‘The Stranger’ Review: The Absurdity of Existence Captured in François Ozon’s Newest Film [B] Venice

François Ozon’s cinematic adaptation of Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” is an ambitious, meticulously crafted endeavor, one that seeks to translate the existential rigor and enigmatic appeal of Camus’ 1942 masterpiece into film. The novella has long been considered unfilmable: its first-person narrative, the interiority of it’s main character Meursault’s consciousness, and the oppressive heat and rhythms of 1930s Algiers present formidable obstacles to adaptation. Previous attempts, such as Luchino Visconti’s 1967 version, struggled to fully convey the austere, affectless aura of Camus’ protagonist. Ozon, however, embraces these challenges with subtlety, elegance, and a profound sense of respect for the source material.

The film opens with a striking prologue of archival footage depicting Algiers in the late 1930s. A chirpy announcer extols the city’s pleasures, while the visuals hint at its deeper tensions: walls tagged with “National Liberation Front,” segregated spaces, and uneasy glances from indigenous Algerians. This montage, set to Fatima Al Qadiri’s haunting score, seamlessly transitions into Meursault’s world: already imprisoned, already an outsider and sets the tone for a film in which the social and political context is never background noise, but an intrinsic part of the story’s moral geometry.

At the center is Benjamin Voisin’s Meursault, a performance that is quietly extraordinary. Meursault is famously indifferent: he does not cry at his mother’s funeral, he readily engages in a sexual relationship with Marie (Rebecca Marder) the next day, and he commits murder with little apparent motivation. Voisin inhabits this extreme detachment with unnerving precision, conveying the void at the heart of the character without ever caricaturing him as a sociopath. He moves through the world with a stiff-backed, statuesque presence, performing the routines of life: shaving, smoking, walking—while remaining impervious to the social and emotional cues around him. His gaze is steady, sometimes piercing, and the smallest shifts: how his hair falls, how he angles his body suggest a chameleonic subtlety that makes the character fully present even when emotionally absent.

Ozon’s visual approach amplifies this effect. The film is shot in dazzling black-and-white by Manu Dacosse, whose cinematography celebrates texture, light, and shadow. The sun-soaked beaches, the baths, the confined spaces of prison cells, and the stifling interiors of Algiers are all rendered with crystalline clarity. Each scene is a study in precision: the reflection of sunlight on water, the clatter of prison bars, the glint of sweat on a body: these details are as vital as dialogue, capturing Meursault’s acute, almost forensic awareness of his surroundings. Clément Selitzki’s editing complements this approach, adopting an unhurried, episodic rhythm that mirrors Meursault’s own perception of time: days blur, causal connections are minimized, and the viewer is drawn into the torpid, existential heat of the protagonist’s world.

The narrative unfolds in two parts. Part One depicts Meursault’s encounter with death, desire, and mundane social obligations. He attends his mother’s funeral without grief, visits a beach where he encounters Marie, begins a casual sexual relationship, and becomes entangled with Raymond, whose abusive treatment of his Arab mistress sets the stage for the central act of violence. These sequences are rendered with a paradoxical blend of coldness and sensuality: Ozon captures the tactile pleasures of life: the sun on skin, the coolness of water, the intimacy of touch, while maintaining an emotional austerity that mirrors the novella. The second part, Meursault’s incarceration and trial, is more overtly philosophical. Here, the film examines societal expectations, moral hypocrisy, and the absurdity of human judgment. Ozon’s Meursault remains consistent: he never lies, he never manipulates, and he remains indifferent to the verdicts rendered upon him. In particular, the legal system condemns him not for the murder he committed, but for his failure to perform grief at his mother’s funeral: a chilling indictment of social norms. These sequences evoke a cold, almost metaphysical tension, culminating in the novel’s existential climax while avoiding over-dramatization.

Ozon is careful not to solve the novel’s mysteries for us. His adaptation honors Camus’ minimalism, rarely departing from the text, though he enriches certain elements: female characters are given more depth, and the political and social context of colonial Algeria is subtly foregrounded. This is not a subversive rewrite, but a thoughtful expansion that allows contemporary audiences to engage with the story’s moral and historical implications. The film also hints at homoerotic undertones in its beach sequences and through Meursault’s interactions with Raymond, though these elements are fleeting and understated, never dominating the narrative.
Yet, for all its visual and thematic mastery, the film is not without challenges. The first part can feel overly long, the episodic pacing testing viewers’ patience, and Meursault’s emotional detachment can frustrate even those familiar with the source material. Some attempts to deepen postcolonial or political readings – such as giving a name to the murdered man’s sister – feel slightly underdeveloped, leaving the broader moral landscape partially shaded rather than fully illuminated. The final act, while philosophically potent, may feel stretched for those seeking conventional narrative momentum.

Nonetheless, Ozon’s achievement is remarkable. The film is a transposition of literary alienation into cinema: confounding, disturbing, yet icily compelling. It is a study of a man whose indifference exposes the absurdity of social norms, a visual poem that captures the heat, light, and moral opacity of colonial Algeria, and a demonstration of Ozon’s versatility as a filmmaker. The Stranger is both faithful to Camus and unapologetically cinematic, an exploration of existential isolation rendered in tactile, almost sensuous black-and-white imagery.

François Ozon’s The Stranger is not a film for casual viewing; a deliberate, rigorous exploration of alienation, moral judgment, and the human condition, it may frustrate, annoy, or distance viewers at times, its protagonist is meant to do so, but it lingers, provoking reflection long after the credits roll. It is a rare literary adaptation that honors the original while asserting its own cinematic identity, showcasing Ozon at his most disciplined, thoughtful, and audacious. Though it may not be everyone’s favorite in his oeuvre, it is an undeniably major work, a testament to the enduring power of Camus’ ideas and the possibilities of translating literature to film.

Grade: B

This review is from the 2025 Venice Film Festival where The Stranger world premiered in competition. There is no U.S. distribution at this time.