You can practically see the paranoia thriller being invented here — except it’s European, angrier, and not remotely bothered about being “cool”. Where the American ’70s ones often whisper their mistrust, Z just grabs you and says, “Nope. This is how it works.”
Yves Montand is the spark: a decent, pro-disarmament deputy whose existence seems to scare the life out of the wrong people. Then Jean-Louis Trintignant turns up as the investigating magistrate and the film becomes this grim little procedural. It’s less “who did it?” and more “how did they pull it off, and who’s leaning on who to make it go away?” Watching him keep pushing feels weirdly satisfying, like someone finally refusing to take the hint.
Costa-Gavras stages it like a panic attack with paperwork: quiet dread, sudden public chaos, then the slow squeeze of bureaucracy and intimidation. It’s fast, sharp, and properly bleak — consequence over comfort — and that’s exactly why it lingers.