By Framboise Gommendy
Now, I know what you’re thinking—squash? Film? What’s next? Interpretive dance in a broom closet? But keep reading, because this story, like squash itself, is about much more than meets the eye.
Back in 2002, a French TV executive named Lionel Bailliu had a rather unorthodox epiphany. Working in a drama department, he noticed the same recycled tropes, predictable plots, and tired love triangles being pitched over and over again. He knew he needed something different, something punchy, something… sweaty. That’s when it hit him—why not squash? A sport he regularly played, but, more importantly, one that could be dramatised to tell a story with the kind of visceral tension that would make viewers’ palms sweat. Little did he know then that this idea would catapult him onto the biggest stage of all—the 2004 Oscars.
“Actually, I was looking for a short film idea, and since I was playing squash back then, it seemed to me that there was something very cinematic to be done around a squash match,” Bailliu recounts.
He had an eye for the cinematic possibilities: the clang of the ball against the wall, the confined space, the heavy breathing of competitors locked in an escalating contest. Squash wasn’t just a game—it was a pressure cooker. All the drama of sport distilled into 62 square metres of walls and glass.
But where to shoot? “We shot on a court that no longer exists,” Lionel reminisces wistfully.
“It was part of a condominium near the Cambronne metro station in Paris. There was only one court, topped by a kind of balcony—convenient for housing the technical team and the boom operator.”
He pauses for emphasis, knowing full well the importance of the next detail: “The back wall was solid, not glass, which enhanced the feeling of confinement.” Confinement, exactly. The kind that makes you wonder if it’s the players or the viewers who are being pushed to their limits.
The setting was locked. Now, Bailliu needed actors. He needed talent that could embody the ferocity of squash yet slip into the psychological nuances of a duel that went far beyond mere physicality.
Enter Eric Savin and Malcolm Conrath, two professional actors with a shared passion for squash.
“I already knew Malcolm, and I had noticed Eric because he was intimidating yet had a paternal side that made you want him as a coach,” Lionel explains. They were perfect—a sort of Good Cop, Bad Cop pairing that would transform a simple game of squash into an unforgettable drama.
Eric, who stumbled into the project serendipitously through a café encounter, remembers his reaction vividly: “I was a squash enthusiast; I’d always been sporty—ice hockey when I was young, rugby later on. When Lionel talked about squash, I was in. Too good of an opportunity to combine the career I had chosen and my passion for squash.”
With the cast assembled, they needed choreography—not just for the physical rallies, but for the verbal and psychological volleys that would give the film its distinctive edge.
“I choreographed around twenty shot rallies that make up this match, trying to mix shots and situations,” Bailliu elaborates.
“The week before shooting, we rehearsed with the actors so that they could respect their marks over four or five shots. Sport demands commitment—you can’t fake it. The actors had to keep up that same state of breathlessness, even doing push-ups between takes. Squash became more than a sport. It was a character in the film.”
The intensity shows. Watch the film today, and you’ll be struck by the oppressive atmosphere on the court. Every swing, every shot is a small act of desperation, a move to outwit and outlast an opponent who refuses to quit.
The decision to use non-glass walls was brilliant: it added a claustrophobic feel, as if the players were fighting not just each other, but the very space around them.
But it wasn’t just the direction or the acting that elevated this film. The editing was sublime, a precise yet frenetic rhythm that turned squash into something between a dance and a death match.
“The primary ambition was to interest and dramatise a squash match,” Bailliu explains, a modest understatement if there ever was one. “I fashioned the match to make the key moments merge with the plot chapters. Vincent Tabaillon, the editor, deserves credit here. He went on to edit big American films later on, but even without being a squash player, he knew exactly how to pace the action.”
Bailliu had a vision, and with the help of his team, he brought it to life. The music was the final, crucial ingredient. Denis Penot, a musician Bailliu knew from his days at M6, created a score that builds tension relentlessly.
“The starts and stops of the music allowed us to chapter the film, which would otherwise have been one long continuity. It made the match feel like a series of acts in a play.”
The result? A resounding success. The film garnered international acclaim, scooping up awards at festivals around the world.
“People stopped me on the street to talk about it or congratulate me. We won the Audience Award at Clermont Ferrand, and in the end, we won 10 in total,” Lionel recalls.
“It was great to know such success with Squash, to have gone to the Oscars, to have the pleasure to respond to an interview more than twenty years later.”
And yet, for all its success, Squash remains something of an anomaly—a gem hidden in plain sight. The film’s searing portrayal of psychological warfare on a squash court left a mark on those who saw it, but its legacy is surprisingly underappreciated.
Perhaps it’s the sport itself, forever consigned to the sidelines of mainstream recognition. Or perhaps it’s just the ephemeral nature of short films—brief bursts of brilliance that light up the festival circuit before fading into obscurity.
And here’s the kicker: neither Bailliu nor Savin play squash anymore. “Eric dropped it when his club changed ownership,” Lionel says with a sigh. He himself hasn’t played in years. Yet, the fire they captured in that short film still burns bright.
As Savin puts it, “You realise how squash is about intensity, strategy, and intelligence… When you start playing, you just run after the ball like a headless chicken, but later on, it becomes really interesting.”
With Squash, Bailliu wasn’t just telling a story. He was asking a question: what happens when the pressure is turned up so high that it’s not the players, but the walls themselves, that seem to crack? And, in a sense, Squash is the answer—a tight, taut, 20-minute illustration of the limits of human endurance.
A metaphor for sport. A metaphor for life. A French fancy indeed.
Watch the whole film
