My take on this, at our local festival where people would see me so often they thought me a better source than I may actually have been, began with a head shake: "Well, I can't summarize the plot, but it's a really superb character study of an extremely scary man." Then, slight embarrassment, I ran into someone who actually knew what had gone down, that is, from whom Trebor unwittingly gets his new heart. It'd been my last film in a long, long day halfway through the festival. Maybe I'd dozed. The better a film is the more likely it triggers daydreams that send me really dreaming. Don't know. Did know there was an O'Henry twist achingly just beyond my ken as things finished. And knew it had to do with the heart, hence the quietly hilarious talent search. My plot-loss remark had more to do with intricacies of Trebor's connections in France, his relation to the dog woman and so on, stuff I'd been wide awake for. Denis barely glances at details that might have anchored another director's treatment.
But I write these things too often from memory, especially festival films, films whose DVD I don't have at hand (Le Lait de la tendresse humaine is one of many examples.), and plot kinks fade much more quickly than broader impressions. Still, or already, L'Inrus in my memory is beyond all else a character study of a sort of dark-side superman, a super fiend not ensconced in genre or historical trappings but active and plausible, relatively soft-spoken, driven but patient, right among us. The scar, once he attains it, makes him, just visually I mean, in image, a sort of hybrid Frankenstein monster, mad doctor and creation all in one. The actual doctors are his tools. If he doesn't extract and install the heart himself, it's only because it's not possible. He's the force, always, the parasite consuming everyone he touches and finally himself. What else is he? To suggest that he's us, the First World versus the Third, seems too simple since he feeds no less on his fellow First Worlders, on all of us.
Denis's camera's eye - when it looks at things I know - goes usually where mine would, so I tend to trust her when she looks at things I don't know. Snow trekking, too-fast bicycling, and forest darkness I've known in small ways, but the South Seas not at all, so I made better entry into L'Intrus, both France and the crystalline isles of its finish, than into Beau Travail. L'Intrus is, for me, a very comfortable discomforting film. It's a sequence of places portrayed familiarly, with a intimacy that allows us to know them whether we've seen the reality or not. A single image, Trebor cycling, his massive weight on the thin racing frame, the sounds of violated air and shrieking tires, the asphalt ribbon, the dark-in-bright-sun evergreens, cued me that the film would be linear, a road trip, a single will-driven thrust.
Despite Trebor's personal power, he's a human failure. No matter who he's with, he's alone, though apparently he hasn't always been. His body aborts life twice, first to need the new heart, then despite it. L'Intrus is tragedy. Trebor is hubris.
I'm navigating perilously the thread of what I remember. Let's leave it at that.

I have heard a lot about this film, with people writing me telling me I should see it, as I am a fan of extremely bloody, gory movies. I got my hands on it almost right away, but one thing or another always kept me from watching it- until now. I would have been better off not remembering I even had it.
This movie was atrocious. The worst thing though is that it could have been so much better than it actually was. I know it was a story by Clive Barker and all, and no I have not read that story- but it appears to me that if you haven't then you will be, as I was, completely clueless and utterly disappointed.
The film begins good enough- the actors are convincing, the story interesting. The first scene is bloody- a great way to catch your attention. I thought the blood looked a bit bad, but seeing as it was the very first scene I did hope for improvement later on. I was wrong.
The blood and effects are so horrible, it was almost an insult to my intelligence to be expected to believe that, for instance, someone could knock a person's head right off their shoulders using only a meat hammer. WTF? CGI blood (did they even use ANY "real" blood at all? My home made stuff looks better than any used in this film!), unbelievable acts of dismemberment (eyeballs popping out just from getting hit in the back of the head; arms cut neatly off- does no one remember there are BONES all throughout our bodies?!), too-dark scenes (every scene is either an odd yellow color, or in hidden in shadows)...it just gets worse and worse. I found myself pointing out mistake after mistake. There's just too much. Add that to the fact that what could have and should have been a great serial-killer movie turns into some demonic/supernatural/monster movie at the end...no thank you! It should have been kept as a creepy guy butchering people in the subway- OK, with a conspiracy theory thrown in- and an overzealous photographer. Maybe they murder people and sell the meat via the meat plant? Plausible, doable...and a lot better I think than the "real" story. That could have and should have worked. Instead it became a "creatures living at the end of the old tunnel and everyone knows about it but you, and unless you read the book, well...you just won't ever understand it" fiasco. Tragic, what an awful thing to do to a movie with such potential. If you like mindless fake blood and gore, you'll love this. But if you have half a brain in your head then you will completely hate it. Stay away- far, far away.