You’d be forgiven for thinking that Andrey Zvyagintsev’s “Minotaur” is closely related to “Leviathan” (2014), his Oscar-nominated drama about regional corruption in northern Russia. But in fact, this French-German-Latvian production, showing in competition, is a remake of Claude Chabrol’s classic “La Femme Infidèle” (1969), which was already remade as “Unfaithful” (2002) with Diane Lane. Zvyagintsev, with his chilly style (he has a habit of keeping his camera distant, so that even medium close-ups register as mild shocks), is not exactly a filmmaker who brings the heat. And in this case, that’s a compliment.
Now living in Paris and no longer working in Russia, Zvyagintsev, who because of health challenges hadn’t made a film since 2017, begins “Minotaur” with the same attention to landscape and architecture that he brought to “Leviathan.” He introduces us to a glacially modernist home near the water. Every kitchen surface seems meticulously designed; the family members seem more concerned with their cellphone conversations than with one another.
The protagonist, Gleb (Dmitriy Mazurov), is a well-heeled chief executive. The time is near the start of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Gleb’s employees are departing in droves or working remotely, and Moscow has given Gleb a military registration quota that he needs to meet. In other words, he must decide which staff members are literally expendable.
At the same time, he and his wife, Galina (Iris Lebedeva), lead stable bourgeois lives, filled with fine dining and, it’s implied, the means to flee should the impact of the war ever come to their doorstep. (Militaristic billboards loom in the background of several shots.) Galina tells Gleb that she has an appointment at the salon, but when he calls to check up on her, he learns that she lied. It turns out she is having an affair with Anton (Yuriy Zavalnyouk), a handsome 33-year-old photographer who has the soft touch that Gleb lacks.
Is a spoiler alert necessary for a second remake? (Consider this your warning.) As events progress, Zvyagintsev masterfully stages a murder-and-cleanup sequence that tips its hat to Hitchcock and unfolds in what feels like real time. There’s a particularly breathtaking shot outside an apartment building that emphasizes the absence of witnesses, while somehow also stressing the possibility that a potential witness could wander into the frame at any moment.
Because the film is set in Putin’s Russia (Latvia stood in for the locations), any murder investigation would have decent odds of being compromised. After all, as Gleb tells two detectives who come calling, it is common for people to go missing from Russia these days; he can’t locate half his staff. And anyone wealthy and connected is in effect untouchable.
The cinematographer, Mikhail Krichman, composes shots so that it appears events are unfolding in almost constant twilight. Zvyagintsev may not have returned to filmmaking with fully original material, but he makes us see an old scenario anew.
As grim as Zvyagintsev’s movies can be, around 20 years ago the French director Bruno Dumont was in the running to be the world’s most self-serious working filmmaker (“Humanité,” “Flanders”). In “Li’l Quinquin” (2014), he finally revealed a sense of humor (and an affinity for Peter Sellers). Since then, he has mostly stuck to his comic mode. “The Empire,” which won a prize at Berlin two years ago, was so unremittingly wacky that Dumont suddenly began to seem like the world’s least serious filmmaker.
His new movie, “Red Rocks,” in Directors’ Fortnight, is a sweet-natured charmer. It involves nothing more or less than watching half a dozen unsupervised children (played by remarkable young actors) joyfully goof around on the shoreline of France’s Var region, which is a bit west of Cannes. They climb the region’s red rocks and dive into the Mediterranean—at least when the marine police aren’t watching. They drive around in what appears to be the French equivalent of Power Wheels. They hang out under an imposingly high and beautifully arched rail bridge.
It was probably a slight faux pas of the Fortnight to include “The Florida Project” in this year’s festival trailer, because “Red Rocks” presents a similar form of free-wheeling mischief. What plot exists involves a bit of playground romance—Géo loves Eve, but she’s seeing B.—and the threat of a violent showdown resulting from it. It’s a showdown that Dumont stages with a nerve that suggests a brief reversion to his old self. (There’s a terrifying shot of the cliffs soon after in which the director, through his use of sound, makes viewers struggle to get their bearings.)
Danger is always present, even if the kids ignore it. There are also hints of class conflict: We learn that Eve lives on a gated estate, in what seem to be much better circumstances than the others’. At one point she and Géo—as usual, sans adults—board the coastal train to Ventimigila, Italy, where Eve’s eccentric grandparents live on another manicured property. Dogs have the run of the tennis court even during matches.
But the film’s strength lies in this cast, whom Dumont has done an extraordinary job of directing. As with Lisandro Alonso’s “La Libertad Doble,” a filmmaker who two decades ago might have seemed punishingly austere has made a virtue of simplicity.
