TITANE. Both Beautiful And Pretentious [REVIEW]

From birth, Alexia from Titane seems to suffer and to not belong in her surroundings. Her parents are for her two indifferent entities—without any emotional attachment, without an exchange of words or glances. The girl lives in a completely separate world: a world of her own imaginings, her own needs, and her own language. Outside standard social relationships, outside the mainstream, always somewhere at an extreme, always hiding something that resists verbalization.

As a child, the only credible bond she formed (for her, and for us) was with her guardians’ car. The purr of the engine, the sound of shifting gears, the rush coming from the wheels speeding over asphalt. This is not so much an automotive fascination as something deeply felt by her soul and her body. For Alexia, the machine is a living, sensing organism, clearly signaling its physical needs. Listening to them is one thing; submitting to them is another.

Symbols, metaphors, allegories, archetypes. Titane by Julia Ducournau is a marriage of B-movie thriller with an ambiguous reflection on the technological invasion of the social fabric. We find here traces of Cronenberg’s body horror, David Lynch’s cipher of identity, the neon aesthetics of Nicolas Winding Refn, and the suspense of something hovering on the border between The Terminator and Ridley Scott’s Alien. In short, an academic treat for film scholars searching cinema for hidden meanings, decoding intricate narratives, and hunting for erotic subtexts. Sexual tension, fear of desire, and crossing the line of intimacy constantly hang over the characters’ heads.

Titane cannot be read as a linear plot. It is rather a collection of sociological variations on obsessions and fears, relying not on words but on an expressive visual narrative. Ducournau reduces dialogue to an absolute minimum. Answering the question “What’s your name?” becomes problematic; even an innocent “hello” barely passes through the throat. Everything is reduced to half-words spoken reluctantly. Quite different is the moment when a sports car left in a parking lot flashes its headlights and lifts itself on its suspension, inviting Alexia into the back seat. Then the message seems entirely clear, entirely sufficient.

Ducournau’s film balances on the border between the explicit and the imagined. In Titane, nothing is ever fully defined, allowing for a multitude of interpretive readings. We move fluidly between sexual identities, between death and life, between pleasure and pain, between youthful energy and a weakening, aging body. Radiating sex appeal, Alexia gradually grows grotesque and, under the influence of her adoptive father—Vincent (Vincent Lindon)—transforms into Adrien. Vincent, an emergency medic and firefighter, has bonded with fire, yet cannot bear the sight of a weakening organism and fading muscles. Daily steroid injections are a fleeting guarantee of eternal life. Foreplay usually ends in a bloodbath, and a kiss in a murder committed in a fit of passion. Watch your step.

Titane is a cinema of signs and symbolic figures: of a father yearning for reciprocated affection, of escapes into the unknown, of accepting touch and taming closeness. Alexia/Adrien responds to every outstretched hand, every attempt at an embrace, every invitation to dance, every social flirtation with a violent retreat. The protagonist is only on the surface a beast unleashed from its leash—a predator sensing threats from all sides. As for what most deeply destroys her from within and amplifies her despair, each viewer will likely find their own answer.

In the audience’s imagination, Titane will likely land somewhere between Only God Forgives, The Guest, and It Follows. Ducournau initially draws from the masters of late-20th-century postmodernism, but dresses her film in contemporary, garish, blood-soaked garments. At times it is beautiful, at times pretentious. Nevertheless, fans of both kinds of cinema should feel right at home with Titane.