when James Bond meets Sherlock Holmes for a medieval barbecue


The inquisition, a theological war and an amazing detective are the main ingredients of the Name of the Rosebrilliant re-reading of the Middle Ages.

If there is one era that has suffered from its representation, it is the Middle Ages. Pointed out after the French revolution as an era of darkness where all evils developed, for a long time she crystallized a number of fantasies as for the harshness of its social relations, the poverty of knowledge or its evolution, the influence of religion or even the primacy of violence. And it was neither the cinema’s desire for naughty spectacle nor the quest for identity refuge specific to certain political families that helped to qualify this vision.

And it is for this reason that The name of the rose is an exception. Because he has always focused on the eras or conflicts that he has filmed with a particular acuity, Jean-Jacques Annaud offers us here an investigation that will greatly nuance the representation of the era. Likewise, here he adapts a fundamental text by Umberto Ecosemiologist of genius, emeritus medievalist and connoisseur of the history of Catholic dogma.

It was enough to tell how a Franciscan theologian will have to solve a bloody police enigma, which occurred in the middle of a simulated world war disguised as a theological dispute.

Chase to monks


However, the discovery of the feature film has at first sight enough to spin endless cold sweats to anyone who has a little bit of reason. And this, as soon as it opens. Two tiny silhouettes risk themselves in a snowy landscape beaten by a wind that we guess is icy. Between Provence and Liguria, at a time when the temperatures do not allow you to cook an egg directly in the arch of the foot from the first light of dawn, we are witnessing an improbably harsh crossing.

Our two travelers stand out strangely in the heart of this lunar landscape, with edges too pronounced not to be earthly, and weather too marked not to evoke some lunar Golgotha. A handful of planes oozing desolation later, and here they are at the foot of an immense abbey, an improbable stronghold at the foot of which are piled up a few paupers with twisted hands, deformed by dint of seeking their subsistence by scraping the frozen ground.

And it is not their arrival within the religious institution that will re-enchant the dream, at least initially. Within the spiritual order, we discover a number of broken backs, twisted arms, frozen grins, like so many jaws broken by who knows what Homeric conflict. And what about the venerable dean of the community, with a rough hospitality, but whose dogmatic aridity, as well as blind pupils, we do not fail to notice? With rare exceptions, from the extra to the secondary character, everyone seems to come from a macabre dance resulting from a particularly twisted imagination.



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