In Queer French Thriller Misericordia, It’s Hard to Say Who is Using Who

In the French language, the word misericordia roughly translates to “mercy” or “compassion.” To the English-speaking ear, however, the word is perhaps more likely to evoke the thought of “misery” or “melancholia.” This is apt, for writer-director Alain Guiraudie’s rambling, esoteric mix of small-town thriller and black comedy, to the point that it feels somehow intentional despite the English-speaking world not being the film’s first audience–it was theatrically released overseas in the fall of 2024. But it’s impossible to look past the seeming duality, all the same: Any compassionate hospitality extended in Misericordia is undergirded by the melancholia inherent to the prospect of being alone. Every person offering mercy wants something in return, even when their unspoken desires butt up against layers of internalized repression or willful ignorance. They’re all angling for something, whether they know it or not–the only question is how willing they’ll ultimately be to use and be used.

Misericordia drops us primarily into the unknowable shoes of Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), a 30-something man returning to the small French village of his birth to mark the passing of former boss and mentor Jean-Pierre, a respected small-town baker with whom he apparently had an unspoken romantic or sexual attraction. In town, Jérémie is taken in by Jean-Pierre’s widow, Martine (Catherine Frot), and her adult son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), a former childhood friend (maybe more) who now reads as a distant stranger. There, they collectively mourn the man they knew as Jérémie seems to nurse his wounded notions of what could have been, over dinners with Martine, Vincent and aged local priest Griseul (Jacques Develay). He makes his excuses and prepares to leave, only to be talked into spending the night … but then decides he’s not so sure when and if he’ll be leaving at all.

The motives of Jérémie, as written by Guiraudie, can be rather difficult to parse. It’s hard to say what he feels he will gain by staying in town, being near Martine on a daily basis, but his spongelike presence begins to rub some locals the wrong way. Vincent in particular is suspicious of his childhood friend’s intentions, failing to understand that Jérémie’s attachment to the place likely has more to do with the legacy of his father than particular interest in his mother. He soon makes it clear that he wants Jérémie gone, but with no job and a disintegrating romance to return to at home, Jérémie is loathe to depart, instead spending his days rubbing up against–sometimes literally–the other town locals, such as layabout Walter (David Ayala). Again, Jérémie’s true intent is difficult to feel confident in labeling: Does he make overtures to someone like Walter out of boredom, genuine interest, or because he’s sociopathically trying to win influence and allies in this brewing provincial power struggle? Although a poor liar, he does seem to possess a certain base cunning when it comes to manipulating those around him, especially when the overtones turn sexual.

Indeed, Misericordia is steeped in a baseline tone of sexual repression and low-key homoerotic interactions, particularly between Jérémie and Vincent, the latter of whom has a habit of appearing at the foot of Jérémie’s bed–in his own former childhood bedroom–at 4 a.m., to ask him to vamoose in a rather frightening display of dominance. Repeatedly, they run into each other in the woods while one or both are searching for mushrooms, with interactions that evolve from a friendly extension of childhood wrestling matches to an eventual knock-down, drag-out fight. People suspect the two of sleeping together, even when they’re not, because the sexual tension in the air is so palpable.