We watched this slow drama with a mounting sense of bewilderment, wondering what it was really about. It turned out that the neurosurgeon's girlfriend was actually linked to a murder gang that kept elderly men like himself bound up naked waiting for a grim death. This shakes Daniel Auteuil, for whom the young Moroccan woman represented a journey back to his origins. He was able to open up to the young woman in a way that he completely failed to with his wife: a perennial problem with men. Next, she is weeping in her miserable room and giving him a diskette made with her grandmother 20 years earlier. She tells him it's her most precious possession. Next thing, she's lying dead in her bath, suicided. The cops explain to the doctor that she was tortured by his fate, he was being tracked and studied by the gang. At the end, he sits contemplating her voice singing a lovely old love song about "coquelicots" or poppies. It's a haunting film made with loving care and well worth seeing.
Review of Avant l'hiver
