Sauvage is not an easy film. It watches a man sell his body without judgement, without melodrama, and—most strikingly—without flinching. But beneath its surface of raw survival, there’s something infinitely fragile. Félix Maritaud, in a fearless and haunting performance, gives life to Léo, a young sex worker drifting through city streets, longing for connection more than comfort.

The film takes place in a world of transactions, but it resists any attempt to moralize or romanticize. There is no backstory to explain Léo, no redemption arc, no easy exit. He wanders, loves, and disappears—his body both weapon and refuge. And yet, he moves through this world with a kind of grace, a tenderness that remains untouched by the violence around him.

The camera stays close—sometimes uncomfortably so. It captures skin, dirt, and breath in intimate detail. But rather than exploitative, it feels compassionate. Director Camille Vidal-Naquet builds a portrait not of prostitution, but of presence. Of someone who exists fully in every moment, even when the world has reduced him to a function.

Sauvage is about being seen, being used, being abandoned—and still choosing to feel. Léo’s vulnerability is not a weakness; it is his form of resistance. In a world that treats him as disposable, he refuses to harden. He asks for nothing, gives everything. And his desire—for love, for touch, for permanence—remains undiminished.

The film offers no comfort. It doesn’t pretend that love can save. But it shows how affection can still exist in the margins. How the human need for care persists, even when all structure has collapsed.

A film about the cost of tenderness. And the quiet power of those who keep offering it, even when the world has stopped asking.