(François Ozon, 2025, France, 122 minutes)
Standing on a beach
With a gun in my hand
Staring at the sea
Staring at the sand
–The Cure, "Killing an Arab" (1980)
Making a film out of Albert Camus' The Stranger is a bold move for any filmmaker, and François Ozon is also the first from France after adaptations by Turkish and Italian filmmakers, though it's not completely surprising that Italy's Luchino Visconti, a left-wing aesthete as fond of European literature as Ozon, gave it a go with a miscast Marcello Mastroianni in 1967.
Camus' novella takes place in Algiers, and centers on Meursault, a Bartleby-like office worker who feels no shame after murdering a native Algerian in cold blood--in Visconti's film, he's described as a shipping clerk--but he doesn't feel all that great about it either. The author doesn't even give the victim a name; we only know him as the Arab, as if that's all he was.
The book is about the indifference of the universe, to be sure, but it's also about racism. Whether he cares or not, Meursault seems well aware that Arabs are second-class citizens.
Ozon begins his elegant black and white version with a brief newsreel about Algiers under French rule. Camus, who was born to Algerian parents of European descent, published The Stranger in 1942--though he wrote it years before--and died in a car accident 18 years later. Though he spent most of his adult life in France, he didn't live to see Algeria win its freedom in 1962. Ozon, whose grandfather had ties to the country, was born five years later.
After establishing Meursault's milieu, Ozon introduces the young man (played by Summer of 85's Benjamin Voisin, who recalls Breathless-era Belmondo from some angles) after he's brought in for questioning. He enters a holding cell filled with Arab men of various ages. When an older man asks about his crime, the sole white suspect states, "I killed an Arab."
Ozon then shows how we got here, but he's established who we're dealing with, except this isn't a murder mystery, and even the book's Meursault doesn't know exactly why he did what he did. He only knows that he did it.
In today's parlance, he might say, "It is what it is," but his non-reaction will come back to haunt him as he proceeds to go about his day. He smokes a cigarette, drinks a cup of coffee, shaves, gets dressed, and goes to work. People die every day, and his mother happened to be one of them, though he does put on a black arm band--at the insistence of a friend--which makes him seem more sympathetic than Camus's original conception. It also signals to the world that he has lost someone significant.
Later that day, he takes a bus to his mother's retirement home to keep vigil beside her coffin and to attend her funeral. The caretaker, a kindly elderly gentleman (Jean-Claude Bolle-Reddat), sets him up with more coffee and cigarettes. During his overnight stay, he finds that his mother had many friends and admirers. (At the trial, his acceptance of coffee with milk will also be used against him; a sign of Algeria's then-inflexible traditions, since only black coffee was considered acceptable during mourning.)
If Meursault isn't sad, he isn't happy either; more like sanguine. Though I wouldn't describe The Stranger as autobiographical, Camus also lost his father, whom he never really knew, decades before his mother, but didn't attend her funeral because he died eight months before her, also in 1960
In the film, Meursault doesn't object to the Christian service, since it's what his mother would have wanted, even if her son--and the author who brought him to life--were atheists. Tellingly, Ozon's By the Grace of God centers on men who had been sexually abused by a priest. Ozon was raised Catholic, but drifted away due to the Church's attitude towards homosexuality. I don't know whether he's an atheist, but he's definitely not a Catholic. More troubling, since we all mourn at our own pace, is the way Meursault looks at his mother's physically frail, emotionally devastated male companion with disdain.
Afterward, he returns to the city, where he reconnects with Marie (Rebecca Marder from Ozon's The Crime Is Mine), a former typist at his firm, with whom he enjoys an afternoon swim and an evening comedy. There's a line in the film, 1938's The Schpountz, that's intended to be funny, though I couldn't say why. "All condemned men," Fernandel says as his eyes widen, "Will have their heads cut off!" He repeats it for emphasis. Meursault doesn't laugh. Though Marie does.
The other notable figures in his life include Mr. Salamano (a grubby, touching Denis Lavant), a pensioner who has a love-hate relationship with his mangy mutt, and Raymond (Pierre Lottin from Ozon's When Fall Is Coming), a pimp who has a love-hate relationship with his Arab girlfriend, Djemila (Hajar Bouzaouit), whose brother disapproves (she's unnamed in the book).
Meursault doesn't judge either man. As much as his radical honesty, his c'est la vie attitude ranks among his best and worst qualities. When the illiterate Raymond asks, he doesn't hesitate to write to Djemila on his behalf, despite the fact that it could lead to more abuse; further, he only has Raymond's word for it that she's unfaithful. In the moment, Meursault prioritizes his friend's need, even though he would never raise a hand to a woman.
If every character has a companion, each relationship is tainted--except possibly for his late mother's.
