“Nowadays, editors insist you have a controversial title,” says James Miller, a fictional British author in Certified Copy, of his own book’s alternative title, Forget the Original, Just Get a Good Copy. Indeed, many producers would doubtless support such a title for Iranian writer-director Abbas Kiarostami’s film, which lacks either that or any other traditionally marketable features, such as clearly defined characters, a plot or indeed any real action other than two people talking. Both simple and complex — something it winkingly references — Certified Copy isn’t for everyone. But those who brave its unorthodoxy will probably be glad they did.
The two people who appear together in almost all of the film’s scenes are James (British opera singer William Shimell) and an ex-patriot Frenchwoman listed in the credits as “Elle” (Juliette Binoche), whose real name is never revealed. She seems at first a mere fan of his, taking a front-row seat at his appearance in her Tuscan hometown of Arezzo and arranging to meet him later when her impatient son (Adrian Moore) forces her to leave. But from the point when they reunite at her antique shop and travel to the picturesque nearby village of Lucignano, it’s clear all is not as it appears.
Although Binoche, unsurprisingly, delivers the better performance, both actors are compelling. Elle, who like James sometimes seems more an archetype than a real person, is a bit of an enigma, but she initially comes across as a jaded idealist, frustrated by the supposed superficiality of our times (she disgustedly informs James that her sister favours a gas fireplace because of the convenience). She’s actually met up with him less to praise his book than to confront him about its argument that society misunderstands and overvalues “originality.”
James’s casual parrying of her attack, though, only makes her more frustrated. Though also later revealed as a more complex character, he’s essentially her philosophical opposite. An apparent existentialist, he’s amused when she tells him her son replied “So what?” to her warning he’d catch his death of cold.
“Actually, I think I like your son’s version better,” he says, comparing it to the usual epitaphs. “We’re all going to die: ‘So what?’”
The film thus far is intriguing if not exactly riveting, but an unexpected twist occurs when a café owner mistakes them for a married couple. Elle doesn’t correct her. As they continue to wander the town, she starts talking to James as though he is in fact her husband, and he responds accordingly. It’s impossible to tell if the two were once in fact lovers or have merely assumed these roles as part of their ongoing debate. But whatever the case, it makes an otherwise abstract film more human.
Indeed, Certified Copy screams “art house” in several ways, from its setting, to its dialogue — a mixture of English, French, and Italian — to its discourses on art, gender, human nature and plenty of other weighty subjects. The husband-and-wife dynamic isn’t solely comic; it’s clear that, whatever though the nature of their relationship or otherwise, both James and Elle have long-simmering sources of unhappiness. But it adds an appealing lightness nonetheless. Indeed, when the couple argues heatedly over whether there’s a difference between “sleeping”and “dozing,” it faintly recalls the absurdity of Seinfeld.
At a little over 100 minutes, this film isn’t exceptionally long, but it feels longer than a conventional one with the same running time. You could probably miss a fair number of scenes and not notice any absence. But removing them wouldn’t have felt quite right either, a bit like receiving all the dishes in a seven-course meal at once. For better or worse, the film’s slowness is an essential part of it.
By the same token, to appreciate this film isn’t necessarily to wish there is more like it (the rarity of some things is part of their allure). But that’s unlikely to happen in mainstream cinema anyway. If nothing else, Certified Copy will probably remain a genuine original.
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