Albert Serra’s 2016 film The Death of Louis XIV is not your typical Sunday night movie. Honestly, it’s a bit of an endurance test. You’re essentially sitting in a dark, velvet-draped room for two hours watching a 72-year-old man slowly rot. It sounds morbid because it is. But there’s something weirdly hypnotic about the way Jean-Pierre Léaud—an absolute legend of French cinema—portrays the Sun King’s final days.
Most period dramas are obsessed with the "glory" of the monarchy. They want to show you the wars, the mistresses, and the gold-leafed ceilings of Versailles. Serra doesn't care about any of that. He focuses on the gangrene. He focuses on the sweat. By the time you finish watching The Death of Louis XIV, you realize you haven’t just watched a biography; you’ve watched the physical dissolution of absolute power. It’s messy. It’s quiet. It is deeply human.
The King is a Body, Nothing More
The film starts with a simple leg pain. Louis XIV returns from a hunt, feeling a bit stiff. No big deal, right? Wrong. What follows is a clinical, almost voyeuristic documentation of the King of France being reduced to a biological specimen.
Serra uses a very tight color palette. Think deep ochres, shadows that look like they were painted by Caravaggio, and the stifling candle-lit atmosphere of a room where the windows are never opened. This isn't just a stylistic choice. It forces you to feel the claustrophobia of the 18th-century court. You can almost smell the stagnant air.
Jean-Pierre Léaud is the soul of this movie. If you know anything about the French New Wave, you know him as the kid from The 400 Blows. Seeing him here, decades later, wearing a wig that looks like it weighs thirty pounds, is jarring. He barely speaks. Most of his performance is in his eyes—eyes that are increasingly clouded by pain and the realization that his doctors have no idea what they are doing.
The medical scenes are particularly tough to stomach. You have these high-ranking physicians debating theory while the King’s leg literally turns black. They argue about "humors" and "vapors" while the man is dying of a very preventable infection. It’s a stark reminder that in 1715, being the most powerful man on Earth couldn't save you from a lack of basic hygiene and antibiotics.
Why The Death of Louis XIV Matters Now
You might wonder why anyone should care about a slow-moving film about a dead French king. Well, The Death of Louis XIV is actually a profound commentary on the performance of celebrity and leadership.
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Even as he’s dying, Louis is "on." He has to eat his biscuits in front of a crowd of courtiers who applaud every time he swallows. It’s absurd. It’s performative. He is a man who has lived his entire life as a symbol, and the film explores the tragedy of a symbol that is suddenly reminded it’s made of meat and bone.
The Medical Failures and the Court's Denial
One of the most fascinating aspects of the film is the surrounding cast. The courtiers are terrified. Not necessarily because they love the King, but because their entire universe is built around his breathing. If he stops, the world shifts.
- The doctors, led by the historical Dr. Fagon, are portrayed with a mix of arrogance and desperation.
- They try ridiculous remedies, like "vin d'Alicante" or broth made from exotic birds.
- There's a recurring theme of people refusing to acknowledge the obvious: the King is decaying.
The film is based on the incredibly detailed memoirs of Saint-Simon and the records of the King's physician. Serra stuck to the facts. The timeline, the symptoms, the specific drinks he was given—it’s all there. This isn't a "Hollywood" version of history. There are no dramatic speeches at the end. Just a heavy silence and the sound of heavy breathing.
The Sound of Silence and Slow Cinema
If you’re used to Marvel movies, this will feel like it’s running in slow motion. It basically is. Serra is a practitioner of "slow cinema," a genre that values atmosphere and duration over plot points.
There are long stretches where nothing happens. A servant adjusts a pillow. A dog wanders across the room. The King stares at a painting. But in that stillness, the film builds a massive amount of tension. You find yourself leaning in, watching for the slightest twitch of Léaud’s hand.
The lighting is almost entirely diegetic—meaning it comes from sources within the scene, like candles. This creates a very shallow depth of field. Everything outside the King’s bed is shrouded in a pitch-black void. It reinforces the idea that Louis’s entire world has shrunk down to the size of his mattress. He went from ruling Europe to ruling a bedframe.
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Jean-Pierre Léaud: A Meta-Performance
There is a layer to this film that most casual viewers might miss. Léaud is French cinema history. By casting him as the dying King, Serra is also making a film about the "death" of a certain era of filmmaking. When the King looks directly into the camera—which happens a few times—it feels like he’s looking past the audience and straight into the history books.
