It feels almost misleading to summarize The Beast using its central sci-fi conceit. In the not-so-distant future, in a world run by A.I., people are encouraged to undergo a procedure to dull their emotions. More mystical than technological, this process involves recalling and then “purifying” the memories and traumas of their past lives. Supposedly this will shape them into a more productive member of society.
Part Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, part Equilibrium, this concept provides the foundation for an intense yet dreamlike romantic drama spanning three different periods in time.
In 1910, protagonist Gabrielle (Léa Seydoux) is a celebrated pianist, living comfortably in Paris with a wealthy husband. In 2014, a different version of Gabrielle is a jobbing model/actress in L.A. And in 2044, she’s an unemployed woman embarking on the aforementioned procedure, reliving the experiences of her previous incarnations. In all three time periods, she’s haunted by an overpowering sense of impending doom. A “beast” lurking in the shadows of her life, representing a variety of dangers both specific and metaphorical.
Written and directed by French filmmaker Bertrand Bonello, The Beast is based on a Henry James story published in 1903, The Beast in the Jungle. “Adaptation” is a conservative term for what’s happening here, however.
Gabrielle shares the same defining neurosis as James’ original protagonist, and her 1910 storyline echoes certain aspects of The Beast in the Jungle. Otherwise though, Bonello invented The Beast’s futuristic elements and interconnected timelines, encasing an early 20th century drama within a more elaborate examination of anxiety, predestination and the concept of soulmates.
Each iteration of Gabrielle is familiar yet distinct, shaped by their divergent circumstances. Yet in each period, she finds herself drawn to the same man: Louis, played by English actor George MacKay (1917). Cleverly, each of their encounters play out in noticeably different genres.
Meeting at a well-to-do party in Paris, their 1910 introduction unfolds as a restrained historical drama, establishing an enigmatic tension between Louis and the married Gabrielle. By contrast the 2014 sequences resemble contemporary psychological thriller, and the 2044 arc is arthouse science fiction. Here, a beige-clad Gabrielle exchanges cryptic dialogue with a judgemental A.I., in an eerily deserted Paris where everyone wears visors to protect from some unnamed contaminant. To connect with her past lives, she reclines in a tank of gloopy black liquid. (This sequence also includes a brief but memorable role for Saint Omer actress Guslagie Malanda, who does a great deal with a small amount of screentime.)
If not for its brief prologue set in 2014, you could spend quite a while enjoying The Beast purely as a historical drama, starting out with Louis and Gabrielle’s “first” meeting in 1910. But the first couple of minutes elegantly set the scene for the film’s unusual mix of tones and genres, introducing modern-day Gabrielle as an actor performing a trashy horror movie scene in a greenscreen soundstage.
Knowing Léa Seydoux, this almost feels like a sly reference to her own talent and career choices. Aside from her supporting parts in the James Bond franchise and Dune: Part Two, Seydoux mostly stars in adult indie dramas, avoiding shallow and/or CGI-heavy projects.
In The Beast’s opening scene, the greenscreen backdrop implicitly signals that Gabrielle’s current gig is a hollow, artless operation. A voice directs her to react to nonexistent visual cues, defending herself against an invisible monster. The camera zooms in on her terrified eyes; a convincing performance rendered meaningless by her empty surroundings. So we already see a hint that the titular beast is metaphorical—and that despite its high-concept logline involving futuristic technology and psychic reincarnation, this film won’t follow a conventional framework for sci-fi cinema.
Bonello originally wrote The Beast for Seydoux and the French actor Gaspard Ulliel, who died shortly before filming was set to begin. Seeking to avoid direct comparisons with Ulliel, Bonello recast the role of Louis with a British actor. Youthful and slightly awkward-looking, MacKay brings a very different energy than we might imagine from the original casting.
Better suited to Louis’s rather unsettling characterization in the 2014 storyline (which I won’t spoil here), MacKay is less effective when he needs to be a straightforward romantic lead. The entire film hinges on the compulsive attraction between Gabrielle and Louis, subconsciously recognizing each other in every lifetime. 1910 offers the most traditionally romantic view of this relationship, but while Seydoux is a champion of longing glances and ambiguous body language, MacKay doesn’t quite have the same sizzle. Then again, The Beast isn’t necessarily interested in boiling their relationship down to simple definitions. Maybe sexual tension isn’t as relevant here as genre conventions might normally dictate.
Atmospheric and stylized, The Beast demands to be watched with your full attention—and with minimal interest in technical worldbuilding. Bonello has little interest in the logistics or plausibility of his near-future setting. More important is the dreamlike spiritual connection between Gabrielle’s past lives.
Despite the film’s obvious lack of blockbuster vibes, I found myself thinking several times of the Wachowskis, whose recent work leans into the idea of emotion as a driving force for sci-fi storytelling. In each lifetime, Gabrielle is lonely, self-contained and thoughtful—but also quietly passionate, motivated by fears and compulsions she can’t quite understand.
In the midst of The Beast’s fantastic original score (composed by the director and his daughter Anna Bonello), Gabrielle comes into contact with several pieces of real-life music. As a pianist in 1910, she’s commissioned to perform a work by the expressionist composer Arnold Schoenberg, complaining that she finds it hard to connect with. Meanwhile in 2014, a different Gabrielle finds herself bewitched by a karaoke cover of the schmaltzy Roy Orbison ballad “Evergreen.” Emotion trumps artistic merit.
More to the point, emotion trumps logic. As we draw to the close of The Beast’s meandering 145-minute runtime, Bonello’s creative choices grow increasingly surreal. To fall back on an overused critical cliche, it’s not for everyone. But if you enter The Beast’s world with sincerity, it’s a fascinating and moving experience, offering a distinct and experimental take on some rather familiar genre tropes.
The Beast will receive a limited US theatrical release on April 5.
