Squad 36 Review – Brooding French Thriller With Uneven Pace

French crime thriller Squad 36, directed by Olivier Marchal, plunges us into a drenched chase that doubles as both spectacle and narrative promise. In the opening sequence, undercover officer Antoine Cerda corners notorious crime lord Karim Mahmoudi atop a slick rooftop, only to watch him slip away—an unresolved duel that haunts every frame that follows. When Cerda’s off‑the‑books bare‑knuckle fights land him in hot water and earn him a transfer, the film shifts gears: weeks become months, and the bodies of his former squadmates begin to surface.

Visually, Marchal favors a cold palette of blues and grays, handheld camerawork that bumps with each boot‑heel skid, and long shadows that seem to swallow characters whole. This aesthetic underlines the film’s procedural core, where terse exchanges and ballistic evidence carry as much weight as any gunshot. Emotion pulses through Cerda’s scarred jawline and every lingering glance he casts toward an empty chair.

Yet the true hook lies in how the director alternates between rapid‑fire action and quieter detective work, asking us to weigh each clue against the mounting sense of betrayal. By focusing as much on the spaces between beats—the pause before a confession, the echo in an interrogation room—as on car chases and brawls, Squad 36 positions its protagonist at the center of a moral storm. Is the cost of truth worth the ruin it leaves behind?

Investigation in Three Acts

From the first rain‑soaked rooftop chase to the final showdown, Squad 36 relies on a three‑act structure that mirrors the ebb and flow of a well‑crafted narrative‑driven game. We dive headfirst into Antoine Cerda’s world as his elite squad barrels after crime lord Karim Mahmoudi through slick Paris streets. That heartbeat‑quick chase underscores two competing systems: Cerda’s zero‑tolerance tactics versus his department’s no‑shoot policy.

When his underground bare‑knuckle fight surfaces, Cerda earns a transfer to the Anti‑Crime Brigade—a penalty that fractures his bond with Hanna and shifts us out of the action arena into a more cerebral terrain. Director Olivier Marchal plants the seeds of political intrigue here, with Boss Balestra’s whispered orders hinting at a corruption game board far larger than one man’s suspension.

Thirteen months slip by in a single jump, and suddenly Cerda’s old teammates—Sami, Vinny, Walid—are either dead or vanished. Like following breadcrumb trails in a detective RPG, Cerda moves from nightclub backrooms to sterile autopsy tables, interrogating low‑lifes and suspicious officers with surgical precision. Each morsel of evidence—ballistic reports that scream “cop involvement”—raises the stakes, and the film’s pacing smartly alternates quiet, tension‑laden interviews with bursts of physical danger.

The midpoint twist, when departmental interference foils his warrant, feels like a sudden locked door in a branching narrative: just when you think you’re headed to the final boss, the path shifts. Along the way, Cerda’s moral compass is tested by threats to Hanna and his own instinct to fight in the ring—forcing him to choose between blood‑sport catharsis and procedural rigor.

In the climactic confrontation, Cerda corners the true architect of his squad’s downfall in an abandoned warehouse—an echo of classic noir showdowns. The betrayal lands like a boss‑battle twist that rewrites your assumptions about who holds the trigger. Emotion surges as he watches friend after friend vanish from his life, and the final frames leave us staring at a man whose faith in his badge has been irrevocably shaken. As Cerda steps back into the rain, badge in hand, you can’t help but wonder: is the cost of truth ever truly worth the ruin it brings?

Anchoring the Narrative: Character Performances

Cerda feels like the playable avatar in a gritty detective RPG—every bar fight levels up his scars, every clue deepens his resolve. We first meet him as a confident squad leader mastering fast‑paced pursuits. Once demoted, he turns into an outsider, methodically piecing together evidence in dimly lit offices and rain‑soaked alleys. Belmondo’s brooding restraint sells Cerda’s internal code of honor: he rarely raises his voice, but his clenched fists and tight jaw speak volumes. When threats strike close to home, his performance finally cracks open, revealing the cynicism earned through loss.

Hanna serves as Cerda’s moral checkpoint—her presence reminds us what he stands to protect. In early scenes, her warm expressions and casual banter humanize the procedural stakes. After his transfer, she recedes into the background, leaving an emotional void that undercuts several investigation beats. There’s untapped chemistry in their exchanges, and it’s a shame the screenplay doesn’t revisit her more often.

