Quentin Dupieux is fascinated by inanimate objects. In the ’90s, as music producer Mr. Oizo, it was his expressionless yellow puppet Flat Eric, nodding along to electro-house; a decade ago, as filmmaker, it was a tyre named Robert in the kooky horror Rubber. And now it’s a fringed cowboy jacket that grabs his eccentric attention. Like Peter Strickland’s In Fabric or Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, Deerskin finds fear and fascination in the folds of fashion, with a dash of objectophilia for good measure.
As you might expect, a strain of lightly surreal French humour is sprinkled throughout this idiosyncratic story — such as the B&B receptionist who provides a room-key with a fox-paw keyring, or the sex worker who offers, “If you need bitches for your porn, I’m available.” But for Dupieux — whose film CV includes murderous car parts, giant insects, and Marilyn Manson as a high-school nerd — this is a relatively understated affair.
The ludicrous premise is played impressively straight. As Georges, Jean Dujardin deadpans his way through all manner of bizarre encounters as his sartorial compulsion evolves from shallow narcissism to bloody psychosis. French audiences will be familiar with his comedy chops, but if your only exposure to Dujardin is his silent smouldering in The Artist, this will be a jarring experience, his natural charm flipped into something both pathetic and petrifying. It’s a remarkably selfless performance that sees him vainly preen himself in the mirror, have Sméagol-like conversations with himself, and at one point suck a wedding ring off a corpse.
This is a self-reflexive piece of work, a horror film about the making of a horror film.
Such strange diversions are kept relatively grounded by the presence of Portrait Of A Lady On Fire’s Adèle Haenel, as barmaid-slash-wannabe-filmmaker Denise, who once edited Pulp Fiction into chronological order, and whose wide-eyed naivety misinterprets Georges’ fanatical filming as a satirical mockumentary. This is a self-reflexive piece of work, a horror film about the making of a horror film and the exploitative, bullshit-heavy nature of the business, and though it morphs from something fairly low-key into more familiar genre territory, the tone is confidently consistent throughout. Like Peeping Tom or Nightcrawler, Georges’ camera has a voyeuristic quality, filming strangers without their permission — and without their jackets, whether they agree or not — and the footage that emerges, impulsively, almost by accident, is quietly disturbing.
Janko Nilović’s score, with its Bernard Herrmann-alike orchestral stabs, suggests a Hitchockian kind of destructive obsession. Yet though it’s certainly a bleak portrait of a middle-aged man in decline (tellingly, Georges has a never-seen wife who blocks their bank account), this feels more of a shaggy-dog (shaggy-jacket?) story than Hitchcock’s complex psychological thrills.
Ultimately, the point is that there isn’t really a point: it’s absurd for absurdism’s sake. By design, Deerskin won’t be to everyone’s taste (though at just 77 minutes, it doesn’t overstay its welcome). But like Georges and his beloved jacket, Dupieux seemingly doesn’t care: he loves his inanimate objects, and it’s up to you if you’re along for the ride.