A period piece, a contemporary drama, and a speculative sci-fi film all in one, The Beast’s director, Bertrand Bonello, explains how he used three parallel narratives to explore a single idea.

The Beast is a simple film. But told across three timelines, the story between two star-crossed lovers harnesses the memories of our past selves. And that’s what drove Bertrand Bonello, who also directed Nocturama, Saint Laurent, and Tiresia, to tell it.

At first, it’s Gabrielle Monnier (Léa Seydoux) who is not ready for love. She’s caught in her own dollhouse in Paris. Louis Lewanski (George MacKay) tries to swoop her away but is left lovesick. A century later, we meet these same characters again, this time in Los Angeles. The roles are reversed, but it’s the same story. Louis is now an incel. He drives around the city recording selfie videos of his preparations for retribution. He meets Gabrielle — and she’s interested in him — but he doesn’t have the emotional capacity to be with her.

Spliced in between these stories is another. It’s set in a future where we bathe in black liquid. Xavier Dolan purifies your DNA with the help of robotic arms. And yet — in all this fantasy, people still go dancing at retro clubs. Gabrielle and Louis meet. And then once again, they lose each other.

I met Bonello at the Criterion offices on a rainy day in April, where we sat down to discuss why the future looks like James Turrell and why young directors need to be obsessed with the story they want to tell.

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This interview has been edited and condensed.

How long have you been working on The Beast?

I started to write it in 2017. It was a long, long, long process. At one moment, there was a 1936 period. Then it became a mini-series, four times an hour. Then it was lost. So I stopped for a year, and I did a film called Zombi Child. Then I came back after this film, I reread my 250 pages, I said, “Okay, there is a feature somewhere. I have to find it.” So I dove into the writing, cut, cut, cut, cut, and then I started to find the form of the film you saw, and then we started to finance and stuff like that.

Did it still have its urgency when you returned to it?

The Beast was a long process. The most difficult thing was to keep the obsession for so long.

How do you do that?

Sometimes when there are some young directors that come to me and say, “What quality do you need,” I say obsession. Because it’s not only having an idea; it’s having an idea that you will still like three years after because it’s just very long, making films.

And it’s going to live for a really long time.

Yes. But after that, it’s not my problem. But I was very happy.

How much time do you spend thinking about the longevity of a film, knowing that it’s going to exist forever?

I don’t really think of that, but I had a huge retrospective in Paris a few weeks ago. You live in the present and the future, but retrospective means one moment. They ask you to stop and to look back, and it’s a moving experience because, for the audience, it’s just films. But, for me, it’s part of my life. You remember, “This film, my life was that.” It’s very intimate, in fact, to do this.

Could you talk to me a little bit about the structure of The Beast? There’s a split that happens halfway through the film between 1910 to 2014, and then you splice the future in throughout that. Did you find that structure in the edit, or did you always know?

No, no, no. The film you saw is exactly the film that is in the script. Everything. The most challenging thing was not to make three films. This is what was the main line, to find the structure. It’s not like you have a little 2044, then 1910, then ’14, then ’44. It has to be a little more mixed up so it makes only one film. When something happens in 1910, you have to ring a bell in 2014 that reminds you that it’s the same character because the same… It has not to be three characters but one character. The Gabrielle of 2044 is the Gabrielle of 1910 plus the Gabrielle of 2014. It’s the way I had to think. That’s why it was so long to write, because it’s quite tricky. It’s like it has to be a mix of poetics and mathematics.

It’s the math that is the most interesting because, from what I’ve read, you have a strong background in music. I always think about how much music has rhythm. You’re moving with the moment.

In fact, I do the music at the same time as the writing. I’m lucky to be a musician, so I have my study and I have my studio, and I keep going from one to another. If I start to write a scene that needs music, I stop writing. I go to the studio and try to find some sounds and some stuff like that. In the script, you have exactly the beginning of the music, end of the music. It’s written on the script. If there is a scene with a song that is not mine, I have to find the song. It’s part of the writing for me. It’s as important as a dialogue or a description.

How did you come up with the character of Louis in 2014, the incel character? He seems like a guy who spends a bit too much time on 4chan.

Ten years ago, when I discovered these videos of [mass murderer] Elliot Rodger, I was really, really impressed, in fact. Besides the fact that the guy was a psychopath and killed women, just talking about the videos, I was very impressed by the tone of his voice, by the choice of the words, by something very calm, which freaked me out more than if… It’s not Jack Nicholson in The Shining. It’s like, “Argh, I hate women.” It stayed in my mind.

I wanted to find an idea more close to our time to switch the stuff, and I was thinking about the incels. There is something about loneliness in incels, and, in a way, this kind of loneliness, in a way more primed. There is something of being afraid also. What Lewanski says, “They don’t want me, I hate them, I will kill them,” but there is maybe something that is unconscious, is, “I’m afraid of abandon.” I found that very interesting and contemporary to go through this kind of character to talk about the fear of love. So that was the starting point.

Both your films, Coma and The Beast, have political moments in them, and Louis Lewanski feels like he’s so political in many ways, but it’s kind of removed from the character. He’s just an incel. How much did you want to bring in the political versus how much did you want to keep it away?

I didn’t want it to be too expressed but to be there. In a way, the most political period is the 2044 section of the film because it’s like a resume of the catastrophe we are in today. What’s great with science fiction is that you create a world that is talking about your fear of today and your political fear also.

Image: CMPR

About 2044 — I was curious about the set design because it felt like James Turrell to me.

With the DP (director of photography Josée Deshaies), of course we thought about Turrell. I don’t know. I know it’s not brand new, but it’s obvious.

It’s comforting.

I know. I know. For me, it gives the touch that, yes, we are talking about ecology and stuff like that. What will be the lighting in the houses in 20 years?

But you are the first one who noticed.

Really?

Yes.

When you think about what you want to work on next, what comes to mind? I’m sure you’re already deep into whatever that thing is going to be.

[Takes big hit from vape] No, not really. I’m taking notes for the moment. This film was a huge work, and I put a lot of things in the film, and I feel a little empty, so now I have to fill myself a little.

So you’ll take a few months off?

No. I’m finishing the promotion, and I’ll take maybe a week.

You won’t take much time at all.

No. After, I start to anguish.

Source: The Verge A period piece, a contemporary drama, and a speculative sci-fi movie all in one