Out of this World
He is essentially anonymous, existing only on the periphery of awareness of his clients, a driver for hire, the hands on the wheel, a means to an end as others go about their business, cruising the streets of the city as he conducts them from place to place, party to their lives but not part of them, knowing their addresses and destination and the substance of their conversations too important to wait for arrival, but they know little of Léo.
Every surface of his car cleaned inside and out, he is fastidious to the point of obsession, his vehicle his home, drinking Jack Daniels and eating instant noodles, sitting in the driver’s seat with his keyboard and laptop, composing and arranging his music which he plays to his passengers, hoping for a reaction, but it is the girl who does not respond in any way who fascinates him the most.
A student at the Compagnie Marie Lenfant, Amélie is a dancer and profoundly deaf, communicating only through sign language and feeling the beat of the music through the floor and in her bones; Léo a habitual loner, anti-social and with a volatile temper and a violent streak, can he reach Amélie, and more importantly, can she reach the remote and stormy outpost where Léo has hidden himself?
Written and directed by Marc Fouchard, Out of this World (Hors Du Monde) continues FrightFest’s habit of showcasing foreign language cinema and film which does not quite fit within the expectations of the horror genre but which will appeal to the broader tastes of their diverse audience, dark, compulsive, challenging and with a singular focus, built entirely around Kévin Mischel’s magnetic presence.
In almost every single frame of Out of this World yet almost wordless, Léo unable or unwilling to express himself, his terrible actions speaking for themselves, killing women almost at random for the tiniest perceived slight, his muse calling for blood, burning the clothes which he wears to cleanse himself, a silent predator which understands not what it does yet seeks beauty to justify its tortured solitary existence.
His victims little more than ciphers, Léo himself is known or understood no deeper, the extended exposure he receives offering no more insight, the boundaries between what is real and imagined unclear, the hypnotic spell of the rolling roads and flickering streetlights broken only by the autumn leaves blowing in the wind which serve as witness to his nocturnal deeds and a backdrop for his date with Amélie (Aurélia Poirier), her innocence leading her to trust the shark even as he pours her a glass of blood red wine.
