‘Vitrival - The Most Beautiful Village In The World’: Rotterdam Review

Dirs/scr. Noelle Bastin, Baptiste Bogaert. Belgium. 2025. 109mins.

“Life is good,” observes Benjamin (Benjamin Lambilotte) as he reclines with a beer in his newly-installed Nordic hot tub. Benjamin is one of two local cops responsible for upholding the peace in the small rural village of Vitrival, in francophone Belgium. The other is his cousin, Little Pierre (Pierre Bastin). Until now, the job has been relatively low stress. But Vitrival has been rocked by a spate of suicides. And to make matters worse, someone has started spray-painting dicks all over the town. The dryly comic feature debut from artist/filmmaking duo Noelle Bastin and Baptiste Bogaert navigates a tricky tonal balance: it’s droll without tipping over into whimsy; perceptive and acutely observed but never mocking.

Perceptive and acutely observed but never mocking

With their short and mid-length films, Bastin and Bogaert have repeatedly opted to blur the lines between fiction and non-fiction, preferring to work with non-professional actors in existing communities. This approach works rather well for this low key tale of rising tensions over bonfire infractions and dick-pic vigilantism – there’s a homely authenticity to it all. The filmmakers clearly know and empathise with the characters and this small world that finds itself rocked by a series of big dramas. A warm reception at further festivals is likely, where the film should connect with fans of Kaurismaki-style deadpan humour.

Pierre and Benji spend much of their working day waving to friends and relatives (the overlap between the two in this close-knit community is considerable) as they pootle around the country lanes in their modest squad car. The toughest challenge that they face is fending off the endless offers of cakes and refreshments without offending the elderly villagers, or persuading a persistent bonfire miscreant (Pierre’s dad) to desist from smoking out his long-suffering neighbour (Pierre’s dad’s sister).

But while the plague of phallic graffiti prompts a degree of unrest in the community, it’s the sudden upswing in the suicide rate that causes the cracks to show in the otherwise easy friendship between the two men. Pierre and Benji are not entirely clear about whether suicide prevention falls within their purview as local law enforcement but, as the death rate continues to tick up, they feel that they need to do something. They start a collection to buy flowers for the newly crowded cemetery. And they begin to ask uncomfortable questions about the emotional well-being of their neighbours, and each other.

Bastin and Bogaert make evocative use of space, and of visual rhythms and repetition. The widescreen format gives a kind of grandeur to this very ordinary little town, a place that generates a great deal of civic pride but not a whole lot of ambition. Perhaps, muses Pierre’s girlfriend tentatively during a Zoom call, they don’t need to make their home in Vitrival and could venture further afield. It’s not clear whether Pierre genuinely doesn’t hear her or he just pretends not to, but Vitrival seems to be a non-negotiable in his future plans.

Both Pierre and Benji find comfort in routines, but the way those reassuring daily rhythms change over the seasons – the comfort of a local radio station is lost when the DJ is the latest to claim his own life, the renovations of both men’s homes grind to a halt – deftly demonstrates the slow decline of the community’s collective mental health. And all the while, a drum can be heard, a defiant protest against the small-minded aspects of the village from a young woman whose dream of joining the all-male marching band has been thwarted by the patriarchy and its unshakeable belief in traditions.