TW: mention of sexual violence
Demonlover (2002) directed by Oliver Assayas is a horror-thriller film that thrills not through genuine talent but a persistent mean-spirited edge. While it tries to be transgressive, it ultimately says too little and shows too much, with most of the film functioning as an extended build-up to upsetting, graphic content that seeks to demean and belittle.
Considered an example of New Extreme Films after receiving cult status, Demonlover has been reappraised as a challenging exploration of digital media content. Yet a more apt description would be a mix of sophomore corporate drama and violent sexual imagery.
The film follows corporate executive Diane (Connie Nielsen) who attempts to rise in the market of competing pornography firms. As she does, she unravels various crimes and conspiracies behind these corporations.
Even with extended exposition scenes, the film fails to explain what’s going on plot-wise. The cinematography is nauseatingly close to the actors, often obfuscating the blocking. Occasionally it creates a deliberate unease, but it frequently makes it difficult to tell what characters are holding or doing. Despite solid acting the characterisation is thin, relying on overbearing dialogue to deliver personalities.
About half an hour in, Demonlover introduces us to the main product of the Mangatronics corporation. The scene, which is best left undescribed and unwatched, was the most upsetting part of the film. It served little point other than to show how awful the content was, which was established much earlier than the ten minutes the scene ran for.
The film is not known for its intrigue but the excessive, graphic, mean-spirited sex scenes. While the subject matter demands it, these scenes are hard to stomach. Early on during the screening at Film Society, I debated walking out on the film because the experience was so viscerally upsetting. Nonetheless, I persisted, a decision I can’t say I’m proud of.
Being graphic is not an inherent flaw. Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975) is extremely difficult in pure content —excessively brutal to its many characters, revelling in cruelty — but it works. Shot mostly in wide, symmetrical shots, many characters are simply named by titles and appearances, while set design and costumes are anachronistic and absurd. We are told both not to take the film literally, and to appreciate it as a work of art rather than a narrative. As for Demonlover, it’s style is reminiscent of the 2000s torture porn genre. Quick cuts, loud guitar riffs, unstable camerawork, and graphic imagery: the film seems less interested in saying something than shocking the viewer. Being repulsed is not a mark of a good film if it offers nothing to be gained.
While I might not feel this way, according to its fans, Demonlover explores desensitisation in the digital age over extreme content. Yet we don’t see the effect of this content. The film primarily exists in the offices of corporate executives who deal in the pornography industry depicted as cold business types: why would they be so invested in their product? We do see some of them engage in the content, but for most characters, it ends at just that. It doesn’t change them, it’s just something they found weird. As an audience member, what is there to take from that?
The film nearly shows the consequences of this content through Herve (Charles Berling). He is aggressive in his sexual pursuits, constantly harassing and coming on to Diane. In one scene he opens up about his misogynistic philosophy, and his view of women is eerily similar to the porn we have seen him consume. Yet the film negates any further meaning when the next scene ends with his character’s brains splattered over his hotel bed. His death is forgotten, he is never mentioned again. This side-plot ends all for a cheap scare.
At such points I was reminded of the notorious, eternally banned film Cannibal Holocaust (1980), a repulsive showcase of human cruelty that makes no point other than demonstrating the immorality of its filmmakers. Demonlover is not as thematically empty as Cannibal Holocaust, as Assayas attempts to commentate on pornography in the modern world but similarly, many shocking moments would occur without reason.
Halfway through Demonlover we are introduced to the Hellfire Club, run by the eponymous Demonlover corporation where users can go on the website and pay for women to be sexually tortured for their amusement. This is a jump that feels unnatural; as disturbing as the content we have seen is, it was all simulated. To move from that to an orchestrated presumed slavery operation, the film did not have enough time to properly establish such a jump.
We also never properly see these characters, they only exist in brief flashes in the torture sequences. The movie wants us to be horrified but is not interested in humanising the characters or exploring the aftermath of violence, coming across as pure shock value.
The notorious ending further backslides the point with our protagonist ending up in the Hellfire Club, an ironic twist you’d come to expect from an episode of Tales from the Crypt. It feels almost retributive to our corrupt protagonist; in its final moments it seems more interested in horror cliche than reincorporating its themes. What does Diane’s ending in this situation say beyond proving her character wrong?
That is the biggest indictment of the film. While I can’t say it lacks analysis, the themes aren’t memorable. Instead, I’m stuck thinking about awful content and struggling to give it much meaning.
