With calculated cool, Dominik Moll’s Lemming reveals itself as a hall of mirrors haunted by the spectre of Charlotte Rampling; her glacial presence anticipated by an anomalous Scandinavian rodent. Having discovered a lemming in the S-bend of their kitchen sink, the Gettys, Alain (Laurent Lucus) and Benedicte (Charlotte Gainsbourg), soon find themselves stalked by the boss’ wife, played with stereotypical shrill by the predatory Rampling. An unwelcome houseguest, by turns seductive and abrasive, she imitates the titular creature right down to throwing herself off the proverbial ‘cliff’. In the tradition of David Lynch, that’s only the half of it. Typecast once again as an icicle bitch, the real twist of the film is watching the Gainsbourg – such a delicate, blithe spirit in The Science of Sleep – become slowly possessed by Rampling’s lingering feral soul, while Moll’s clinical visuals manage to unnerve at key moments, an eerie tension exasperated by dueling technological and supernatural forces. All things considered, this comes across as more sub-Chabrol than neo-Lynch – not quite screwed up enough, yet too aloof for its own good. Its symbolic critters, however, are bound to get right under your skin.—Tim Wong