Certified Copy (Copie conforme)
(2010, Abbas Kiarostami; Criterion spine #612)
One of the most subtle and beguiling film-structure tricks of recent memory: A French woman and an English man go on a drive and then an extended walk together through gorgeous and romantic Italian countryside, conversing, flirting, arguing, and flat-out fighting for 100 minutes; it sounds very much like an entry in Linklater’s Before trilogy. Except that the man and woman are strangers on a date at the start of the film, and spouses with an entire past history together at the end. There’s a narrative point in the middle where it might make sense that the two (dating strangers) would start playing a let’s-pretend game (of being 15 years married). But the genius of the script and of the performances (by Juliette Binoche and William Shimell) is that they resist this simple interpretation; for example, the characters speak to each other in English, French, and a bit of Italian, but the actual fluency in these languages shifts from beginning to end to fit the differing interpretations. And the information that Shimell has about the relationship changes as well. It’s possible that two people could play a game with each other, but the game would have to be diabolical if they were to pretend they didn’t know things they had to know (and that the other didn’t know the things they knew the other knew)! No, the two interpretations of the situation are both true simultaneously; for the viewer, they lay uncomfortably on top of each other like two identical-but-not-quite transparencies of the same artwork, conflicting with each others’ lines in some spots, and reinforcing each other with the same lines in other spots.
And this metaphor is explicit: Binoche is an art dealer and Shimell is an academic who has written a book about copies in art, specifically to question whether or not there is ever a true “original” of an artwork and why a “copy” of an artwork should be considered equally valid as a work of art. The idea of high art and low art, reproductions and forgeries, true value and value which is imputed to an artwork (or value rescinded) appears again and again: when the two view a portrait in a museum which was thought for decades to be original but recently found to be a copy; as they walk past statuary in a village which the townspeople love but critics deplore as kitsch; even as Shimell signs several of his books for Binoche (thus theoretically increasing the value of some previously identical copies over others). At the same time, even before the viewer starts to suspect that the two strangers might in reality be a long-married couple, the idea of marriage has already been in the foreground — the town that they drive to for a visit is famous for its weddings and is full of young couples getting married and older couples revisiting the site of their marriage. Every grumpy observation that Shimell makes about the naive youngsters (“When I see all the hopes and dreams in their eyes, I can’t support the illusion!”) becomes, by the end, a comment on his own marriage; every (seemingly) flighty gesture that Binoche makes (oddly aggressive arguments, suddenly wistful reactions to the weddings) could be misinterpreted, at the start of the film, as the art-film version of critic Nathan Rabin’s “manic pixie dream girl” trope.
So artworks and newlyweds are highlighted. But also, as with any two-handed, real-time conversation in a movie or (more often) in a stage play, the viewer is primed to watch closely for additional details (reactions, settings, background actions) that comment or shed light on the interrelationship. In the driving scenes, heavy reflections and shadows on the pair flow by, as if their thoughts or memories are being depicted visually, especially since the setup results in two entirely different but related “streams” (reflections from the two sides of a road); the visual even seems to be commenting on the dialogue, if impenetrably. The rapid spoken language changes are also fascinating; generally, the two speak English or French, with some interactions in Italian, and although every language choice makes sense line-to-line, there seem to be higher-order comments on the conversation based on what language is being used and by which speaker (especially interesting given that Kiarostami is working outside his native Persian). And the positions of the actors in the frame (interesting to consider in any well-designed movie) are doubly interesting in the context of the two possible reads of the relationship; in the opening scene’s lecture by Shimell, Binoche first appears in the far back of the room, clutching copies of his book, looking almost like a star-struck fan — and then winds up in one of the reserved seats in the front row. The camera’s position seems utilitarian at first, but read as Shimell’s view of the room, it’s either interest in the pretty art dealer come to hear his slightly pompous talk, or unease at the appearance of his somewhat estranged wife (with their son hanging around at stage left, shooting increasingly exasperated looks at his mother). There are also many reflection shots, both key mirror shots for each character (including the enigmatic final shot) but also frames within the frame with one character dominant and the other seen in reflection, like an artwork.
Reminds me of:
As mentioned above, Richard Linklater’s Before films (Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight) are also structured as real-time events with two characters talking. (So is My Dinner With Andre, as far as that goes.) Familiarity with a couple of these movies might lead a viewer into a false set of expectations with Certified Copy: we’re used to a certain low-budget, pretty-scenery, backward-camera-tracking aesthetic; we’re listening for verbal reveals and counter-reveals, with an expectation that each line is as new and unexpected to the other listener as it is to us — we’re a third, silent participant in the conversation. Therefore the rug is really pulled out from under us as we start to suspect that the characters know more (and more about each other) than we’d thought.This is another film about marriage, like L’Atalante and some others mentioned in that #WTW. It’s a tough one to watch as a husband. All the selfishness of Shimell’s character lies uncomfortably close to the ways in which men fail their spouses all the time, especially the fact that Binoche holds all the emotional responsibility for their son; apparently Kiarostami was working from his own life and own failed relationship, and the two simultaneous narratives show the need for and the impossibility of marriage commitment. He is not letting himself (and his male viewer) off easily. L’Atalante was a sweet depiction of the early years of a relationship which has the power to remind people of their own youthful emotions; here there are some similar early-relationship mementos, along with some hard and bittersweet truths about where people sit fifteen or twenty years down the line.
I remember the first time I was aware of Binoche, in Krzysztof Kieslowski’s masterful Blue from his Three Colors trilogy in 1993. She’s always been complex. Last year’s Clouds of Sils Maria just opened in the U.S. and I can’t wait to see Binoche in it; it sounds like it’s built on another layered conceit: Binoche is a famous stage actress who found fame in a performance twenty years earlier, and she’s agreed to star in a revival of the play but as an older character, with a new young ingenue in “her” part. It’s racked up European awards including honors for American actresses Chloë Grace Moretz (always interesting) and Kristen Stewart (interesting when she’s in the right work); it sounds like a female-centric, international version of Birdman.
But then — the guilt!
Typical American: This is the this first Kiarostami film I’ve seen despite being intrigued by (and owning) Close-Up, and having heard about and yet ignored Taste of Cherry for years. His other films are situated in and react to Iranian society, and this European-centric film (while wonderful) doesn’t engage with Iran other than to act as a counterpoint (a movie which Kiarostami couldn’t have made in his native milieu; in Iran, the film was automatically banned from release due to its “western themes” — and, very likely, Binoche’s bare arms). Taste of Cherry would have been a more straightforward introduction to his work. As penance, I’ll watch my copy of Close-Up soon.
The easy resemblance to Linklater’s trilogy (which I’ve seen) doesn’t absolve me of the fact that there are stronger precursors which influenced both Linklater and Kiarostami: the one everyone mentions is Rossellini’s Journey to Italy from 1954, in which a couple similarly argues and rekindles their relationship as they travel. Apparently George Sanders as the husband character is rude and off-putting in ways which strongly inform Shimell’s performance here.
Pitch:
This is Binoche’s show and she’s a stunner from start to finish; Adrian Moore as her son only gets to appear in the first couple scenes, but it’s an unforced and natural performance. Their early conversation in a cafe is masterful, leaving just enough questions about Binoche’s internal state that we’re primed to keep watching for clues. That’s where Kiarostami hooks us, because those clues are liberally scattered — but don’t add up to what we’re anticipating (or, indeed, anything quite like we’ve seen before.)
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