Mahmoudi appears like a mid‑game boss encounter: brief, intimidating, and leaving a lingering threat long after he disappears. Correia’s sharp gaze and economy of words establish him as the catalyst for Cerda’s unraveling. His limited screen time amplifies the corruption theme—he’s the ghost in the machine, prompting every twist.

Balestra functions like the department’s NPC overlord, dispensing orders that push Cerda off the map. Attal’s measured delivery conveys political self‑preservation; his polite reminders about protocol contrast with Cerda’s dogged single‑player mission. Their stand‑offs become quiet power plays—bureaucratic chess moves that carry more weight than any shootout.

Sami, Richard, Vinny, and Walid enter as co‑op teammates whose sudden removals drive the narrative forward. Brief flashbacks hint at camaraderie, but we never fully load that branch—making each death register as a lost ally rather than a personal blow. Cameo roles in interrogation rooms and back‑alley rendezvous serve as cryptic quest givers, nudging Cerda closer to the heart of the conspiracy.

With performances ranging from stubbled resolve to cold‑blooded mystery, Squad 36 hands us a roster of characters whose strengths shine brightest in tension‑loaded moments—yet leave us wondering which allies, if any, can be trusted when the final credits roll.

Under the Uniform: Themes and Emotional Resonance

At its core, Squad 36 lays bare a rotten hierarchy where badge and oath morph into weapons against justice. The film inverts the traditional “good‐cop/bad‐cop” setup: Cerda’s fierce loyalty clashes with fellow officers who answer only to politics and self‑interest. When a ballistic report points to a trigger pulled in blue, you feel the sting of a system that protects its own at any cost.

The movie’s pacing mirrors the unfolding of loyalty and betrayal. Early scenes pulse with kinetic chases and brisk dialogue, then slow to a crawl as Cerda visits morgues and back‑alley bars—each cut reminding us that every friend he once trusted now feels like a suspect. It’s similar to how an adventure game drags you through exploration after a thrilling opener, testing patience before rewarding you with clarity. The deaths of Sami and Vinny leave an emotional crater, their absence echoing like unanswered side‑quests in a sprawling RPG: you remember them, but the main story rushes on.

Marchal’s visual nods to mid‑2000s Hollywood thrillers—cool-blue hues, score swells at critical reveals—offer comfort in familiarity, yet that predictability underlines the film’s cynical twist: trust no one. It’s a tonal balance not unlike indie cult films such as A Prophet, where every handshake could hide a knife.

Cerda’s bare‑knuckle fights stand in for unspoken rage—his bruised face becomes a controller feedback system for frustration unvented by dialogue. Yet, for all the swagger and scrapes, the movie rarely probes why he endures this self‑punishing ritual. Is it catharsis, or a mirror of a broken institution? As the credits loom, you’re left questioning which wounds run deeper: those earned in the ring, or those inflicted by your own side.

Crafting the Experience: Camera, Cuts, and Sound

Olivier Marchal leans into gritty realism, treating Squad 36 like an interactive dossier more than a melodrama. He prioritizes the drip of information—ballistic reports, whispered orders—over overt emotion, a strategy reminiscent of his earlier Netflix thriller, Rogue City, where the thrill lies in uncovering each layer of corruption rather than grand gestures.

Visually, the film wears cold blues and steely grays like a second skin. Rain‑drenched streets and neon reflections create a texture that feels as tactile as a well‑designed game environment. Handheld camera work brings you into the chase, every skid and splash echoing the immediacy of real‑time action, while tight close‑ups on Cerda’s bruised face mirror the intimacy you’d expect stepping into a character’s boots.

Editing swings between breakneck momentum and exposition‑heavy plateaus. The opening sequence propels you forward with the force of a tutorial level, only to slow as Cerda interviews witnesses—cross‑cutting between interrogation rooms and shadowy alleys, like toggling between main quests and side missions. Sometimes the shifts stall the drive; other times they heighten suspense by dangling small revelations before you.

Erwann Kermorvant’s score and sound design act like an auditory HUD. Electronic pulses surge during chases, then fade into unsettling ambient hums that underscore Cerda’s isolation. Each echo and heartbeat‑thump cues our focus, reminding us that in this procedural, every detail counts—even the ones we almost miss.

