Flush

There is something strangely exhilarating about seeing a filmmaker embrace bad taste with such confidence that it almost becomes a form of elegance, and that is exactly what Grégory Morin achieves with Flush, a nightmarish but perversely entertaining descent into humiliation, claustrophobia, and moral judgment. Built on what seems like a ridiculous premise—a man gets his head stuck in a squat toilet—the film quickly establishes that the shock is only skin deep. Behind it lies a tortured character study of Luc, played with astonishing despair and comic precision by Jonathan Lambert, a cocaine-addicted loser whose chaotic life has led him to this literal purgatory beneath the toilets of a nightclub. The opening scenes waste no time and plunge us straight into the chaos, and this urgency proves to be one of the film's greatest strengths; where other thrillers set in a single location take their time to set traps, this one cheerfully sends its protagonist straight to hell and locks the door behind him.

Flush manages to find a strange emotional rhythm within its grotesque comedy. David Neiss's writing skillfully balances absurdity and dark fatalism, ensuring that each escalating disaster is perceived as both punishment and destiny for Luc, a man who came to the club to beg his ex, played with striking presence by Élodie Navarre, to give him another chance, but who only proves again and again why she left him in the first place. There is a perverse satisfaction in seeing him suffer, but Jonathan Lambert infuses just enough pathetic hope into the character that we can't completely abandon him. At the same time, the film's visual language, enhanced by the work of cinematographer Mathieu De Montgrand, transforms a filthy bathroom into a labyrinth of terror, sweat, and suffocating grime, turning a space we would normally flee from into a scene of creative torment, dark humor, and inventive physical storytelling. Small touches, such as the absurd threat of a drug-sniffing rat or the cruel indifference of people who discover Luc's plight and simply decide it's not their problem, add layers of social commentary, exposing how indifference can sometimes seem more horrific than violence.

Yet Flush is not without its flaws, and perhaps that is part of its raw charm. The episodic structure sometimes reveals its seams, with some comic gags feeling more like scattered sketches than organic developments, and one ill-advised joke, based on shocking and lazy humor, briefly slows the film's otherwise brisk pace. There are also moments when absurdity threatens to overwhelm the plausibility carefully constructed by Grégory Morin, particularly when logic suggests that Luc could have escaped earlier if fate—or the necessity of the script—had been less cruel. Yet even in these weaker passages, the film retains a sinister magnetism and a strange dignity in its stupidity. One of the anecdotal pleasures lies in the way Flush constantly uses everyday elements of club toilets, pipes, echoes, smartphone features, even the dreaded glory hole cliché, and transforms them into sources of dread or comedy, forcing us to confront the ridiculousness and horror that such a mundane place can become when turned into a prison.

By its conclusion, Flush has gone from a crude joke to a surprisingly compelling survival story about a man who may not deserve salvation, but who clings to it desperately. Grégory Morin shows remarkable confidence for a first feature film, demonstrating not only a mischievous sense of humor, but also a real understanding of tension, pacing, and human frailty. The film races along at breakneck speed in seventy fast, dirty, and breathless minutes, never tiring, constantly finding new ways to torment its unfortunate protagonist while making us laugh, grimace, and sometimes even move us. It is daring, youthful, wildly inventive, and unapologetically disgusting, but beneath its vulgar exterior beats a surprisingly thoughtful heart.

Flush
Directed by Grégory Morin
Written by David Neiss
Produced by Kieran Clemow, Thomas Leterrier, Jean-Michel Tari
Starring Jonathan Lambert, Élodie Navarre, Elliot Jenicot, Rémy Adriaens
Cinematography: Mathieu de Montgrand
Edited by Pauline Pallier
Music by Mike Theis, Luc Rougy
Production companies: AJM, F-Partners, AKTV
Distributed by NC
Release dates: July 27, 2025 (FanTasia), August 22, 2025 (FrightFest), September 3, 2025 (L'Étrange Festival)
Running time: 70 minutes

Seen on December 16, 2025 at Max Linder Panorama

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