Review: Alpha – Chicago Reader

How do you follow up a movie that begins with a woman being impregnated by a Cadillac and then travels so far from that point that by the end it could reasonably be described as tender? For Julia Ducournau—the sick, twisted, and, yes, French mind behind instant body-horror classics Raw (2016) and Titane (2021)—you retreat inward instead of expanding outward: more personal, more small-scale, and much, much more baffling.

Her third feature film, Alpha, could be described as an AIDS allegory, a sci-fi fable about familial trauma, or maybe an unsentimental addiction drama if you really want to get understated about it. In no world, however, is this the same brand of horror film on which Ducournau built her reputation. The title character is a 13-year-old girl who in the opening scene is given a stick-and-poke tattoo with a dirty needle while high at a party. The tattoo is a jagged “A” for “Alpha,” on her bicep, and while she’s anxious about the visible infection and accompanying oozing, her mother is much more concerned about an incurable autoimmune disease that has been spreading via bodily fluids since the mid 80s. If this unnamed virus sounds eerily familiar, then you already know the symptoms: Patients begin coughing up red dust, then their skin turns to craggly stone, and over time their entire body solidifies into polished marble. As Alpha waits for her test results, her classmates begin to viciously excommunicate her as a possible disease vector, and, to complicate things further, her mom’s heroin-addicted brother moves into Alpha’s bedroom for the indefinite future to detox for good.

As we hopscotch back and forth in time, eventually building to a climax that takes place in both the past and the present at once, things get unwieldy. Narrative coherence starts to slip away, and the bonk-you-over-the-head literary references begin to bonk with ever-greater force. This is a movie in which a young woman is literally branded with a scarlet letter “A” that turns her community against her, and that’s before the mysterious figure in red from Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” makes a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cameo. You may find it all a bit pretentious.

But subtlety is passé, and even if the pieces that make up Alpha never quite fit together, it’s still extraordinary on a scene-by-scene basis. I scoffed at the AIDS-but-they-turn-into-rocks virus, but when Alpha makes eye contact with her teacher at a clinic, arm-in-arm with his dying boyfriend, there’s a sense of gutting reality that cuts through any genre trappings. Ducournau is making an AIDS film, a COVID film, a grief film, and a film about her Berber identity, and she’s doing it all in a way no other director would ever think to do it.

More than anything, it’s thrilling to be blindsided by a film that dares to take big swings in 2026, when only the most risk-averse filmmakers survive and everyone else gets chewed up and spat out by one of the five remaining studios. When given the choice between an interesting mess and a safe success, I know my answer. R, 128 min.

Limited release in theaters