Originally published in 2011 • Significantly revised February 2026
“It’s me and Blacky, galloping on… Until there are no more houses… no more people, until there is nobody, no more schools, nothing more.”
Quand j’avais cinq ans jem’ai tué (When I Was Five I Killed Myself) is a 1994 French film, skillfully directed by Jean-Claude Sussfeld and based on the novel by Howard Buten. It tells the story of Gil, an eight-year-old boy placed in a juvenile mental hospital in 1950s France. He is there because of what he did to Jessica. Who is she, and what happened to her?
Quand j’avais cinq ans je m’ai tué (When I Was Five I Killed Myself) is a 1994 French film, skillfully directed by Jean-Claude Sussfeld and based on the novel by Howard Buten. It tells the story of Gil, an eight-year-old boy placed in a juvenile mental hospital in 1950s France. He is there because of what he did to Jessica. Who is she, and what happened to her?
We explore these questions through a series of flashbacks, narrated entirely by Gil himself. Unlike most coming-of-age films where a wise adult looks back on their past from a safe distance, Gil tells us his story using his own childish voice. It feels like an intimate, urgent confession, immediately locking us into his youthful and deeply confused state of mind without revealing the ultimate secrets of his journey too soon.
It is always tough to see children confined to a mental hospital, a setting society usually prefers to ignore. If you look at other psychological coming-of-age films set in psychiatric wards, like The Boy Who Cried Bitch, the camera usually hyper-focuses on the destructive protagonist. But here, the director takes time to observe the other young patients as well. Using slow, creeping zooms, the film forces us to acknowledge the systemic tragedy of the ward, not just Gil’s personal one.
Gil’s placement in the institution immediately reminded me of the 1975 drama One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Just like McMurphy, Gil is a rebel in a clinical cage, trapped in a cold, authoritarian system. The adult world around him is distinctly indifferent. The director shoots the adults, like Gil’s parents, largely in the background or at a physical distance , showing just how disconnected they are from his reality. The camera often strands Gil in wide, empty hospital hallways , while the music fades out to leave only the cold, echoing rhythm of his footsteps. You can literally feel how small and isolated he is.
Surrounded by doctors who apply strict methods without caring about his feelings, Gil predictably hates the hospital, stating bluntly: “I hate this place. I want to kill it.” He purposely tries to get sent to the “quiet room”—a stark, completely empty white space. But the film brilliantly flips our expectations: to Gil, this room isn’t a prison. It is a sanctuary. It’s a massive blank canvas where he can write his inner thoughts on the walls, completely free from the crushing weight of adult critique.
The only adult who truly reaches him is Edouard, a doctor who physically drops down to Gil’s eye level to speak with him, earning his trust. This dynamic strongly reminded me of the Canadian film 10½ (2010), another powerful story where a troubled, locked-up boy finds his only lifeline in a compassionate educator. Like in 10½, Edouard understands what the rest of the institution misses: Gil’s behavior isn’t rooted in illness. It’s rooted in a love story.
To call Quand j’avais cinq ans, je m’ai tue a controversial film would be an overstatement as, even if the story makes references to the children’s sexuality, it does so in such a natural and innocent way.
When Gil thinks of Jessica, the film’s entire posture softens. The clinical coldness fades into warmer colors, and the melancholic piano score deepens the atmosphere. Watching him act awkwardly around her resurrected my own childhood memories—like the time I purposely kept bringing the wrong map to a classroom just so I had an excuse to walk back in and steal a glimpse of the girl I really liked. The young actor, Dimitri Rougeul (who was only about eight during filming), carries the entire picture with a performance that feels lived rather than acted.
Close-ups on his reddened eyes—often said to be the mirror of the soul—perfectly capture that specific, electric, and foolish bravery of first love. Few films capture the raw, all-consuming power of a childhood bond quite like this; in fact, the only other movie that comes to mind that portrays first love in such unapologetic, powerful terms is the 2002 French drama The Devils (Les Diables).
Ultimately, When I Was Five I Killed Myself is a profound look at the agonizing gap between childhood innocence and adult misunderstanding. It is a film that refuses to offer easy answers, choosing instead to linger on the raw, unspoken emotions of growing up. If you are a fan of deeply psychological coming-of-age cinema—movies that prioritize emotional truth and atmosphere over fast-paced, traditional plots—this is an absolute must-watch. It will reach right through the screen and force you to resurrect your own ghosts of first love.
