Locarno Review: Denis Côté’s Nobody’s Violence Is an Impressively Vital Thriller

      In 2006, Denis Côté was diagnosed with a degenerative kidney disease; by 2022, around the time he completed Mademoiselle Kenopsia, the condition escalated to a critical state: without a transplant—which he fortunately received a few months later—the Quebecois filmmaker would not have survived. Death has long been a persistent theme in his films, a growing body of work marked by extreme violence (as seen in Vic + Flo Saw a Bear), eerie apparitions (consider the inhabitants of Ghost Town Anthology), and drifters who abandon society to wander a ghostly no man's land (like the lead character in Wilcox’s film). However, none of Côté's works feel as somber as Nobody’s Violence, featuring frequent collaborator Larissa Corriveau as Mira, a reticent drifter who assists terminally ill individuals in ending their lives. Côté’s newest film is a mournful, melancholic character exploration, consistent with his earlier work, not only in shared cast—this marks his fifth collaboration with Corriveau—but also in themes and tone. Like its predecessors, it continues to explore his long-standing fascination with isolation and disconnection, but in terms of its narrative structure, it may prove to be his most accessible.

      This is not to suggest that Violence is straightforward. While the story could be easily summarized, the film itself feels as complex and enigmatic as its central character. This is partly because Côté does not provide any backstories for his characters. They exist firmly in the present; their pasts and identities, as well as their prior actions before appearing on screen, remain intentionally unexplained. While this silence might seem jarring, particularly to newcomers, it ultimately aligns well with the film's tone. Violence treats Mira as a mystery; the fact that we learn little more about her by the end than at the start is not a flaw but rather a testament to the film's captivating ambiguity. Côté has mentioned Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin as an influence, and like Scarlett Johansson’s character, Corriveau’s role embodies an angel of death surrounded by enigma. Employed by a cult-like group of affluent bohemians led by Ludo (Philippe Rebbot), she travels across Canada to meet those who have hired her to facilitate their transitions—an act she carries out by offering them a lethal concoction to drink in a single, fatal gulp.

      The film’s episodic format recalls its immediate predecessor, Paul, which paints a portrait of a perpetually online cleaning “simp” and shares with Violence a non-judgmental lens on its protagonist. While some members of Mira’s patients’ families might disapprove of her actions—as seen in an early, heated encounter—Côté refrains from passing judgment. Mira acts as she does simply because she is able to, as she admits in a rare moment of vulnerability, yet she is not devoid of emotion. The emotional toll of her work soon begins to weigh on her, only to be rekindled by an unexpected meeting with a young man named Pierric (Xavier Bergeron), reigniting her passion for life. This is where Violence risks feeling a bit too tidy, a twist that may seem particularly surprising from a director so adept at navigating ambiguity as Côté. The exuberant, talkative Pierric serves more as a catalyst for Mira’s growth than as a fully fleshed-out character, a sentiment that intensifies when their paths cross again under contrasting circumstances. Nevertheless, despite some predictability in its narrative beats, Violence intentionally disorients.

      Time flows in an elliptical manner. Edited by Terence Chotard, the film glides through the seasons at such rapid and seamless intervals that it disorients the viewer. As Ludo’s group shares their dreams, the film itself begins to resemble a dream, blurring the lines between reality and imagination. Côté has described his filmmaking as a form of supernaturalism—a cinema that embraces the implausible and surreal, aiming not to replicate reality but to revel in its mysteries. Much of this, I believe, is due to Vincent Biron’s 16mm cinematography, which alternates between Kodak and a lesser-known, much more unstable stock: Orwo. The flares and scratches present are not merely defects but manifestations of a restless energy; while Violence centers on death, its visuals convey a remarkable vibrancy.

      Discussions about Côté’s body of work often emphasize his fascination with transitional settings. From zoos (Bestiaire) to retreats (That Kind of Summer) to the dilapidated buildings watched over by Corriveau in Mademoiselle Kenopsia, his films frequently unfold in liminal spaces—you might consider his films a "cinema of passageways." Yet, Violence highlights another significant motif: the human body itself, a theme connecting disparate works like Paul and A Skin So Soft, which delves into the world of bodybuilders. Violence,