Certified Copy - 2011
by Abbas Kiarostami
On Kiarostami's works it seams
to ovreflow purposefulness
and meaning, as if
every little nuance of what is shown
served a greater purpose.
That is to say that as we engage in watching
any of his works, we need to approach them
as something more than a mere
narrative recipient,
and 'Certified Copy' is here to stand
as a proof of that, for it carries
within itself all Kiarostmi´s school
(the Iranian cinema as the world knows it)
had to offer, a pulsing desire to
transcend the barriers of the film
mainly by denouncing itself as a one – thus
creating and presenting itself as a plain
mental labyrinth.
Therefore if "Certified Copy" were released
on a '1st of April', it would've been
the greatest
'April Fools' prank ever,
for Kiarostami, decided to literally trick
his audience with the coolest 'inside joke'
contemporary cinema has yet seen.
In view of such intents, we shall hereon approach
this picture as an independent ‘individual’ and no longer
as a product for the time being.
From its first minutes, the picture assumes a position
of one who wants you to feel
what the characters and scenes
themselves are ‘feeling’.
And in such pursuit, it doesn’t just show you
what happens, it wants you to
empirically experience it all,
from the delay of the Speaker to the
frustration of trying to understand his words
over the crossed dialogue of a mother and a son.
The discomfort and impressions
these sequences cause aren´t filmic,
they are yours alone.
From then on we begin to be exposed
to what at first seemed to be a story
[a script!] announcing a beginning,
a middle and [the inplantation of] the hope
for a happy ending. The son exposes his mother,
as one given to flirts, as a mother looking for stability.
The mother displays herself as an intellectual,
a lover of art that so gently volunteered herself
to take a foreign man (an illustrious one)
for a short ride around Italy before
his scheduled departure latter on.
But that is just as far as you
can get rationally, For the film itself
[or the here mentioned prank] is released
from that exact point on and will prevail
over anything else till
the credits crawl up the screen.
The fields and arquiteture of Italy
are herein framed in a very
delicate perspective, disposed in
such a premeditated manner
that in a way the picture makes out of itself
a ‘tour around a part of Italy
that tourists usually skip’ progressing
in its roots and tradition along with
the growth of the narrative complexity.
By the end, geography and culture
are so intertwined with drama
that it makes it impossible
to detach the characters
from its surroundings.
The ‘honeymoon hotel’ being its most genuine example.
But on top of all that, what instrisecly
defines ‘Certified Copy’ as a
transcendental experience,
in the sense that it literally transcends
the screens better than any 3D film
has so far being able to, is its
lack of credibility as far as its
‘plots’ go. It is virtually impossible
to point out what is authentic
and what is made up in all the
vast interactions of Elle (Juliette Binoche)
and James (William Shimel).
This peculiar feature alone, justifies,
both its title and its discourse,
for at first all dialogues and sequences are arrayed
with the intent of discussing
the validation (or not) of the & Dr. James´s thesis,
namely - the utter unimportance
of ‘authenticity’ as far as
the admiring of art works go,
and most important, that to the audience,
it makes no difference whatsoever if either
the original work of an artist or
its copy are exposed
as long as they are ignorant
to its origin and processes.
Is in such affirmations,
added to the eternal quest
for a plausible definition of 'true' art,
that ‘Certified Copy’ introduces
itself as a living allegory,
experimenting on its own discourse,
displaying itself
as both the original
and the copy, in a way that
we are left wondering
what in the whole projection
was in fact authentic,
and what was not. Forcing us
(the audience)to dive into
the film as if we were actors,
as if we were there.
That´s why Kiarostami added
so many front shots and contemplative scenes,
we needed to be there ourselves,
examining the picture
with our own eyes - and most times
thru the missguiding filters of windshields and glasses,
tempering what mattered most.
And that´s the 'prank':
a film that can´t be trusted,
a story that can´t be told.
In the end, it doesn´t matter,
what in fact those two individuals were,
nor to the film… nor to us.
We simultaneously learn
(both us and the film itself)
that in spite of the answer, the purpose of
their exposition and trajectory
(the whole encounter)
in themselves were justified.
