Under Her Skin

Julia Ducournau funneled years of fury, angst, and comedy into her Palme d’Or– winning, genre-smashing film Titane.

- Rachel Handler

JULIA DUCOURNAU is telling me a horror story. A true one. The two of us are walking through MoMA on a Friday afternoon, in part because it’s one of the Parisian writer-director’s favorite spots to visit in the city and in part because the museum happens to be putting on an exhibit called “Automania,” which could be an alternate title for her Cannes Palme d’Or–winning, paradigm-smashing, car-fucking second feature, Titane. Despite having woken at 4:30 a.m. for her flight to New York, Ducournau, 37, looks soignée: black pleated Prada skirt, black leather Chanel jacket, and iridescent-purple Issey Miyake tote bag, matched with scuffed white Adidas sneakers and the remnants of a late-summer tan. She’s five-foot-nine but gives off the distinct impression that she is six-nine. She warns me that she can’t stay inside the museum chatting for too long without a break. “It’s not because I like fresh air or anything. I don’t give a shit about that,” she says. “But I like smoking.”