Whether they be achieved formally, thematically, or even sonically, few filmmakers are capable of pulling off a myriad of genres like that of impossibly dexterous French auteur Olivier Assayas. A former Cahiers du Cinéma critic, Assayas’ most notable works include re-contextualizing Louis Feuillade’s Les Vampires as a self-reflexive comedy of errors that befall a troubled film production in Irma Vep (twice, both marvelous successes), chasing a haunted Kristen Stewart around Europe with metaphysical and literal ghosts in Personal Shopper, and dramatizing the rise and fall of Venezuela’s most notorious political terrorist as a punk rock travelogue through the 1970s and 1980s in Carlos. The filmography is as eclectic as the filmmaker is wildly intelligent, deftly navigating varied time periods, social milieus, interpersonal relationships, and digital landscapes with insatiable aplomb.
Sandwiched between 19th century bourgeois period epic Sentimental Destinies and heartrending addiction drama Clean — which would ultimately be his final collaboration with his ex-wife, Hong Kong actress Maggie Cheung — Assayas unleashed Demonlover, a beguiling corporate espionage thriller-cum-tech neo-noir-cum-depraved New French Extremity nightmare. Initially premiering at Cannes in 2002, contemporaneous opinions ran the gamut from polite dismissal to outright loathing, and while a charitable few appreciated the film’s inherent coolness and Assayas’ characteristically astute technical accomplishments, most critics had their knives out for the picture’s bold take on the distressing world at large, violently rejecting the typically assured director’s work as a stylistic misfire and accusing the film as a descent into incoherence and shockingly unpleasant subject matter. Luckily, time has been nothing but kind to Demonlover, as the tide has borne out a pronounced turn in the film’s favor in the decades since and it’s more roundly regarded as a prophetic vision of capitalism run rampant. Inspiration for Demonlover can be traced back to the works of other great masters, including David Cronenberg (especially Videodrome) and Kiyoshi Kurosawa (whose very own Barren Illusions makes a split-second cameo here on a hotel television set), while its DNA is firmly rooted in modern masterpieces that came in its wake, such as Abel Ferrara’s Zeroes and Ones and Pascal Plante’s Red Rooms. Demonlover is paradoxically mesmerizing and dread-inducing, a tremendous and harrowing achievement where every bit of its brilliance is matched by its astoundingly apocalyptic conviction.
In his audio commentary, Assayas describes constructing an “unreal film” where money is “abstract and immaterial,” a notion exemplified from the opening scene, which takes place in the spacious first-class cabin of a private jet. Capitalism reigns in the world of Demonlover, where anything and everything, including human life, can be bought for a fee, exploited, and then sold to the highest bidder, resulting in rival corporations warring over who can gain the most purchase in their respective fields to emerge as the top competitor. The only way forward is upward, and this is exactly the cutthroat ethos that drives Connie Nielsen’s Diane de Monx, a steely, determined, and incredibly beautiful executive at French-based media company Volf Entertainment. The extent of her ruthlessness is captured in this opening sequence, in which Diane cold-heartedly doses a single-serving bottle of Evian in order to incapacitate boss Karen (Dominique Reymond), effectively promoting herself within the company. By the time the film ends, this will not be the last dastardly deed committed by Diane, whose dedication to Volf is resoundingly praised by her colleagues, particularly with partner Hervé (Charles Berling), whose feelings for Diane grow increasingly amorous. The only member of the company who sees through Diane’s façade is Elise (Chloë Sevigny), Karen’s secretary, vowing to avenge her boss. Meanwhile, Volf is set to acquire the rights to TokyoAnime, a manga house that exclusively produces hentai — animated Japanese pornography, for those not in the know — with hopes of expanding to international markets, especially with its recent pivot from 2D to 3D-generated images. The endgame is to get in bed with Demonlover, an American-based streaming company, one which will grant Volf the exposure they need and whose rival is media corp Magnatronics, who has covertly employed Diane as a mole to bring Demonlover down. Little does Diane know, Demonlover is harboring a dangerous secret, one that will inevitably take Diane to the point of no return.