It’s a brave performance. Léaud spends most of the film lying down, unable to use his body to express emotion. He has to do it all with his face. The way his jaw sags or his eyes glaze over is some of the best acting you’ll ever see, mostly because it doesn't look like acting. It looks like a man being extinguished.
What Most People Get Wrong About This Movie
People often call this film "boring." That’s a mistake. It’s intense. It’s just a different kind of intensity. It’s the intensity of a hospital waiting room.
Another misconception is that it’s a cynical movie. It’s not. There’s a strange tenderness in the way the servants care for him. Even as the doctors fail him, his personal valets are there, performing the grueling work of cleaning a dying body. There is a dignity in that labor that contrasts sharply with the useless theorizing of the elites.
The film also avoids the trap of being a "costume porn" movie. The clothes are expensive, sure, but they look lived-in. They look dusty. The wigs are slightly askew. It’s a deglamorized version of the 18th century that feels much more honest than the sanitized versions we usually get from Hollywood.
Technical Mastery in the Shadows
The cinematography by Jonathan Ricquebourg is nothing short of miraculous. Shooting in such low light is a technical nightmare, but the film looks rich and textured. Every frame looks like it could be hung in the Louvre.
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The sound design is equally sparse. No sweeping orchestral scores here. Instead, you get the rustle of silk, the clinking of spoons against porcelain, and the rhythmic, labored breathing of the King. These sounds become the heartbeat of the movie. When the breathing stops, the silence is deafening.
How to Actually Watch This Film
To get the most out of The Death of Louis XIV, you have to change your mindset. Don’t watch it on your phone. Don’t watch it while folding laundry.
- Turn off the lights. This is non-negotiable. The film relies on shadows. If your room is bright, you won’t see half of what’s happening on screen.
- Commit to the pace. The first twenty minutes are the hardest. Once you sync up with the film's rhythm, the "slowness" stops being an obstacle and becomes a tool for immersion.
- Watch the doctors. Pay attention to the power dynamics. It’s a fascinating look at how "expertise" can be a total sham when faced with the reality of death.
- Observe the transition. Notice how the King shifts from being the center of the universe to a literal obstacle that people have to move around.
The Ending That Isn't an Ending
Without spoiling the final moments, the "conclusion" of the film is a masterclass in irony. It’s cold, clinical, and arguably the most honest moment in any historical film ever made. It strips away the myth of the Sun King and leaves you with the reality of a corpse.
The film ends, and you’re left sitting in the dark, much like the courtiers at Versailles. There is no catharsis. There is only the realization that time moves on, regardless of who you were or how much gold you owned.
If you want to understand the film better, it’s worth looking into the real memoirs of the Duke of Saint-Simon. He was a biting critic of the court and his descriptions of the King’s final days are surprisingly close to what Serra put on screen. The film isn't "inspired by" a true story; it is a meticulous reconstruction of it.
Practical Next Steps for Film Lovers
If this film piqued your interest in "slow cinema" or historical realism, there are a few places you can go next.
- Research the "Sun King's" actual medical history. It’s gruesome but provides a lot of context for the film’s specific details regarding the gangrene and the failed surgeries.
- Check out Albert Serra’s other work. Story of My Death (which mixes Casanova and Dracula) is another wild, slow-burn experience that challenges your expectations of period pieces.
- Look into Jean-Pierre Léaud’s filmography. Starting with The 400 Blows and ending with this film gives you a haunting look at a person aging in real-time across decades of cinema.
- Explore the lighting techniques. If you're into photography or film, look up "Chiaroscuro" in cinema. You'll see how Serra and Ricquebourg used 17th-century painting techniques to light a 21st-century digital film.
Ultimately, The Death of Louis XIV is a film about the one thing that connects everyone, from the most powerful monarch to the lowest peasant: the body’s eventual betrayal. It’s a hard watch, but it’s an essential one for anyone who wants to see what film can do when it stops trying to entertain and starts trying to observe.
To dive deeper into this specific style of filmmaking, look for "The Cinema of Stasis." It’s a rabbit hole that will change how you view "boring" movies forever. Instead of looking for what happens next, you start looking at what is happening now. And in the case of Louis XIV, what is happening is the slow, inevitable fade into the dark.