Ride Above Review: Twin Souls in Normandy

A foal’s first breath and a newborn child’s cry merge in the dim light of a Normandy stable, as if nature conspires to witness two lives beginning in tandem. Zoe arrives into her parents’ world precisely when Beautiful Intrigue gives birth, setting the stage for a bond that transcends species. In those opening moments, director Christian Duguay sketches an unspoken promise: life’s fragility and its quiet grandeur entwined.

From the muck-scented floors where Zoe toddles beside her mare to the waterlogged arena where she later relearns how to stand, this drama traces the girl’s fierce love for horses. Carmen Kassovitz anchors Zoe’s journey with a gaze that carries both youthful wonder and the weight of lingering pain. Under Duguay’s hand, each scene feels like a living painting—soft pastels of dawn rides, the harsh white glare of winter snow, the dark lull of storm clouds gathering overhead.

The film moves across nearly two decades, charting Zoe’s childhood laughter, her bitter reckoning with paralysis, and the slow return to strength that swelling muscles bring. Set against a rustic backdrop stitched with wind-whipped grass and rain-slicked tracks, the story asks: how does a soul reclaim its flight once the body is tethered? In these frames, stakes pulse with human yearning, as raw and unvarnished as hoofprints in mud.

Echoes of Birth and Storm

Life flickers into being twice in that opening sequence—Zoe’s cry mingling with the mare’s, two fragile sparks igniting beneath the hay. This “twin” birth unfolds like a rebus of identity and interdependence: a child destined to mirror the horse’s grace, a creature bound by instinct yet drawn to human tenderness. Early scenes braid domestic ritual and animal reverence—Zoe adjusting her tiny stirrups as her parents guide hoof and hand in perfect choreography. Here, innocence breathes softly, yet an unspoken tension coils beneath every pat on the flanks.

Then the thunder cracks. One moment, Zoe guiding Beautiful Intrigue through rhythmic strides; the next, hooves pounding in panic, a body flattened beneath mass and fury. That night does more than break bones—it fractures Zoe’s sense of self. Paralysis becomes a dark lodestar, pulling her into a hushed world of wheelchair wheels and hollow rooms where echoes of gallop haunt her walls.

Seb drifts in like a tether to reality—a man of few words, his own solitude mirrored in Zoe’s silence. His gentle method of presence, standing just beyond her reach, hints at philosophy of being: connection through quiet. A physical therapist arrives next, mapping Zoe’s limbs on pages of anatomy and hope. Each exercise marks a tremor of emergence, though doubt seeps in when she collapses, muscles still strangers to her will.

Night rides emerge as clandestine rites—Zoe and her foal, Tempête, slipping through moonlit paddocks. Rebellion tastes of cold air and risk. The tension between freedom and safety tightens like a rein across her knuckles.

When parental consent transforms into reluctant consent, Zoe dons a jockey’s silks under duress of expectation and desperation. The final race, bathed in swirling snow, becomes philosophical crucible: life’s chaos distilled into hoofbeats and heartbeats. Cross-cut editing fractures time, alternating Zoe’s anxious stare with Tempête’s charging form. Victory flickers at the horizon, yet ambiguity remains—did she win, or did she simply reclaim herself? Threads unravel onward: the farm’s future, Zoe’s restless spirit seeking new horizons.

Faces of Becoming

Zoe emerges three times: a fragile infant cooing under the straw, a defiant adolescent whose glare carries more gravity than her years, and Carmen Kassovitz’s young woman, whose eyes reflect both the phantom weight of what was lost and the fierce promise of reclamation. In that progression, we witness innocence fractured by trauma, then tempered into a resolve that blazes in her tightened jaw.

Marie moves through her world like a warrior at prayer—Mélanie Laurent giving each word a tremor of love and steel. She presses hope into Zoe’s limbs, even when fear stalks her own chest. Philippe, by contrast, anchors the narrative with calm persistence; Pio Marmai brings a quiet worry to every line, as if each decision tilts the family’s fragile ledger between ruin and renaissance. Their currency is devotion.

Seb’s presence feels like a whispered philosophy: his autism is not an absence of feeling but an alternate path to compassion. Kacey Mottet Klein’s poise speaks in soft gestures—hand extended toward a muzzle, a steady blink that says, “I understand without speaking.” In his eyes, Zoe’s solitude finds its echo and its cure.

The therapist’s offices become austere sanctuaries where hope is measured in millimeters. Hugo Becker’s tone is both scientific and humane, guiding Zoe through the prisms of pain toward incremental triumph.

Even Danny Huston and Carole Bouquet’s investors find moments of vulnerability—glances exchanged over spreadsheets, a hand hesitating before it signs a check. They are neither monsters nor saints, but reminders that survival often wears polite attire. Their demands weigh like debts on the horsehair-wrapped reins of the farm, urging Zoe’s family to reckon with sacrifice and solidarity.

The Ties That Bind

Horses in Ride Above emerge less as costumed actors and more as interlocutors in Zoe’s inner dialogue. Their eyes hold no human pretensions—only a quiet reciprocity that recalls Levinas’s notion of the face-to-face encounter. When Zoe leans into Beautiful Intrigue’s neck, she extends trust without seeking words in return, and the animal responds with steadfast presence.