Double-crosses, backstabbing, and duplicity are very much the modi operandi in Demonlover. Diane’s poisoning of Karen is just the tip of a very cruel iceberg, charting her wheeling and dealing as she plays all sides of TokyoAnime’s acquisition, hyperfocused on coming out on top, no matter the cost. Assayas doles out information carefully, withholding the true nature of Volf Entertainment’s line of work until they are actually sitting down and meeting with the owners of TokyoAnime, where it becomes abundantly clear that pornography is the name of the game. A moral dilemma is raised during these stringent negotiations, as Volf’s team remain dubious that the Japanese aren’t using underage actors, since none of the female models bear any visible pubic hair. “What’s illegal in France is illegal in Japan,” the hentai CEO cautiously assures. With TokyoAnime’s assets in hand, Demonlover enters the picture, the face of the company perfectly embodied by Gina Gershon’s Elaine Si Gibril, whose indomitable presence creates a memorable impression despite appearing in what must be fewer than 10 minutes of actual screentime.
The truth behind Demonlover turns out to be earth-shattering: they are actually a front for Hellfire Club, a sadomasochistic torture porn site that streams genuine violent and sexual videos on the dark web, except there’s a very sick twist — all of their content is completely user-commissioned, with the most perverse fantasies brought to life on women who endure heinous and humiliating acts while dressed as recognizable pop culture figures like Lara Croft, Wonder Woman, and Emma Peel from The Avengers. (It’s safe to say that Marvel and DC won’t be knocking on Assayas’ door anytime soon). Pornographic images are prevalent in Demonlover, from the Hellfire Club tapes to casual hotel room viewings, but no characters actually seem to derive any pleasure from the media consume. It’s all just business as usual, everyone being desensitized to the transgressive nature of their industry. Suffice to say, Assayas offers an extremely potent commentary on the subjugation and depiction of sexual abuse against women in the media, which only seems to have grown unconscionably worse in the intervening decades since the film’s release, where people as powerful as the president of the U.S. can seemingly skate by without any sign of culpability. Likewise connecting Demonlover to our present, the Hellfire Club content can be fast-tracked with artificial intelligence, submitting women to digital facsimiles without the need for consent or even any real effort; much like Demonlover, modernity has unraveled and the real is virtually indistinguishable from the unreal.
Nielsen is pitch-perfect as Diane, all striking looks and enigmatic motives. Of Assayas’ other films, Demonlover arguably most closely resembles Boarding Gate, a similarly woozy, globe-trotting pseudo-thriller, and Diane could almost be viewed as a precursor to the slinking sensuality of Asia Argento’s protagonist in that later film. Nielsen is well-matched by Sevigny, who brings a customary coiled intensity to her role, keeping Elise simmering until she is ready to explode. Assayas’ formal skill remains unparalleled in service of the seedy narrative, demonstrating his penchant for nimble and fluid handheld photography. He makes splendid use of reflections, often framing Diane behind glass elevators, office doors, car windows, or against computer screens, underlining the perpetual glossy, cybernetic funhouse she thrives in. The natural abstractions of the world are also beautifully captured, whether they be pixelated images of censored hentai or raindrops splattered on a windshield, obfuscating character’s faces. And then there’s the music of it all — anyone who has seen his work as early as Cold Water can attest to Assayas’ soundtrack selections being first rate. The opening commences memorably with “Hero” by Neu!, a German rock song whose sharp sounds create an indelible dissonance over the placid image of digital credits, hinting at the violent disruption that is to come. Also of note is the larger score by Sonic Youth, who contribute a grungy, oppressive soundscape that festers under the sterile work environments of Volf Entertainment.
Even the most negative detractors of Demonlover concede that the film is largely coherent for the first hour or so — at least until the evocative sequence where Diane dons an Irma Vep-esque catsuit to burgle her main competition’s hotel room, which results in a deadly confrontation. At this moment, the film’s lucidity appears to break, bleeding into a hazy, oneiric state that subjects Diane to frequent blackouts and oversees a total upheaval of her world. The deliberate discombobulation of the narrative coincides effectively with Diane’s Dantean journey into the Hellfire Club, consumed as she is in the very belly of the beast. Viewing Demonlover in 2025, this second half can feel almost akin to a late-night web-browsing session, tumbling down rabbit hole after rabbit hole as grogginess overcomes the body while the firm grasp of the digital abyss guides the viewer through infinite possibilities. Or, perhaps more accurately, the film is a horrifying reminder of what it feels like to exist right now, perennially unable to shake the feeling of a slow suffocation as the world we live in is slowly destroying us. Assayas saves one of his most terrifying moments for last, as an American teenager gets home from school, steals his father’s credit card, and orders a video from the Hellfire Club of a woman being assaulted while wearing an X-Men costume, a look of total indifference plastered upon his face. Demonlover is difficult by design, but it’s also a feverish masterwork that understands something essential about the viewer response to its provocations. Love it, hate it, or otherwise — doesn’t matter. This is our reality, and it’s here to stay.
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