The opening shot of Albert Serra's phantasmagorical Pacifiction begins with a glacial take of a Tahitian harbour. We see containers branded with a glowing Maersk logo at the forefront of the frame, as the lush glow of the magic-hour light filtrates the tropical background. The ambiguity of its capitalist centric opener intrinsically beguiles the viewer into the world of Polynesian politics. The unnerving movement of the camera transcends the viewer into momentary limbo; motion signifying a transition into a rabbit-hole of pity promises and empty commitments. This is Serra's devilish greeting; a visual dialogue which transcends the audience with nuclear-hysteria. The colours are radiant in the frame, as the proclamations spoken by the film's elitist cast of contrived characters amplify the satirical slow-moving undertones of Serra's anti-establishment observations.
The title of the film — in reference to the manner in which the film's lead commissioner De Roller micromanages the economical sustainability & peace of the film's exhibited Tahitian community — also symbolically references Serra's creeping directional hellscape. The film's languid pace amplifies the dread of De Roller's raucous presence. Within the film's most electrifying scene, we hear De Roller monologuing; referencing politics as an aimless nightclub. The pacification at play is purely performative, a stringent examination on present-day colonisation which criticises the complicit actions which differentiates the commonwealth with the idiocy of selfish politicians. There can be neither peace, nor any semblance of a pacification, when there is a clear suppression of information — a war hidden in plain sight from the civilians of the island.
Serra's social criticism is subtle. Through ample improvisation, dry humour, and a committed performance from the great Benoît Magimel, the near-three hour runtime is ultimately justified due to the film's plethora of rich subtext. What appears aimless and unnecessary on initial viewing becomes crucial after further recollection. A subplot detailing one man's lost passport targets his narcissism and plight for his non-Indigenous identity — a package of papers virtually useless as a commodification of his wealth and social status. Another moment highlights the appropriation of a hypnotising dance performance which elongates the film; to further examine De Roller's obsession with the local hierarchies. A mysterious montage drones the frame, as we see De Roller stalked within empty spaces of grandiose wealth. He's observed by an arguably more powerful invader at the chime of daybreak; the colonisation of the anglocentric.
At the core of Albert Serra's descent into the maddening invasion of the tropics is a tale as old as time. In the world of pity politics and capitalist-driven ordeals, the peace sustained within the local community grounds are amassed for the protection and sanctity of a larger, impenetrable state. As De Roller performs his final acts of diplomatic vanity on his wood-carved veranda, the rest of the Tahitian populace is left in the dark. What lies beneath the magic-hour sensationalism of politics is a greater mystery. There's nothing left but a slow dance in the dead of night, a nightclub built on the bureaucracy and biases of wealthy colonialists — a magnetic apocalypto with nothing to win, nothing to lose.
