Berlinale Review: Denis Côté’s Paul is a Remarkably Touching Depiction of a Cleaning Enthusiast

      Consider the logline: a 34-year-old, pre-diabetic, 250-pound, highly anxious loner finds solace serving as a cleaning simp for dominatrices who relish belittling him while he tidies their residences. The term simp, in Internet slang, refers to individuals who excessively cater to someone who does not reciprocate. While the premise may suggest a voyeuristic spectacle, what stands out in Denis Côté’s film Paul is its deliberate avoidance of infantilizing its subject and his fantasies. For a portrayal of a man whose main sources of pleasure and validation are deeply intertwined with humiliation—both verbal and physical—Paul treats its titular character with utmost dignity, resulting in an unexpectedly moving experience.

      This isn't the first time Côté has focused his lens on controversial issues without resorting to sensationalism. In That Kind of Summer, the Quebecois filmmaker explored a community of nymphomaniacs striving to control their urges, yet he never exploited their struggles and relentless desires for shock value. A few years earlier, in A Skin So Soft, he depicted the world of bodybuilders, following a group of weightlifters preparing for a pivotal contest. Although the two films differ significantly, they showcase Côté’s refreshingly non-judgmental perspective: individuals grappling with sexual or muscular obsessions are portrayed as ordinary people living quietly extraordinary lives, laughed with rather than at.

      So it is with Paul. Under the direction of a lesser filmmaker, this diary-like exploration of a simp and his interactions with several Montreal-based mistresses could have come off as tasteless misery porn. In Côté’s hands, it transforms into an uplifting and intermittently humorous ethnography. Shot by Vincent Biron and François Messier-Rheault using a Blackmagic camera, primarily in static shots, the film alternates between glimpses of Paul’s daily life and clips he recorded after deciding to “change his life,” which he shares on his Instagram page (CleaningSimpPaul, naturally), and which Côté intersperses throughout.

      These two sources of footage create a dynamic tension. On one level, there’s a stark contrast between the grainy, film-like appearance of the Blackmagic footage and the polished quality of Paul’s online material. On a deeper level, there is a significant disparity between the life captured by Côté and Paul’s often humorous social media posts. At no point does the content become overtly graphic; Paul does not seek gratification through sex, and his private encounters in the city are often more absurd than erotic. His kink lies not merely in serving “polite and condescending” women but in discovering aspects of them that others rarely see, as he shares with strangers and potential new clients online. The dominatrices he encounters are always eager to reward him with a free haircut, yoga lesson, or friendly conversation. It’s essential that these aftercare moments feel genuine, with Paul and his mistresses exhibiting a sense of real affection and mutual understanding.

      While the film dedicates considerable time to these seemingly humiliating cleaning sessions, Paul equally examines the relationship that connects its titular character to the camera. In a pivotal segment, the thirty-something mentions that he views his compulsive filmmaking as a means to take control of his life. (“I can control everything I post,” he states regarding his Instagram account. “I edit everything.”) This is intriguing when juxtaposed with his willingness to surrender his mind and body to women. However, Paul itself doesn’t become an act of domination. The protagonist’s overarching goal—to reveal aspects of these women’s lives that they typically keep hidden—reflects Côté’s own curiosity. A near-reverent attitude toward these rituals and their complex dynamics permeates Paul. The unobtrusive nature of Côté’s filmmaking makes the occasional use of a non-diegetic piano piece by Chantale Morin seem almost discordant, as do the brief moments when the camera shifts away from Paul to focus on surrounding details: a fish tank, the frosted glass panes of his living room window, or magnet words on his fridge arranged into a plea: “Can you break me?”

      This detailed attention to the mundane is characteristic of Côté’s work, as is his talent for finding surrealism in ordinary lives. One memorable scene in A Skin So Soft featured bodybuilders contemplatively eating carrots while watching sheep. What is new—and what ultimately makes Paul a distinct addition to his filmography—is its humanist and life-affirming tone. I watched the film during its world premiere in the Berlinale’s Panorama Documentary section. It was the first Côté screening I attended where most of the post-screening questions were directed at the subject rather than the filmmaker, with the latter being thanked for his “authenticity” and for voicing the struggles of many who contend with depression and social anxiety. This also speaks to the film's sense of calm. Whether Paul resonates with your own insecurities or not, it is remarkably impactful.