Film

The third feature by Maïwenn is in many ways an admirably hard-hitting account of the everyday experiences of a team of investigators working in the Child Protection Unit of the Parisian police. It’s a sprawling affair in the garrulous, large-cast, neo-neo-realist mode, bearing a distinct similarity to any number of TV soaps dealing with the police, hospitals, emergency services or whatever, but at least its heart and head are in the right place as it covers all kinds of abuse, exploitation and injustice. For the most part, too, it feels pretty authentic – the result of reportedly extensive research on the French director’s part and, as far as one can make out, of her having decided to work with an established writer, Emmanuelle Bercot, on the script.

A pity, however, that Maïwenn chose also to cast herself as a photographer commissioned by the Ministry of the Interior to document the Unit’s work; it’s not so much that she’s a bad actress, but the role is in the end fairly redundant – little more than romantic interest for Fred (the charismatic Joey Starr), one of the more angst-ridden members of the team – and it only serves to point up (unwittingly, one presumes) a few serious shortcomings of the film itself, which, like the photos her characters takes, focuses more on the dramatic highlights of their professional and personal lives than on the bureaucratic drudgery that is part and parcel of the Unit’s work.

Still, what the film does give a flavour of is the way work impinges on domestic routines – how on earth might one sustain a balanced relationship with one’s sexual partner (as opposed to the surrogate family that works, plays and mostly stays together) when deceit, distrust and the most destructive varieties of ‘love’ take precedence in the office? – and the fact that some folks simply can’t understand that their own traditional mores (be they certain Muslim laws or forms of sleep-therapy) constitute outrageous oppression.

It’s too ready, perhaps. to shift into hyperkinetic emotionalism (a violent row between formerly friendly female colleagues feels painfully forced), but a lot of the rest rings horrifically true, not least one high-flier feeling immune from prosecution thanks to his connections. Does it tell us anything we didn’t already know about child abuse? Well, maybe a little. But given its fundamental seriousness of purpose, maybe originality should not be considered its prime virtue – even though it’s hard to imagine another film in which a game of charades centred on movie titles would name check both ‘Carry On Camping’ and ‘Contempt’. But then that’s the French for you!