The title Archipel (Archipelago) refers to both the literal islands of the St. Lawrence River (Fleuve Saint-Laurent or Kaniatarowanenneh), such as Montréal, and figurative "islands" like Québec City-isolated yet interconnected spaces. Early on, the Thousand Islands, a sprawling archipelago near the river's source at Lake Ontario, are mentioned briefly but not deeply explored; instead, the film focuses on major historic-prismatic locations.
As a quasi-documentary exploring the river and the lands it nourishes, the film weaves animistic, political, philosophical, personal, and ecological themes into a kaleidoscopic, dreamlike journey. Contrasting the sacred designs of the past with the anomie of modernity, it mourns a way of life lost to atomised urban precarity and identity erasure. Nostalgia runs deep, particularly for Ville-Jacques-Cartier-once the anarchic frontier of French Canada, under-policed, destitute, yet vibrant-now tamed into a suburb of Longueuil. The narrators lament the rot of urban sprawl, recalling a time when small, tight-knit communities thrived before being swallowed by industrialised conurbation. They call for a return to the values and organising principles of the past, seeing hope in history.
As a non-Canadian viewer, I found the film challenging but rewarding. It assumes significant prior knowledge, spotlighting figures like Dr. Jacques Ferron and Pierre Vallières, whose legacies are now obscure. For instance, a fleeting sequence of a silhouette transforming into a rhinoceros references Ferron, founder of the satirical Parti Rhinocéros Party (akin to the UK's Monster Raving Loony Party). Another fragment shows a man kicking while held by police-assumed to be Vallières during the 1965 LaGrenade shoe factory strike.
The film omits darker truths, such as the mail bomb that killed Thérèse Morin, an elderly secretary, a year into the strike-a crime for which Vallières was convicted of manslaughter (though debates about his direct involvement persist, the FLQ, of which he was a key figure, claimed responsibility). By contrast, Ferron served as a physician among Ville-Jacques-Cartier's poor, using his experiences to illuminate the struggles of ordinary Québécois in his writing. Vallières also wielded a pen powerfully, famously comparing the hardships faced by French Canadians to those of African Americans. In later years, he renounced the FLQ and nationalism, championing gay rights and First Nations causes.
A sequence of flooding evokes the "Mer de Champlain," a prehistoric sea that covered much of modern Québec until it receded 10,000 years ago. The river itself, Kaniatarowanenneh, becomes a mystical character, shaping lands, histories, and identities. Yet the film conveniently overlooks the inhabitants of its southern banks, focusing instead on Innu and French-Canadian connections.
Beauty abounds in Archipel. Vivid sequences linger on a crucifix glowing at dusk as "wolves of the cold" lope past, a grandmother growing younger in animation, snow falling and ice cracking, kayakers in the mist beside a ghostly ship at La Malbaie, and even esoteric depictions like écorché sex (which beautifully de-genders the partners). Each wonder employs distinct artistic techniques, enriching the film's visual and emotional tapestry.
However, rough edges remain: casual barbs against the British and a disregard for animal suffering feel stereotypically brusque. These moments, alongside omissions of historical nuance, complicate the film's romanticised narrative of the past.
Ultimately, Archipel is a mighty epic compressed into 72 minutes-an education in a film, a meditation on identity, history, and the dream of a "New France in America." Its layered narrative and aesthetic daring make it a masterpiece, though one that demands patience and context to fully appreciate.
