I LOST MY BODY. Something is Definitely Off

Do you remember that strange, uncomfortable feeling from Cow and Chicken, the one that appeared whenever the protagonists’ parents were on screen? The Cartoon Network creators showed only the adults’ legs, at times even suggesting that their physical presence truly ended at the knees. I always sensed something more in this than just a clever formal joke. The parents’ reduced presence created unease and subtly distorted the reality of the show. Something was definitely off. That’s my first association with the intriguing I Lost My Body.

Director Jérémy Clapin, however, doesn’t steer toward loud comedy, but rather toward psychodrama. This happens because my second association—so distant that I can hardly believe I’m invoking it—is the cinema of the Dardenne brothers. The Belgian filmmakers focus on people living in the shadows, on the social margins—immigrants, the homeless, the unemployed—and they do so in a very particular way: either adopting their perspective or following closely behind them. The subjects of their films are modest, everyday matters, yet in the hands of the two-time Palme d’Or winners they often evolve into allegories. From the level of a sidewalk, a waiting room, a bus stop, or a dumpster, they ascend into unexpectedly elevated dramatic registers. Expect something similar from I Lost My Body.

Clapin’s animation follows a teenage boy, Naoufel, who moves to Paris after the death of his parents. In the French capital he suffers a gruesome accident and loses his hand. The director ends the sentence there—and then splits the narrative into two parallel stories. The first follows Naoufel wandering through Paris, searching for work, trying to form normal relationships, attempting to settle into his new environment and give his life direction. The second storyline is led by the boy’s severed hand. It escapes from a laboratory and desperately tries to find its owner, overcoming every possible obstacle. It is guided by instinct—the need to fulfill its (irrational?) mission.

The combination of such disparate stylistic conventions is a flaw of I Lost My Body, but also a testament to its uniqueness. Because what isn’t in this animation? Body horror? Yes. Romance? Present. Processing trauma? Absolutely. Minority cinema? Certainly. Fantasy elements? You don’t have to look hard to find them. This density and these surprising juxtapositions create a pleasant aesthetic dissonance, although at times they feel stitched together by force. The tender, melancholic flashback sequences intersect with the absurd adventures of a hand wandering across Parisian rooftops. Naoufel’s failures at work are placed alongside the hand’s battles with a pigeon, rats, or a blind man’s dog. I won’t deny the film’s inventiveness, though I can point to its stylistic inconsistency.

What binds all of Clapin’s threads together is the film’s unique perspective and its focus on touch. For the creators, this sense has the same importance as memory and is treated as its equivalent. Even when we follow Naoufel before the accident, the filmmakers dwell on details and the traces he leaves behind. Recurring motifs include attempts to catch a fly, rewinding recordings on a VCR, or handprints left on sand or glass. Jérémy Clapin avoids the banality of easy symbols and the triviality of heavy-handed metaphors. In many moments his film maintains a naturalness, and at times it is even revelatory.

I value the well-written, convincing relationships between characters and the unusual narrative perspective. Familiar situations are often illuminated in a new way, playing with our perceptual habits. I Lost My Body, in its best moments, brushes up against something akin to revelation; in its weaker ones, it may puzzle with the paradoxical nature of its creative choices. It’s a coherent story, though aesthetically pulled in many directions. It isn’t devoid of a clear conclusion, though that conclusion comes with intriguing footnotes that may linger long after the film ends.