A Prophet

Our first glimpse into the world of A Prophet comes through the bleary gaze of its protagonist, Malik El Djebena (Tahar Ramin). The screen shrouded in blackness, we hear authoritative yelling coming from somewhere, before Malik tentatively “opens” his eyes and begins to hazily scan his surroundings. The camera flickers and weaves as Malik and the viewer simultaneously ascertain that he is being transported to a massive French jail. But even before we gain an understanding of who Malik is and what has brought him here, this disorienting moment of subjective alignment proves an elegant introduction to what is essentially a story of self-awakening: one that director Jacques Audiard tells with equal emphasis upon the details of criminal life and their effect upon Malik’s interior development.

An illiterate nineteen-year-old native of North Africa, Malik finds himself incarcerated on charges of police assault (he denies the allegations). He barely has time to acquaint himself with the numbing routines and byzantine power structure of the prison, however, when he is ensnared by Cesar Luciani (Niels Arestrup), the aging but much-feared kingpin of the jail’s ruling Corsican gang. Cesar charges Malik with the task of murdering Reyeb (Hichem Yacoubi), a potential witness against Cesar’s crime organization who previously had offered Malik sexual favors in exchange for drugs. Should Malik refuse, Cesar warns, he will be killed.

Fearing for his life, Malik agrees. He follows Reyeb back to his cell, and attempts to steel himself to complete the grisly mission as Reyeb calmly engages in small talk about the Islamic faith that he holds dear (and that Malik has largely rejected). Audiard constructs the sequence beautifully, with claustrophobic close-ups that make us lean forward, scanning for signs on Malik’s face of when the bloody moment will occur. And bloody it is; Audiard does not shy away from explicitly documenting the violence—at once horrific and banal—that erupts constantly within the prison walls.

It gives nothing away to say that Malik does murder Reyeb, who nevertheless remains with Malik as either a benign spirit or guilt-induced hallucination, depending upon your perspective. Impressed, Cesar brings Malik into his criminal enterprise, albeit in a servile role that reflects the Corsicans’ suspicions of Malik’s Arab background. Malik remains a loyal soldier, but surreptitiously learns to read and write: skills that help him discover the inner workings of Cesar’s business. He partners up with fellow prisoner Ryad (Adel Bencherif) and organizes his own secret drug dealings, gaining influence within the French underworld over a period of years until he begins to challenge Cesar himself for control.

Audiard—who co-wrote the screenplay with Thomas Bidegain, Abdel Raouf Dafri, and Nicolas Peufaillit—plugs us into the nitty-gritty of the prison’s criminal underbelly, methodically chronicling the secret meetings and clandestine drug shipments that allow Malik to accumulate power. Some of the film’s most powerful scenes showcase Cesar’s attempts to regain his loosening grip of the prison’s narcotics market. A ruthless and often cruel manager, Cesar nevertheless depends upon Malik and even shows flickers of fatherly affection towards him. Watching these contradictory impulses flash across Arestrup’s lined, scowling face gives his scenes with Ramin an extra charge of emotional complexity.

Yet for all its interest in underworld wheelings and dealings, A Prophet feels just as invested in Malik’s interior transformation from frightened prison newbie to confident criminal kingpin. It’s a journey that Audiard largely refrains from viewing through a moral lens. Though hinting at the consequences of Malik’s shady dealings, the film’s ultimate viewpoint is more observational than condemnatory, never letting us forget the brutal milieu that shapes his actions. Indeed, A Prophet feels richest when it embraces the ambiguity of Malik’s emotional state, particularly in his surreal interactions with Reyeb’s ghostly presence. It is implied that Reyeb acts as a kind of guardian angel to Malik, at one point providing him with the ability to see an approaching deer before his car would have potentially collided with it. Why Malik’s murder victim continues to watch over him remains unclear, as does the extent to which Malik’s religious persuasions change when faced with the specter of the devout Reyeb.

Regardless of the answers one gleans, Audiard’s insistence upon the exploration of ambiguous subjectivity over straightforward sermonizing is welcome. It also places a greater pressure upon Ramin to provide a window into Malik’s mind and heart, and he gives a strikingly charismatic and subtle performance. Several moments stand out, but one proves particularly haunting. On temporary leave from prison, Malik boards an airplane for the first time. He settles into his seat and looks around, when he suddenly realizes the plane has begun its ascent. To watch Ramin’s face as he looks out upon the wide world below is to witness something special: the silent revelation that, for a moment, this shackled man knows no chains.

                                            Matt Connolly