The Dogs—or, as it might more honestly be titled, French People and Their Terrible Taste in Canines. Alain Jessua’s 1979 effort is like taking a leisurely stroll through the French countryside… only every pooch wants to gnaw on your ankle and existential dread is the only soundtrack.
The plot is simple enough: Doctor Henri Ferret moves to the Paris region, discovers the locals are obsessed with guard dogs, and slowly realizes that some of these dogs have more personality than the humans they live with—and, more alarmingly, a greater appetite for spontaneous murder. This is not the charming, baguette-scented France of tourism brochures; this is a place where your neighbor’s Alsatian might take a sudden interest in your femoral artery.
Gérard Depardieu as Morel, the dog trainer, is the film’s oddball highlight—or lowlight, depending on your perspective. He has an unholy devotion to his pack, which somehow involves encouraging these animals to be simultaneously adorable and homicidal. Victor Lanoux as Dr. Ferret is the “oh no, not again” everyman, stumbling through the film as if he accidentally wandered into a French version of Cujo. The supporting cast, including a young Fanny Ardant, mostly exists to flinch at furry murder machines while speaking in muted existential despair.
The horror here is as subtle as a drooling Saint Bernard chewing on your kneecap. Dogs attack people. People panic. Some dogs attack for no reason, because, apparently, that’s what French dogs do after dark. The cinematography occasionally makes the French countryside look scenic, but that’s little comfort when a Labrador can apparently murder you with a single bark. The film attempts suspense but often lands somewhere between “puzzlingly slow drama” and “are we really supposed to care about these villagers and their pet-related psychoses?”
By the end, it’s clear that The Dogs is less about plot cohesion and more about the philosophical terror of loving a creature that could eat you at any second. The pacing is sluggish, the characters are about as sharp as a chew toy, and the tension is punctuated by the occasional growl. Imagine a French wine tasting interrupted repeatedly by the yelps of someone losing a limb: that’s the movie.
In short, The Dogs is like a loaf of stale baguette: it tries to be sophisticated and flavorful, but mostly it’s dry, occasionally confusing, and will bite you when you least expect it. If you enjoy watching middle-class paranoia escalate because of highly-trained, highly-unpredictable pooches, and have a penchant for existential dread in fur, this is your cinematic spa day. Otherwise, avoid unless you want to be frustrated, mildly terrified, and questioning your life choices alongside a dozen murderous Labradors.
Verdict: French horror with a moral about overfeeding your guard dogs, wrapped in slow pacing and a faint whiff of musty fur. Enter at your own risk—and maybe bring a steak as a peace offering.