When Mr. Salamano's spaniel disappears, for instance, he's bereft even though he spent all of his time bitching about and even kicking the poor thing. Meursault's relationship with Marie may seem idyllic compared to Raymond's, except the love only flows one way. It's not that Marie isn't lovable, it's that Meursault isn't capable of loving.
I recently came across a film review that describes Ozon's take on the character as neurodivergent, and although I can see why a writer in 2026 would say that, I don't see it that way. He is, instead, someone who is incapable of lying, no matter the cost. His very existence highlights the extent to which the world runs on lies. It is, in other words, an affront.
Since the first hour is essentially a flashback, Ozon occasionally returns to Meursault's time in the cave-like holding cell, except it doesn't add much, other than to remind us that his halcyon days in the sun with Marie will soon come to an end. No more smoking, no more drinking, no more swimming.
Though Meursault wasn't involved in the scuffle, it makes a mark on him as surely as the gash on Raymond's arm. It isn't his problem, but he feels the need to finish what they started, so he sets out, with Raymond's gun, to track the men down. When he finds Djemila's brother, he stares at him in a way that indicates he finds him attractive–this is a François Ozon film after all–and shoots him dead. And immediately fires four more shots.
Is Ozon suggesting that Meursault is a repressed homosexual? It's possible, though previous events contradict that reading. The quasi-sociopathic sensualist may not be capable of loving Marie, but he seems to genuinely enjoy sleeping with her. That's even more clear here than in the book, but with Ozon, who's to say: he has a knack for queering most every text.
Shots fired, the flashback ends, past becomes prologue, and guards move Meursault to a cell where he meets with a lawyer who warns that the muted response to his mother's death may be used against him. Tellingly, he seems less concerned about the death of the Arab. It's almost as if the murder were pretext for stopping The Man Who Cannot Lie.
After all, the pied noir (European Algerians) of the time understood--and even excused--some forms of racism, but this was harder to comprehend.
Ozon aptly captures the trial's potent mix of comedy and pathos, though it does feature one of the film's few false notes, and that's when Marie has a brief exchange with Djemila. It wasn't in the book, and doesn't need to be in the film, not least because it spells too much out. We already know, by looking at their faces, what the women are feeling. That's enough.
Though Meursault has no desire to meet with the priest (played by Anatomy of a Fall's Swann Arlaud, who appeared in By the Grace of God), he won't take no for an answer, convinced the convict is miserable, but in his way, he isn't. He committed a crime, he'll face punishment. He doesn't question this, and since he doesn't believe in God or sin, all the rest is noise.
All told, Ozon's adaptation, which is beautifully shot by DP Manu Dacosse--a fave of Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani--and scored by Atlantics' Fatima Al Qadiri, is probably the best we'll ever get of this tough and thorny book, even though it's the rare deviation, including a brief epilogue, that works the least well.
The cast, however, is spectacular. Benjamin Voison, so good in Summer of 85 and even more impressive in Xavier Giannoli's Balzac adaptation, Lost Illusions, doesn't put a foot wrong, though he's almost too good looking for the role. Camus never describes Meursault's appearance, and though I doubt he envisioned someone quite so handsome, it's almost a requirement in order to explain Marie's attraction and to stave off audience revulsion.
In order to adapt the novella, Ozon sought approval from the author's daughter, Catherine Camus. About the film, she has stated, "A remarkable journey through my father's work, rendered with the utmost respect."
Of the three adaptations to date, it has received the most acclaim, though we'll never know what the version with Alain Delon might have looked like, since Visconti wasn’t able to pull it off. Then again, Jef Costello, the taciturn hit man he plays in Melville's Le Samouraï has Meursault-like qualities (and I don't think it's a complete coincidence that Voison also recalls Delon in Purple Noon). Instead, Visconti cast Marcello Mastroianni, a fabulous actor, but not quite right for the role, and at 43, older than Camus intended.
The one time Meursault acts without thinking, he does something terrible. Whether it's the glint of the Arab's switchblade, the oppressive heat, his repressed desire, a delayed reaction to his mother's death, or a combination of all of these things, he seals his fate by taking another man's life.
I don't believe there's such a thing as a perfect film, not least when it comes to a landmark like The Stranger, but Francois Ozon's feel for the material, and especially the curious central character, comes through loud and clear, and I can't imagine a better version. It's truly one of the director's best.
The Stranger plays Bellevue's Cinemark Lincoln Square for one night only on Wed, April 8, and opens in Seattle on Fri, April 24, at SIFF Cinema Uptown.
Images from Gaumont (Benjamin Voison, Pierre Lotin, and Voisin with Rebecca Marder), The New Yorker (Albert Camus as seen by Henri Cartier-Bresson / Magnum), Amazon (cover of the 1989 edition of The Stranger), New Zealand International Film Festival (Pierre Niney and Paula Beer in Frantz), and Screen International (Voison contemplates the void).
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