It Came from France: The Pack (2010)
Charlotte is having a bad day. She’s driving her rusty old station wagon through France with no particular destination when she stops at a café and picks up a snack. As she returns to her car, three skeevy looking “motards” (bikers) make salacious comments; she puts them down and takes off. The Pack, a French horror film, begins with impressive visuals of a narrow road wrapped in fog. It’s early scenes incorporate humor, but by the end of the film, the audience has forgotten there was any.
As Charlotte (Émilie Dequenne) continues down the road, she notices that she is being followed by the three motards. Seeing Max (Benjamin Biolay) the hitchhiker on the side of the road, she pulls over for him, picks him up, and the motards speedily pass them. She tells Max he can have a ride if he will keep it in his pants, and he agrees because “it’s too cold.” Eventually he’s in the driver’s seat, she’s sleeping, and he grabs her wallet to check out who she is.
They stop at a desolate saloon, where Charlotte tells Max the kind of joke that mothers once told their daughters not to tell in “mixed company.” In walk the three motards; one decides he’s going to rape Charlotte, one decides he’s going to rape Max, and the third sits back and reminisces about favorite knitting patterns. The saloon-keeper “La Spack” (Yolande Moreau) emerges from a back room, threatens the bikers, and they eventually take off when they realize she’s serious about shooting them. Max then goes to the bathroom and never comes out again.
Charlotte, thinking Max is “the one” for some reason, looks for him, but he’s nowhere to be found—Max has mysteriously disappeared. Charlotte hangs around, running into the only lawman (retired) in the film—an elderly gentleman wearing a t-shirt that proclaims in English “F*** On The First Date.” When La Spack closes the saloon, Charlotte breaks in and before you can say “Bob’s yer uncle,” she’s in a cage, La Spack and Max (mother and son) are tormenting her, and her blood is being drained for the neighborhood ghouls, who come out when you drip blood on the ground late at night. By this point, any spark of humor is gone—until we see the third motard knitting something baby blue.Continued on the next page