Yoroi

Yoroï, directed by David Tomaszewski and written, produced, performed, and set to music by Orelsan, is a work as unexpected as it is disconcerting in the French cinema landscape. This film, halfway between a fantasy comedy and an introspective self-portrait, plunges the viewer into a universe as absurd as it is inventive, where reality and imagination merge without inhibition. From the very first minutes, we find Orelsan in a role that suits him perfectly: that of an artist on the verge of saturation, seeking to escape fame and find a semblance of inner peace. It is in Japan, the homeland of his pregnant wife, played by Clara Choï, that he hopes to find this renewal. But the promised tranquility quickly turns into supernatural chaos when he discovers a mysterious suit of armor at the bottom of a well, a cursed relic that condemns him to fight creatures from Japanese folklore every night.

This unlikely starting point—a French star trapped in ancient armor and confronted by yokai—sets the tone for a daring and uninhibited fantasy comedy. David Tomaszewski, a regular contributor to Orelsan's music videos, brings his sense of visual rhythm and taste for spectacular staging to this film, which revels in its excesses as much as it embraces them. Japan is filmed with a mixture of wonder and irony, between the tranquil beauty of the countryside and the surrealism of the nighttime battles. The monsters, at the crossroads of tradition and the grotesque, are reminiscent of both the demons of 1980s Hong Kong films and the handmade creatures of Ghostbusters or Gremlins. There is a joy in cinematic DIY that is rare today, a form of sincere pop cinema, nourished by overt manga and video game influences.

But Yoroï is not limited to a simple fantasy farce. Very quickly, Orelsan transforms his Japanese-inspired delirium into a reflection on himself. Behind the costume of the disillusioned samurai rapper lies a man plagued by doubt, haunted by the fear of becoming a father and losing control of his own life. This shift towards the intimate gives the film a more serious, even therapeutic tone, where humor is tinged with lucid melancholy. The protagonist literally confronts his demons, even having to fight his evil double, Orelsama, a grotesque mirror of his public life, reminiscent of Michel Blanc's double identities in Grosse Fatigue. This final duel, both symbolic and burlesque, clearly reflects the tension between the artist and his media creation, between the human and the character.

The film thus plays on two registers: that of surrealist entertainment and that of existential drama. And while this ambivalence gives the story an undeniable thematic richness, it also reveals its flaws. The final act, which is more explanatory, sometimes suffers from a symbolic heaviness in which Orelsan seems to want to say everything, justify everything, at the risk of breaking the initial magic. Where burlesque and fantasy opened up the imagination, the frontal confession closes the story on a more demonstrative note. This transition from fable to manifesto makes the film less fluid, even if the sincerity of the message prevents any surface irony. Yoroï then becomes a kind of filmed psychoanalysis, where the artist bares himself under the guise of Japanese myth.

Clara Choï's performance deserves special mention. As a counterpoint to Orelsan's introspective delirium, she embodies a grounded, calm presence that is both protective and implacable. Her character, half-realistic, half-mythological, moves through the story with discreet grace, bringing to the film the emotional warmth that its hero, mired in his armor, struggles to express. In certain domestic scenes, David Tomaszewski accurately captures the couple's tenderness and weariness, almost evoking Quentin Dupieux's films with their gentle absurdity and sense of incongruity.

The similarity to Quentin Dupieux's universe is no coincidence. In Yoroï, we find the same fascination with dysfunctional everyday life, absurd objects, and heroes overwhelmed by their own logic. It is clear that Orelsan, who previously acted in Dupieux's Au Poste !, has retained from this collaboration a taste for poetic nonsense and subversion. But where Dupieux cultivates a form of detachment, Orelsan injects his own experiences, his fragility, and his disillusioned humor. The film becomes a kind of Journal of a Tired Artist, disguised as a Japanese B-movie adventure.

Technically, Yoroï impresses with its rich artistic direction. The special effects, often handmade, accentuate the film's retro charm, while the music—obviously composed by Orelsan himself—mixes electronic sounds, traditional Japanese percussion, and epic flights of fancy. There is a genuine, almost youthful desire for cinema in this willingness to experiment with everything: from choreographed fight scenes reminiscent of music videos to dreamlike sequences worthy of a revisited Shinto tale. It's not always balanced, but this freedom of tone is also the strength of the project.

Yoroï stands out as a hybrid work, somewhere between an uninhibited genre film and an artist's confession. It's a rare, risky, sometimes clumsy, but always sincere gesture. By daring to mix introspection and supernatural exorcism, Orelsan and David Tomaszewski have created a film that reflects their image: lucid, eccentric, imperfect but deeply human. Behind the armor, monsters, and metaphors, Yoroï tells above all the story of an intimate battle—the battle to remain yourself when everything, including success, threatens to turn you into a frozen legend.

Yoroï
Directed by David Tomaszewski
Written by Orelsan, David Tomaszewski
Produced by Julien Deris, David Gauquié
Starring Orelsan, Clara Choï, Skread, Ablaye, Gringe, Kazuya Tanabe, Alice Yanagida, Yôko Narahashi, Hiromi Komorita
Cinematography: Antoine Sanier
Edited by Florent Vassault
Music by Eddie Purple, Orelsan, Phazz, Skread, David Soltany
Production companies: Attita and Cinéfrance Studio], Compagnie cinématographique, France 2 Cinéma, Panache Productions and Proximus / Proximus Media House PMH
Distributed by Sony Pictures Entertainment France (France)
Release dates: October 29, 2025 (France)
Running time 116 minutes:

Seen on October 26, 2025 at Gaumont Disney Village, Theater 3, seat B19

Mulder's Mark: