'Forest High' Review: Escapism and Sparse Settings in Manon Coubia's Debut

By BlockReel Editorial Team Production, Movies and TV February 22, 2026

'Forest High' Review: Escapism and Sparse Settings in Manon Coubia's Debut

There’s a beguiling quietude to Manon Coubia’s debut feature, Forest High, a film that speaks directly to the soul of anyone who’s ever craved a temporary escape from the relentless churn of modern life. Her triptych, tracing the interior lives of three women working as caretakers at a remote Alpine hikers' lodge, isn’t about grand narratives or explosive revelations, but rather the profound, cleansing power of silence and self-reflection. And for us filmmakers, it’s a masterclass in building atmosphere and character through environmental detail and deliberate pacing, filmed on tactile 16mm no less.

The premise alone evokes a certain kind of independent spirit: a humble refuge where luxuries are absent, hot water is rationed, and charging a phone is an anathema. It's not a vacation spot; it's a pause, a place for introspection. This setting, born from Coubia’s own decade-long experience as a mountain refuge warden, grants the film an undeniable authenticity, a grounded reality that many productions strive for but rarely achieve with such delicate precision. Her previous short film work, particularly the 2016 Locarno winner The Fullness of Time, clearly honed her ability to integrate landscape as a character itself.

What struck me immediately, reading about this film, is its commitment to presenting a world stripped bare. It’s a bold artistic choice to foreground the "thin and blandly nourishing" soup, the limited hot water, and the polite refusal for phone charging. These aren't just set dressing; they are narrative devices. They force the characters (and by extension, the audience) to engage with their surroundings and their inner worlds without digital distraction. This kind of intentional constraint, both for the characters and the narrative structure, is something independent filmmakers know well. It’s about making every element count, every frame resonate, where the absence of opulence becomes its own richness.

Coubia’s approach leans heavily into what's described as "documentary-like specificity to environmental details and textures." Shot over four seasons of real-life activity at a working refuge, with the actors interacting with actual hikers, it instantly brings to mind the kind of verisimilitude that can only be achieved through immersive production. This isn’t a studio backlot replicating nature; this is nature itself, raw and unfiltered, shaping the performances and the narrative. It’s an embrace of the unpredictable, the organic, that truly captures the spirit of independent cinema.

The film's structure, a triptych focusing on different women across distinct seasons, allows for an exploration of female identity at various stages, all within the constant, grounding presence of the lodge and its imposing landscape. Early comparisons to Kelly Reichardt’s Certain Women feel apt, given Reichardt's masterful ability to craft nuanced portraits of women in vast, often unforgiving, American landscapes. But Forest High's unique Alpine setting and explicit focus on a single location across changing seasons seems to carve out its own distinct space.

The decision to shoot on 16mm film, as executed by DP Robin Fresson, is another critical component in building this "strangely enveloping quality." This isn't just about a nostalgic aesthetic choice; it’s about a tangible, tactile texture that 16mm inherently provides. The grain, the color rendition, the way it captures light in harsh mountain environments, all contribute to the film’s sensory density. In a cinematic landscape increasingly dominated by digital workflows, choosing film, especially for rugged outdoor shoots, is a declaration of artistic intent. It speaks to a commitment to a particular look and feel that digital, for all its advances, still struggles to replicate with the same organic warmth. For a film so attuned to textures and specific environmental details, 16mm sounds like the perfect canvas. It’s a deliberate choice that, as the review notes, makes theatrical exhibition almost a necessity, transcending the flatness often perceived on streaming platforms.

Let's delve into these seasonal segments, because they offer distinct challenges and opportunities for storytelling.

The first third, set in the "crisp first flush of spring," introduces Anne (Salomé Richard). She's a local, familiar with the region, but also restless. Her intended "last season" at the refuge suggests a deeper internal conflict, a woman at a crossroads. The subtle dalliance with Antoine, the birdwatcher searching for the endangered capercaillie, introduces a symbolic layer. This rare grouse, rapidly disappearing, becomes a "quasi-mythical motif", a metaphor, perhaps, for a disappearing way of life, or a vanishing sense of self amidst modern pressures. This is smart, economical storytelling, weaving character arc with ecological metaphor without heavy-handed exposition. It’s visual poetry, allowing the audience to draw their own conclusions, letting the imagery and the sparse dialogue do the heavy lifting, a hallmark of sophisticated indie filmmaking.

Summer brings Hélène (Aurélia Petit), an older, more "careworn" figure, taking over with "brisk, practised fashion." Her character appears to embody the resilience found in decades of temporary, menial work. This section, described as the "most vibrant, chattering," shows how the same fundamental setting can be transformed by human interaction and the sheer volume of passing traffic. Hélène's ability to adapt, yet occasionally retreat to the woods, highlights the constant push and pull between duty and personal sanctuary. The "unexpected dramatic emphases" mentioned, like the mystery of the absent hiking family, and the "rewarding, observational conclusions" of lower-stakes scenes (the impromptu dance party), point to a narrative rhythm that prioritizes moments over plot, atmosphere over action. It’s this kind of observational nuance that can often be the most challenging to direct and edit, requiring immense patience and a sharp eye for human behavior.

Finally, winter sees the arrival of Suzanne (Anne Coesens), a woman in her fifties, similar in age to Hélène but with a starkly different background. Her past as a "well-to-do wife and mother," now single and empty-nested, speaks to a different kind of reinvention. Her quest for "alone-but-not-loneliness" in the snow-licked hut defines this section. The description of Forest High emerging as an "anti-Shining," a "testament to the healing benefits of female solitude," is particularly revealing. It flips a classical narrative trope on its head, using isolation not for terror, but for quiet introspection and healing. The arrival of a young army deserter introduces a "gentle, reserved connection," suggesting that even in solitude, human connection, however minimal, remains a fundamental need. This careful balance of solitude and fleeting companionship sounds exquisitely drawn.

The collaborative craft behind Forest High further underscores its artistic integrity. The "serene control of Fresson’s camera" (which is to be expected from someone shooting 16mm in the Alps), the "patience and invisible economy of Théophile Gay-Mazas’s editing," and the "glassy, wind-brushed echoes of François Chamaraux’s score" all contribute to an atmosphere of "tranquil but unromanticized remove." This kind of seamless integration, where each element serves the central vision without drawing undue attention to itself, is the hallmark of truly accomplished filmmaking. It’s not about flashy techniques; it’s about a unified artistic statement. The absence of a strong narrative driving force places even more emphasis on the nuanced contributions of cinematography, editing, and sound design to create an immersive experience. For anyone trying to build a compelling film out of seemingly minimal "plot," this structure offers significant lessons. How do you create suspense or emotional resonance when the dramatic incidents are subtle? It’s in the rhythm, in the visual language, in the soundscape, all working in concert.

The film's "special jury mention" at Berlin’s Perspectives competition for first features suggests that this subtle approach resonated with industry professionals. For specialist distributors, films like Forest High represent a unique proposition, one that requires a nuanced marketing strategy. It's not a tentpole release; it's a film for cinephiles, for those who appreciate cinema as an art form rather than mere entertainment. Its emphasis on tactile experience and spectacular natural cinema highlights why theatrical exhibition is genuinely valued for certain works, contrasting sharply with the often passive consumption patterns encouraged by streaming platforms. The film's entire aesthetic, its pace, its chosen format of 16mm, argues for a communal, undisturbed viewing experience.

In many ways, Forest High sounds like the kind of film we champion here at BlockReel. It’s a testament to vision, to making a maximal impact with potentially minimal resources, grounded in an authentic passion for the subject matter. Coubia hasn't relied on big stars or CGI spectacle; she has relied on landscape, on deeply observed human behavior, and on the fundamental, enduring power of cinematic craft. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most profound stories are found in the quietest corners, within the most unassuming settings. And sometimes, the noise of the world needs to be tuned out entirely for the true art to emerge. It reminds me that often, the limitations we impose on ourselves, whether it’s a specific film stock or a sparse plot, can actually expand the creative possibilities. This kind of intentionality is essential in the current landscape where technological advancements can sometimes overshadow core storytelling principles. It's a film that demands to be experienced, to be felt, rather than just watched, a true example of how a singular vision, supported by meticulous craft, can create something truly beguiling.

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