The Kidnapping of Michel Houellebecq is a film whose title is easy to misread or misremember as The Killing of Michel Houellebecq. Nobody has a name like his, and I will always associate it and him with my old friend, who once asked me over AOL Instant Messenger if I had read Houellebecq’s then-recent book. My friend later had a depressive break, something he denied to my face, and now is convinced he has a stalker.
That’s halfway to the premise of a(n) Houellebecq novel and is spiritually akin to what passes for the plotline of The Kidnapping of Michel Houellebecq. Self-evidently he gets kidnapped or we wouldn’t have a title, let alone a movie. It is not clear to anyone why the kidnappers bothered. Two of the captors are Ben Maisani–manqué French tough guys, one of whom, not entirely unexpectedly, actually reads but more importantly subjects Houellebecq to hero worship. With a bit of recitation of poésie for the camera to make it all cinematic ’n’ shit.
Houellebecq teaches these brutes literary thinking and they teach him boxing and fighting. Seems fair to me. Like Craig Davidson v. Jonathan Ames, but split up and sparring against guys with shaven heads and striated forearms as God intended.
Show this to any eldergay and he’ll have the same reaction I did, namely “I’d be perfect for these guys.” Some men hate and some men adore. I’ve known both and I’ve had both.