On Kiarostami's works it seams
to ovreflow purposefulness
and meaning, as if
every little nuance of what is shown
served a greater purpose.
That is to say that as we engage in watching
any of his works, we need to approach them
as something more than a mere
narrative recipient,
and 'Certified Copy' is here to stand
as a proof of that, for it carries
within itself all Kiarostmi´s school
(the Iranian cinema as the world knows it)
had to offer, a pulsing desire to
transcend the barriers of the film
mainly by denouncing itself as a one – thus
creating and presenting itself as a plain
mental labyrinth.
Therefore if "Certified Copy" were released
on a '1st of April', it would've been
the greatest
'April Fools' prank ever,
for Kiarostami, decided to literally trick
his audience with the coolest 'inside joke'
contemporary cinema has yet seen.
In view of such intents, we shall hereon approach
this picture as an independent ‘individual’ and no longer
as a product for the time being.
From its first minutes, the picture assumes a position
of one who wants you to feel
what the characters and scenes
themselves are ‘feeling’.
And in such pursuit, it doesn’t just show you
what happens, it wants you to
empirically experience it all,
from the delay of the Speaker to the
frustration of trying to understand his words
over the crossed dialogue of a mother and a son.
The discomfort and impressions
these sequences cause aren´t filmic,
they are yours alone.
From then on we begin to be exposed
to what at first seemed to be a story
[a script!] announcing a beginning,
a middle and [the inplantation of] the hope
for a happy ending. The son exposes his mother,
as one given to flirts, as a mother looking for stability.
The mother displays herself as an intellectual,
a lover of art that so gently volunteered herself
to take a foreign man (an illustrious one)
for a short ride around Italy before
his scheduled departure latter on.
But that is just as far as you
can get rationally, For the film itself
[or the here mentioned prank] is released
from that exact point on and will prevail
over anything else till
the credits crawl up the screen.
The fields and arquiteture of Italy
are herein framed in a very
delicate perspective, disposed in
such a premeditated manner
that in a way the picture makes out of itself
a ‘tour around a part of Italy
that tourists usually skip’ progressing
in its roots and tradition along with
the growth of the narrative complexity.
By the end, geography and culture
are so intertwined with drama
that it makes it impossible
to detach the characters
from its surroundings.
The ‘honeymoon hotel’ being its most genuine example.
But on top of all that, what instrisecly
defines ‘Certified Copy’ as a
transcendental experience,
in the sense that it literally transcends
the screens better than any 3D film
has so far being able to, is its
lack of credibility as far as its
‘plots’ go. It is virtually impossible
to point out what is authentic
and what is made up in all the
vast interactions of Elle (Juliette Binoche)
and James (William Shimel).
This peculiar feature alone, justifies,
both its title and its discourse,
for at first all dialogues and sequences are arrayed
with the intent of discussing
the validation (or not) of the & Dr. James´s thesis,
namely - the utter unimportance
of ‘authenticity’ as far as
the admiring of art works go,
and most important, that to the audience,
it makes no difference whatsoever if either
the original work of an artist or
its copy are exposed
as long as they are ignorant
to its origin and processes.
Is in such affirmations,
added to the eternal quest
for a plausible definition of 'true' art,
that ‘Certified Copy’ introduces
itself as a living allegory,
experimenting on its own discourse,
displaying itself
as both the original
and the copy, in a way that
we are left wondering
what in the whole projection
was in fact authentic,
and what was not. Forcing us
(the audience)to dive into
the film as if we were actors,
as if we were there.
That´s why Kiarostami added
so many front shots and contemplative scenes,
we needed to be there ourselves,
examining the picture
with our own eyes - and most times
thru the missguiding filters of windshields and glasses,
tempering what mattered most.
And that´s the 'prank':
a film that can´t be trusted,
a story that can´t be told.
In the end, it doesn´t matter,
what in fact those two individuals were,
nor to the film… nor to us.
We simultaneously learn
(both us and the film itself)
that in spite of the answer, the purpose of
their exposition and trajectory
(the whole encounter)
in themselves were justified.
