind a title-card, Scarlet Blue’s visuals feel like glitter filled dead air. Vertigo inducing camera spins are haphazardly thrown around quiet scenes that don’t need them, deep risers deflate any tension by coming too early or too late, and banshee screams from ‘Scary Sounds Vol. 5’ make what could be a surrealist dreamscape into a cheap, rundown carnival ride.
The dream sequences may suffer as a result of its cheapness, but like Peg O’ My Heart, at least they offer interesting set-pieces. Despite the nautical references to fish and seaside mysteries, the film’s bright blue bass, fishing nets and strangled baby-dolls have more in common with the Dali produced nightmares of Spellbound than they do any of David Lynch’s work. When Chris and Alter lay next to each other on a beach, flecked in gold paint and singing their siren samples to each other, all the elements are there to induce a surrealist work of art, but require the imagination of a middle school daydreamer to pull off.
Most gratuitous of all are the sex scenes. And don’t worry, this isn’t some puritanical zoomer ‘anti-sex’ take; Scarlet Blue’s sex is gratuitous precisely because it lacks desire. Unsensual and lifeless sex is sprayed around the film like an air freshener whenever the film (regularly) leaves the camera running on its actors for too long. The lens’ male-gaze on every nipple, rub or french kiss would be even more insulting if there wasn’t a female in the director’s chair. If most of the film is either mindless sex or mindless waiting – in Alter’s mother’s case, waiting for her daughter to the tune of bad English rap music – no wonder the film doesn’t have anything to fill its neon void with. Well except for its terrible twists, flat archetypes, and uninspired horror imagery.
Scarlet Blue and its director may want to sit amongst the French Queens of Horror, but it takes a lot more than an aesthetic beauty. Beauty doesn’t need to have an exact point, but it does need to have a direction – and a monster made of skin can only go so deep.