Momentum Mechanics: Action Sequences & Technical Craft

The opening chase in Squad 36 feels like a tutorial level for visceral stakes: Cerda’s squad weaves through Paris traffic in a torrential downpour, tires squealing against slick cobblestones. The choreography leans into real‑world physics—cars fishtail, motorcycles skid—which not only sells the danger but promises more set‑pieces ahead. It’s reminiscent of John Wick’s early street‑level precision, yet Marchal trades stylized flair for a gritty, grounded take.

Cerda’s bare‑knuckle bouts function like side‑quests that deepen his character. The handheld camera stays uncomfortably close, every jaw crunch and split lip registering as raw feedback, much like a fighting game’s hit‑marker sound. These underground scenes turn his internal struggle into physical blows, giving each fight a narrative weight beyond spectacle.

Stunt work blends seamlessly into the action, thanks to skilled doubles who pull off practical falls and strikes without obvious cuts. Yet the film leans heavily on its opening momentum, offering few blockbuster set‑pieces afterward. That restraint can feel like an indie developer skimping on later levels, leaving you wanting another boss fight.

Technically, slick editing masks moments where the plot flattens out, but production design keeps precincts grimy and streets convincing. A flickering neon sign, a dripping pipe, even a single pool of water can anchor a scene, proving that small details often outshine grand gestures. In a thriller about moral decay, those textured backdrops might matter more than the next big explosion—if only the story lets them shine.

Loadout: Hits, Misses & the Questions That Linger

Belmondo’s caged intensity anchors each scene, and the rain‑soaked Paris streets become a level‑design blueprint that guides attention through shadowed corners. The opening chase functions like a high‑stakes tutorial, setting tone and stakes with its precise choreography and establishing themes of loyalty and betrayal before the main investigation unfolds.

Mid‑film momentum stalls into overlong procedural beats, and Karim Mahmoudi’s limited presence feels like a teased boss encounter that never materializes. Supporting characters drift as underdeveloped NPCs, and familiar evidence‑hunt sequences play out predictably. By treating exposition as mission briefings, the film sometimes forgets to let tension build organically. The ultimate twist hits without adequate foreshadowing, akin to an enemy spawning without warning.

Key sequences land like standout missions in a cult indie game, and moments of interrogation pack genuine emotional weight. Still, pacing dips undercut immersion, turning essential investigation into filler. Yet the film’s atmosphere—haunting synth notes and echoing rain—lingers like a memorable soundtrack, reminding you of its strongest beats long after it fades.

Viewers drawn to grim, character‑driven police dramas and fans of Marchal’s earlier work will find its textured world rewarding. Those intrigued by loyalty‑versus‑corruption stories may appreciate its moral complexity.

The documentary The Monopoly of Violence probes systemic decay with unflinching honesty. For tighter pacing and immersive atmosphere in a crime drama, cult favorites like A Prophet deliver similar narrative drive with sharper turns. Leaves you wondering whether exposing every layer of corruption truly cleanses the system—or merely reveals fresh wounds.

Full Credits

Director: Olivier Marchal

Writers: Olivier Marchal, Olivier Dujols, Michel Tourscher (based on his novel Flic Requiem)

Producers: Guillaume Colboc, Sidonie Dumas

Cast: Victor Belmondo (Antoine Cerda), Tewfik Jallab (Sami Belkaïm), Yvan Attal (Charles Balestra), Juliette Dol (Hanna Levasseur), Soufiane Guerrab (Richard Esteves), Lydia Andrei (Commissaire Cécile Wagner), Jean-Michel Correia (Karim Mahmoudi), Moussa Mansaly (Titus La Chapelle), Erika Sainte (Alexandra de Brandt), Lise Lomi (Zoé Medjadi), Sonia Bendhaou (Sofia Esteves), Guillaume Pottier (Vinny Segura), Igor Skreblin (Marcus Reinhart), Sabrina Seyvecou (Kristina Dankeva), Stéphan Wojtowicz (Victor Garnier), Estelle Skornik (Docteur Claire Budzinski)

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Denis Rouden

Composer: Erwann Kermorvant