Written by Alexandra TOUCHARD
On Wednesday, May 19, 2026, the world premiere of Notre Salut, directed by Emmanuel Marre and starring Swann Arlaud in the leading role, was presented at the 79th edition of the Cannes Film Festival. As I walked into the theater and the opening title card appeared on screen, my first thought was: “Oh no, another film about the Second World War — do we really have anything left to say?” I could not have been more mistaken. Though set in France during the German occupation — a subject endlessly revisited in fiction — the film adopts an utterly subversive perspective: that of a man gradually sinking into the fascist politics of Marshal Pétain.
Henri, the protagonist of the story, is a failed writer and a fervent advocate for a free, strong France rebuilt after the war. Like so many French citizens at the time, he places all his hopes in the figure of Marshal Pétain, portrayed in the film as an almost symbolic, even mystical presence: his name is omnipresent, yet his only appearance never reveals his face. We never truly see the tyrant — we only witness the making of one. In this way, Marre invites the audience to follow Henri’s slow moral decay, as he becomes increasingly entangled in Nazi politics, eventually participating himself in the deportation of French Jews to the camps.
Even more strikingly, as the final title card reveals, this story is none other than that of the director’s own collaborationist grandfather, reconstructed from letters exchanged between him and his wife — Emmanuel Marre’s grandmother. The filmmaker therefore employs an epistolary narration through voice-over, exposing the couple’s intimate correspondence, through which we come to understand the ideological and emotional conflicts tearing the characters apart during this period of tension.
Extrait du film Notre Salut par Emmanuel Marre (Cannes 2026)
What is perhaps most surprising is that this chilling and terrible account — one cog in the infernal machine crafted by the devil himself — is also deeply funny, at times even burlesque, brilliantly illustrating the absurdity and stupidity of such a regime. Marre seems to mock his grandfather almost as much as he seeks to understand what drives a man to be deceived, swept away into an ideology that was not originally his own. Despite the condemnation Henri deserves, we still feel a growing sense of guilt and disorientation, heightened by the handheld camera style that makes the entire experience deeply personal and intimate. That intimacy — and the vigilance Henri failed to possess — is also conveyed through nighttime scenes illuminated only by flashlight, as though the film were simultaneously exposing the obviousness of the deception and the secrecy through which it operated.
Ultimately, the film is brilliant: finely written, remarkably crafted, and carried masterfully by Swann Arlaud. Special mention must also go to Sandrine Blancke, who plays Henri’s wife and shines through her independence, resilience, devotion, and the courage her husband failed to embody. Finally, Jean-Baptiste Marre delivers a compelling performance as Maux, a socialist figure whose ideals transcend status and who represents a form of socialist courage unafraid to resist the rise of the far right from within the very heart of the ministry itself.