Adversity forges its own alchemy. Zoe’s paralysis becomes a crucible, not merely an obstacle. Camus wrote of rebellion as an affirmation of existence; each stroke she takes beneath water’s resistance echoes that refusal to vanish into defeat. In her scars, we glimpse not weakness but the shimmer of potential reawakening.

Bloodlines and bank ledgers vie for primacy in the Duguay family’s arc. Love threads through every wooden beam of the stable, yet calculations hover like ghosts over the hayloft. The stud farm’s legacy passes from parent to child, image and reality coalescing. When the investors’ figures clash with the family’s heartbeat, we feel the tension of necessity pitted against devotion.

Nature folds its contradictions into storm and sun. Thunder becomes both threat and benediction, a baptism of ice that cleanses the fear ingrained in Zoe’s muscles. In contrast, shafts of dawn light pierce stable cracks, promising that wounds can close without erasing the imprint of their truth.

Finally, identity emerges as Zoe’s most fluent terrain. She resists the easy categories of “victim” or “jockey,” insisting on her own grammar of becoming. In reclaiming control of the reins, she articulates an agency born from pain and curiosity—a declaration that the self, like a horse at full gallop, is never fully contained.

Architecture of Motion

Christian Duguay treats time as malleable clay, molding uneventful stablescapes into crucibles of transformation. Moments of silence expand into pools of reflection—Zoe’s hand brushing hay, the soft inhale before a storm—then fracture into bursts of adrenaline when the camera whips alongside Tempête’s thunderous gallop. Pacing here is a chiaroscuro, alternating muted gestures of domestic calm with the raw velocity of race sequences. Flashbacks drift in like half-remembered dreams, then recede to allow the present’s linear pulse to reclaim its dominion.

The cinematography bathes interiors in ochre warmth, each beam of light caressing wood grain and leather straps. One can almost feel the straw’s rough edges beneath weary fingers. Outside, dawn unfurls across mist-cloaked fields, giving way to snow-laid tracks that gleam under muted skies. These landscapes are not mere backdrops but extensions of Zoe’s psyche: hazy early mornings echo uncertainty, the cold brightness of snowfall mirrors the crystalline focus required in her final challenge. Costumes and bridles anchor the story in the early 2000s, their subtle authenticity lending tactile weight to every trot and turn.

Editing in the stormbound finale is kinetic poetry. Rapid cuts conjure panic—horse’s flaring nostrils, Zoe’s narrowed eyes—only to be punctured by moments of slow motion where snowflakes hang suspended, each flake a silent witness to her choice. This tension between speed and stillness reveals an existential paradox: life advances in relentless acceleration, yet meaning often emerges in the quiet fraction of a second.

Sound design weaves hoofbeats and rumbling thunder into a cyclic mantra. A timpani of hooves crescendos as Zoe leans forward; thunderclaps underscore her every heartbeat. The score offers leitmotifs that swell when hope flickers, then withdraw in strategic silences that let ambient noises—wind whistling through stall doors, the soft scrape of a wheelchair—speak their own truths.

Equestrian sequences achieve authenticity through careful choreography. Stunt rigs and genuine riding techniques blur into seamless immersion; you feel the centrifugal force as Zoe and Tempête carve arcs of motion together. Safety measures remain invisible, yet their precision allows the camera to dance at impossible angles, capturing the poetry of speed and the grace found in controlled risk.

Heartbeats in Silence and Thunder

The first moment Zoe perches in the saddle after her accident crackles with fragile audacity—her legs trembling like new shoots pushing through frost. That tentative ride, scored by the whisper of reins and her own ragged breath, shatters the hush of her confinement. Later, submerged in the pool’s cool embrace, each stroke becomes a rebellion against gravity and despair. Water therapy emerges as baptism, bruised limbs reclaiming purpose in liquid suspension. And when the final race erupts under frozen skies, hoofbeats drum an anthem of risk and renewal.

This film will stir families drawn to stories of tenacity, captivate equestrian devotees attuned to every hoofprint, and reach those who seek dramas that honor grit over spectacle. Audiences invested in disability narratives will find a portrayal that neither sentimentalizes nor sanitizes Zoe’s path, but meets her struggle with clear-eyed compassion.

Ride Above may ignite discourse on adaptive sports and the richness of neurodiversity—an invitation to reconsider what strength looks like when it grows from vulnerability.

For the writer: paint the pool scene with the shimmer of ripples and Zoe’s awakening muscles; let the clamor of the blizzard race reverberate against her silent resolve. Lean into the tension of each heartbeat, then let the review pause in soft reflection before the next surge of motion.

Full Credits

Director: Christian Duguay

Writers: Christophe Donner (original novel), Christian Duguay, Lilou Fogli

Producers: Christian Duguay, Maxime Delauney, Romain Rousseau, Joe Iacono, Nathalie Toulza Madar, Mathieu Ageron, Ardavan Safaee, Marie-Claude Poulin

Cast: Mélanie Laurent, Pio Marmaï, Carmen Kassovitz, Kacey Mottet Klein, Carole Bouquet, Charlie Paulet, Hugo Becker, Danny Huston, June Benard, Emeline Faure, Hubert Myon

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Christophe Graillot

Editor: Maxime Lahaie

Composer: Michel Cusson