We learn nothing, nothing of nothing, on the said “affair”, first thing. Second thing: we can’t see anything either but, as TV docuses formatted of this kind abhor emptiness, we furnish, we adorn, we embellish. For a cruel lack of perspective on what we intend to film, we create a diversion with other perspectives, urban here, straight dives of drone shots on the streets and buildings of cities, skylines from Paris to New York and back, with nice windfall effect for Jalil Lespert (who signs the thing), to make his film “uncle of America”.
L’american dream, the one on which Nafissatou Diallo shattered, making a monster noise (that “it be seen” in public, finally out of the alcoves and the quilted bourgeois follies) and involving in the crash the one who, until then, had escaped by a well-kept silence. An old habit so entrenched (hinting at a guilt never recognized by a court to date) that even today, ten years later, Dominique Strauss-Kahn (DSK refused to intervene in the miniseries but archives and testimonies relocate him everywhere) seems to be wondering what he is being criticized for. Just like some of his friends, here Jack Lang who always confuses everything, rape and gallicness (he who at the time relativized, saying that“There was no death of man”), in a horrible kid’s smile caught his finger in the jam jar, or formerly the “Servant’s troussage” by a Jean-François Kahn.
The friends, the rascals, the connivants, finally a certain left bourgeoisie, caste and class of power, perhaps definitively ridiculed and stripped down there, these weeks of 2011, which we find today in the #MeToo era decidedly incapable of turning on a heavy liability as on itself, of such voluntary blindness that it still thinks it has its chances, political, salonard, furtive libertines. (To) deceive oneself. Continue as before as if nothing had happened.
Nafissatou Diallo. Photo Netflix
“It’s a different generation …” The words of Tristane Banon (speaking, with a mixture of resignation, resignation, intelligence and incredulity, of her mother, friend of DSK who “knew” and did everything backwards) is then the only voice that slice during this montage of testimonies neither done nor to be done – and whose height of inanity, under the pretext of a “fairness” of the various versions present, puts back to back in parallel assembly degrading the sometimes floating word of Diallo the fallible and that, by all authority, of the attorney of the New York office who discredits her petite, no quarter. Horrible, even to the helpless tears of Diallo, of whom we understand that what will never be forgiven is for being too bad an actress in her truth.
No, the opportunity is quite found and too good to quote again this hated and magnificent film, to the bone, without musical or scripto-visual frills, which processes and shows, and “learns” (if that can still imply other than information) what must have really happened in this luxurious room at the Sofitel. Film that goes radically on the question of power relations, class, the feeling of impunity of beings who hover ten thousand: Welcome to New York, Abel Ferrara’s 2014 film starring Depardieu.
During the almost four hours that lasts Bedroom 2 806, we went over the two hours with a power that only fiction can reach in such a way, that is to say by its own intimate means, with its own body actors. Especially when it comes to the corpulence stripped bare, staged, in its gargantuan coarseness and its pathetic naked prison humiliation, to its plumpness in the face of a consenting wife subject to appearances (Jacqueline Bisset en Anne Sinclair) of the awesome and distant actor My uncle from America. Ferrara’s film was as much a powerful meditation on the DSK affair as it was on the strange case of Mr. Depardieu.
Room 2806: the DSK case, by Jalil Lespert, miniseries in 4 episodes on Netflix.