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Doctor: " What are you doing here, honey? You’re not even old enough to know how bad life gets." Cecilia: "Obviously, doctor, you’ve never been a 13-year-old girl." -- Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides Rarely can one witness the gift of a film that has the gut and the power to deliver a story of the complex and trying "coming of age" which we all had to endure. Even more scarce is work surrounding the female perspectives of such experience. To shy away from female sexuality and experimental thought is an exercise used to the point of exhaustion in modern cinema. Catherine Breillat, on the other hand, has made a point of idolizing masters in the art of capturing the human condition and therefore has made many films doing just the opposite of her counterparts. Out of these, which include A Real Young Girl and 36 Fillette, Fat Girl dominates as a bold and provocative juxtaposition between two sisters, spiraling through two very different types of disgrace.

Anaïs Pingot and her sister, Elena, are on holiday with their mother. Typical of any vacation-town, spouts of ennui and a lack of familiarity cause these two sisters to roam aimlessly through the town in search of some kind of amusement. While dining at a local restaurant they meet Fernando, an Italian college-age man who is automatically drawn to the beauty and flirtatiousness of the 16-year old Elena, while the overweight 12-year old, Anaïs, simply stands by and allows her sister to soak up his affection. But as the vacation proceeds so does their sibling rivalry and the hastened and inappropriate relationship between Elena and Fernando. Here we gaze and experience, through the point-of-view of Anaïs, the desire to be wanted and the helplessness of seeing the innocence of a loved one shattered.

The difference between these two sisters is a major factor in the film’s brilliance. Usually, girls of this age are portrayed to give into romanticism—dimwitted teenagers who care only for cosmetics, boys, and pop music. Elena sort of exemplifies this subject, lapping up Fernando’s promises and experience with the hunger and instability of a typical 16-year old. Anaïs, on the other hand, rejects this. Her look on virginity and intimacy is not distorted by the advancements of anyone. With a heightened maturity, she warns her sister of Fernando’s fickle affection and tries to make her re-evaluate, if not understand, what she thinks about being in love.

Breillat is known to reject the idea that on-screen sex should be fragmented and more-so appealing to a male audience. She does this by shooting explicit scenes in real time. But what makes Fat Girl so unique is that everything seems so real and private. Reboux is not simply acting when she plays Anaïs, but rather becomes her and, in some ways, might be showing some of her own secret emotions. When she eats, it is as if we are at her table. When she sings, laying in her own boredom and disappointment, we hear her haunting song as if she’s sung it to us a million times, as if it lay dormant in our memory and this slow, sorrowful voice has given it life again. The vulnerability and spark of Elena, on the other hand, is fueled with the bravery of Mesquida. Her performance is perhaps what makes us as the audience most uncomfortable. Through her promiscuity, we see her innocence shine through. We understand that she is loved and loves her sister and is simply going through a corruption found practically anywhere. Breillat’s direction is stylized in a way that makes us feel almost guilty for watching this. We come away with a sense of intrusion similar to reading someone's diary.

Without saying too much about the ending, know that is not easy to swallow. Sexual corruption and an unstable family life are only the appetizer for the main course of destruction for these characters. Be advised that Fat Girl is meant to provoke—to expose a kind of truth that you may or may not have experienced or be aware of. Some might consider themselves lucky to have experienced it. Others, such as myself, might be left speechless.