Denis Côté Documentary Introduces ‘Cleaning Simp Paul’

Must we properly define a “simp”? For those (lucky enough?) not to be present in the online spaces where this is common parlance, it refers to someone who provides excessive flattery to an object of their affection or romantic pursuit, with little or no reciprocation. Somewhere more benign on this internet slang spectrum than the dreaded “incel,” a simp is certainly not a threat or major nuisance to the “simp-ed,” and pity in addition to cautious appreciation is the typical reaction from observers. Unique to the concept, simping is abundant publicly as well as within private interactions: click the replies below a cult-ish celebrity’s tweet, and my, you’ll see simping.

Formalist festival documentary has a new superstar and his username is “Cleaning Simp Paul.” Dénis Côté, the prolific auteur behind “Paul,” has spoken genuinely of his subject’s intelligence and relative self-awareness; from this, we can see Paul self-applying this epithet with a wink, maybe of the emoji sort. His reels, replicated in full in the assembly, express it pretty eloquently: this is a shy, overweight Québecois early thirtysomething whose “bit” is cleaning the houses of eclectic strangers for no reimbursement and great self-fulfilment, all for the purpose of alleviating his crippling social anxiety. Those from the peanut gallery identifying supposed “simps” would never alight on this exact interpretation of the term.

But Côté, an influential French-Canadian fixture of the art-festival circuit, buries the lede slightly in his exposition. Consider he ice-breaking opening few minutes, as Paul’s deceptively cheery manner make this appear a fun, eccentric novelty, a more artisanal form of Mr. Beast-type “lol random” scroll content. Yet soon, we realize his clientele are oft-tatted up dominatrices from Montréal’s famed kink scene, and these interactions fulfill a very particular need and fetish for Paul, in an environment credited for valuing consent and the playful exploration of boundaries. To Côté and editor Terence Chotard’s credit, it’s a seamless foregrounding of new information, rather than a jarring lurch, to transition from him scrubbing a sink, to one of his clients using his torso as a footstool.

Côté makes documentaries where viewers can productively probe questions of authenticity and provenance, and fiction features typically composed in a bare, if highly elegant, observational style. Yet “Paul” fits happily into the wider non-fiction strain where a director alights on a charismatic, and often decidedly offbeat individual — which also makes it more consumable to a wider audience than his previous work. But a gaping pothole the less deft of these films court — the imposition of condescending judgment and an invite to mock — is also sidestepped. Côte observes Paul unquestionably finding a personal equilibrium in this undertaking, but leaves it for ourselves to contemplate the strange triangulation of undesirable household chores, deep internet culture and BDSM.

Assessing all the information the movie gives us again, a conspicuous absence is any reference to the autistic spectrum. Paul speaks candidly near the start of his debilitating anxiety, depression, and the resultant social isolation he suffers; indeed, the audience are perhaps being beckoned to informally diagnose him. A slither of deeper background arrives when he describes his twenties as a complete write-off, first dropping out of college, and then being ashamed to go out or interact with anyone. Yet beyond being a sex-positive film, it’s merely and gratefully a positive one either way: with the gamified targets Paul sets himself of followers to achieve, and then, weight to shed, we can observe an idiosyncratic, personal regimen of self-improvement capably functioning.

The borders between exposure and privacy also clearly fascinate Côté. Paul is just one of the thousands of secluded and lonely young people generating a “second life” in the digital realm, offered a tabula rasa for a new mode of becoming (the young man’s evident visual storytelling knowhow, from his addictive and comic timing-strewn reels, also posits him as a kindred spirit to the director). Yet far more provocative is how this intersects with the connected party: a sex worker’s need to market, advertize and style themselves for consumption.

This is also where the side of Côté that revels putting flesh and racy activities on unashamed display reveals itself, although gratefully acknowledging persuasive digs against his last Berlinale premiere, “That Kind of Summer,” for the dominance of its titillated male gaze. The more light whipping, gimp masks, and suggestive food play we see — and in how the considerably more dull housework is de-emphasized — we could brand “Paul” as a piece of Trojan Horse pure erotica, catered partly to the more niche taste of those who love it, but operating as documentary and anthropological fascination for the rest of us.

Hovering around the prosody of “simp” is the word “sub” — Paul is certainly a proud sub, as we gradually understand his content isn’t solely cheery scroll fodder, but that he’s also happily exhibiting his sexual preference as an “out” kink enthusiast, shining visibility on himself and perhaps others like him to come as the 2020’s continue on. It’s all just so wonderfully Québécois and alt-Montréal: the empowerment of letting your freak flag fly at full mast.

Grade: B+

“Paul” premiered at the 2025 Berlin International Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.

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