Bienvenue à l’Enfer Québécois
If you think the zombie genre has nothing new to offer — that every undead story has been done to death — then Ravenous (Les Affamés, 2017) politely saunters in from rural Quebec, politely removes its toque, and proceeds to eat that assumption alive.
Written and directed by Robin Aubert, this French-Canadian fever dream of a film doesn’t so much reinvent the zombie movie as it does deconstruct it, pour maple syrup on the pieces, and then stare into the woods wondering why humanity keeps screwing itself over. It’s part horror, part social satire, part slow-motion existential crisis, and somehow, despite the blood, it’s beautiful.
The film swept up awards — including TIFF’s Best Canadian Feature — and for good reason: it’s haunting, thoughtful, and has more emotional depth than most apocalyptic blockbusters with triple the budget. It’s The Walking Dead if The Walking Dead had taste, restraint, and a haunting accordion soundtrack.
Plot: Québécois Quiet Desperation, Now with Cannibalism
We open in the misty, decaying countryside of Quebec — because apparently even the end of civilization must look moody and arthouse if you’re French-Canadian. Civilization has collapsed under a zombie-like plague, but unlike your typical “brains-and-bullets” scenario, these infected are… weirdly soulful.
Our reluctant hero Bonin (Marc-André Grondin) roams the countryside shooting the infected with his buddy Vézina while trading doctor jokes that are funny until they’re not. It’s that kind of film: one second you’re chuckling, the next you’re wondering if the laughter is just your sanity leaving your body.
Vézina is quickly devoured — as all comic relief must be — and Bonin stumbles across a series of survivors, each carrying enough trauma to fill an entire therapy conference. There’s Céline (Brigitte Poupart), a machete-wielding mom whose survival instincts make Sarah Connor look like a Girl Scout; two cranky old ladies, Thérèse and Pauline, whose friendship lasts approximately ten minutes before one shoots the other; and a child, Zoé, because no apocalypse is complete without a symbol of innocence who’s way tougher than the adults.
They’re joined by Tania (Monia Chokri), a possibly bitten woman Bonin chooses to save because he’s either noble or very stupid — possibly both — and Réal (Luc Proulx), an ex-insurance agent who proves that paperwork won’t protect you from the undead. Together, they move from farmhouse to farmhouse, navigating the slow-motion collapse of civilization and the much faster collapse of everyone’s mental health.
And then there are the infected — who, in one of the film’s most brilliant and eerie touches, build things. Stacks of chairs, towers of furniture, strange structures that look like Ikea instructions for despair. It’s never explained why. Maybe they’re worshipping, maybe they’re remembering, maybe they’re just bored. But it’s deeply unsettling — and weirdly poetic.
The survivors die one by one (this is an arthouse zombie movie, not Scooby-Doo), until only Bonin, Tania, and Zoé remain. They make their final stand in a mist-shrouded field that looks like God’s abandoned painting studio. Bonin, exhausted, lets Zoé escape while he prepares to redecorate the landscape with his own brains. She wanders off into the fog, and we’re left with the haunting image of a child moving forward into a world that’s already lost its humanity.
Then the credits roll — but not before one last shot of zombified Bonin and Tania standing reverently before a tower of chairs, topped by a parrot, because even in death, art installation is eternal.
The Zombies: Hungry, Yes — But Also Deeply Avant-Garde
Most zombie movies reduce their monsters to shrieking props. Ravenous gives its infected a tragic kind of dignity. These aren’t your mindless, drooling Romero ghouls; they’re oddly serene. They move in eerie silence, staring into the distance, occasionally breaking out into sprints that make your heart jump.
They seem to remember — and mourn — the world that came before. When they gather around their bizarre furniture towers, it’s not to hunt; it’s to… commune. It’s as if the apocalypse has given them a sudden interest in performance art.
It’s both terrifying and hilarious: imagine being eaten alive by a zombie who pauses mid-bite to contemplate the metaphysics of stacking a La-Z-Boy on top of a washing machine.
Performances: Zombies Have Feelings Too (and So Do Canadians)
Marc-André Grondin as Bonin brings quiet humanity to his role. He’s not a hero in the Hollywood sense — more like a guy who just can’t stop doing the right thing, even when it’s hopeless. His weary eyes say, “I’ve seen too much,” while his shotgun says, “but not enough to stop trying.”
Monia Chokri’s Tania is equally strong — part survivor, part enigma, part walking metaphor for trust issues. Her chemistry with Grondin is understated but real, which makes their fates all the more gutting.
Brigitte Poupart’s Céline is a scene-stealer. She radiates feral determination and maternal rage, slicing through zombies with the precision of someone cutting out emotional baggage. If there’s a better representation of a mother’s exhaustion during the apocalypse, I haven’t seen it.
Even the side characters — the elderly, the children, the loners — feel genuine. Nobody here is an archetype. They’re people trying, failing, and sometimes choosing death with the quiet dignity of folks who know there’s no happy ending waiting.
Direction: The Most Beautiful Apocalypse Ever Filmed
Robin Aubert directs like a poet who accidentally stumbled onto a zombie set. Every frame looks painterly — fields of tall grass swaying in wind, mist curling over bodies, light filtering through decaying barns like divine indifference.
The sound design is equally haunting: the moan of wind, the crack of gunfire, the occasional offbeat humor of accordion music floating through the destruction. There’s almost no score, just natural sounds and silence — the kind of silence that lets you hear your own dread breathing next to you.
It’s a rare horror film that understands pacing. There’s no frantic editing or cheap jump scares; instead, Ravenous lets you marinate in unease. You don’t watch it for thrills; you watch it because you can’t look away from the quiet absurdity of the world ending politely.
Social Commentary: Zombies with Existential Ennui
Beneath its blood and melancholia, Ravenous is really about community — how people fracture and cling to rituals even as the world falls apart. The infected’s strange structures mirror humanity’s need for meaning in chaos. Maybe they’re stacking furniture because, deep down, they remember that once, we built cities, relationships, and Ikea wardrobes that didn’t collapse immediately.
There’s also an undeniable whiff of cultural commentary. The rural Quebec setting isn’t just background — it’s a microcosm of isolation, tradition, and slow decay. You can almost read the film as a metaphor for cultural erosion, the modern world consuming heritage one bite at a time. Or maybe it’s just about zombies eating French Canadians. Either way, it works.
Tone: Equal Parts Elegy and Deadpan Absurdity
The genius of Ravenous is its balance of tones. It’s bleak, yes, but also darkly funny. One moment you’re horrified by a man being bitten, the next you’re chuckling at two survivors arguing about who should strip for a bite check.
Even the absurd rituals of the infected — their obsessive stacking of objects — feel like a cosmic joke about humanity’s own weird habits. The film winks, but gently, like it knows the joke’s on us.
It’s horror for people who like their apocalypse with a side of philosophy — and their philosophy with a hint of chainsaw.
Final Thoughts: Eat, Pray, Die
Ravenous isn’t a loud movie. It doesn’t roar or splatter for attention. It lingers — like the taste of something you’re not sure you should’ve swallowed. It’s the rare zombie film that dares to ask, “What happens when there’s nothing left to say, but you still keep moving?”
It’s haunting, darkly funny, and weirdly tender — a love letter to human futility, told through the lens of decaying flesh and bad weather.
So if you’re tired of jump scares and CGI hordes, let Ravenous infect you. It won’t just raise your pulse — it’ll raise some uncomfortable questions about what it means to stay human when the world’s already gone to hell.
Final Rating: ★★★★☆
(Four out of five stacked chairs — moody, mesmerizing, and proof that even in the apocalypse, Quebec has better art direction than Hollywood.)
