Imagine the quintessential French film — coffee, cigarettes, plenty of quietly intellectual conversation and an effortlessly casual pace. Fold in a bit of philosophical musing on art, add in Parisian superstar Juliette Binoche, and you have "Certified Copy." Indeed, what could possibly be more French? Perhaps a picture crafted by a French director. Because, for all its overwhelmingly Gallic qualities, the film is but the latest work of acclaimed filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami — who is, in fact, Iranian.
Whether it's an intentional channeling of such an iconic style or mere happenstance, the internationalism of the whole affair is unmistakable. No fewer than three distinct languages are integral components of the spoken dialogue — Italian, English and, of course, French.
But, in spite of its familiar stylistic touchstones, Kiarostami's work here is, for the most part, pleasantly confounding. Tossing scriptwriting convention aside, he offers up a wonderfully ambiguous, challenging and evolving test of his viewers' willingness to become active participants in the creative process.
The relevant and non-spoiling underpinnings of the plot are as follows: an unnamed woman (Binoche) and a British arts writer (William Shimell) spend an afternoon together in the Tuscan countryside, conversing all the while. Along the way, the nature of their relationship undergoes significant transformation, such that the audience is forced to question just how well these two know each other, if they even know each other at all.
The identities of these characters are obscured in a way that's undeniably deceitful, but forgivably so, while only occasionally providing a kernel of what seems to be truth. It's an elegant dumping-out of a pile of emotional puzzle pieces, after which the audience's task becomes active reconstruction. Such a concrete role in the narrative process becomes both incredibly frustrating and exciting, with each viewer formulating an individually "true" sequence of events as a limited body of evidence unfolds onscreen.
Kiarostami's approach to storytelling is sure to be polarizing, as it borders on full-on duplicity, but in a way that's part of the allure. To see a film so gleefully bend such an iron-bound rule of offering up the full, honest details of two characters' relationship is, above all, refreshing.
Nearly as impressive as its willingness to toss out the book on storytelling is a pleasantly unpretentious approach to philosophical material. From debates on art to notions of personal and romantic responsibility — most of which are framed through polar oppositions — the film's intellectual content manages a level of originality without succumbing to the pitfall of seeming to try too hard. These discussions instead serve as entertaining misdirection, feints that preempt the hammer-blow of later character-related revelations.
To offer up some further detail without exposing the machinations of the plot, imagine the similarly conversational "Before Sunrise" (1995) stripped of its pleasant, rosy sheen. Where the European romantics therein seem real, if overly idealistic, honesty here is traded for an acute sense of emotional vulnerability. With their characters' furtive stabs at self-preservation, Binoche and Shimell are forced to safeguard their credibility while being pulled into circumstances that accommodate their clouded-over identities.
That Kiarostami is even able to entertain the concept of such disguise and sleight of hand is thanks, in large part, to the commitment and sincerity of his actors. In lesser hands, this noble experiment might have crumbled to dust, but both performers lend an authenticity to these two personalities, which are intentionally shielded from full exposure. Binoche, particularly, deftly navigates spiking emotions and unexpected mood swings on her way to one of the most memorable performances of her career. Her bitterness at the past measured to balance with tempered hope for the future rings true, and each tonal shift comes away suffused with an underlying truth.
Kiarostami's focus on depicting character comes through not just from the plot, but visually as well. Nearly half of the film's shots hover in close-up territory, leaving an actor little room to hide as one conversation flows into another and coffee is sipped. French to its bones, in appearance if not in authorship, the film presents a simplicity through its uncomplicated frames, made beguiling by the context in which they are delivered.
It's a quality that extends to the film's conclusion and the gut-smacking appearance of the credits as if from nowhere, like a reverse cold open that hits as hard as a ton of bricks. Here, though, it works: The irresolution fits in with the hints, the uncertainty and the suggestiveness of the whole affair.
Perhaps this unassuming piece of intellectual drama might have been better served by the tagline of current 3D eye-popper "Sucker Punch" than the film it was designed for — you will be unprepared. It's just that kind of rare find.
