CERTIFIED COPY: Kiarostami’s “Mona Francesca”
MK2In general terms, one deems originality to be the genuine source of art because it manifests the individual’s creative idea. Plays, paintings, films are original because they’re the product of the author’s craft. Sure, but how can a portrait be original when the painter copies somebody’s face to perpetuate it as “art”? How can a theatrical piece be authentic and creative if inspired by another work? Kiarostami’s Certified Copy collides these two stances on originality and foregrounds the idea that instead of scrutinising a medium’s authenticity, one should focus on the ways it inspires. He interweaves this motif within the ultimate copy – the story of marriage – since, throughout the vast history of the world, married people have always searched for inspiration. But have they found it?
Somewhere in Tuscany, a woman (Juliette Binoche) attends a book presentation by an art historian (William Shimell). He talks about the lack of differences between original art and its copies. For him, an evocative copy of “Mona Lisa” is as valuable as the real painting, since the latter is also a reproduction – of the actual “Lisa” limned by da Vinci. Also, he claims, a person isn’t an “original” individual unit, because one is a DNA-copy of their ancestors. However, not entirely agreeing with him, the woman leaves the address of her shop, so the historian joins her for a chat. He comes by, they form a conversation, blending between caustic and amorous, and they drive to a café where their relationship takes a turn to what-on-earth-is-happening: the barista overhears an argument they have, assumes they’re wedded, and the woman and the art historian start acting like a couple who’s already tied the knot. Are they really acting, though?
There are two logical ways to decipher this film. The first one is that, in reality, she is his mistress. Because of the “son situation” – her son doesn’t know anything about the art historian, and the art historian doesn’t know anything about her son – one can exclude that they’re actually married. Even before the barista’s wrong assumption, the caustic tone in their conversation triggers curious aggravations on the woman’s side. When disagreeing with the art historian’s notion of the copy, she sometimes becomes overtly infuriated, replying with a vigour not characteristic of a conversation with a stranger. Kiarostami builds her character (above all) as a polite person, so her sharp reactions to the historian’s remarks seem to have another predictor: the fact that she is the copy. The eternal mistress vis-à-vis the art historian’s implied wife. Outside the café, Shimell’s character talks to somebody on the phone. “Is he talking to his wife?”, Kiarostami asks and never replies. Suppose the answer is “yes”. In that case, Binoche’s character utilises the art historian’s theory of the evocative copy to demonstrate that the copy (the mistress) can be as valuable as the original (the wife). Hence, he should appreciate what they have and never leave her.
Or . . . they really are strangers, who decided to behave as a married couple after the barista’s misassumption. Then one might argue the woman’s strenuous remarks belong to her latent personality traits, triggered by the art historian’s approval of her son’s notion of life. She explains to the art historian how agitated she felt when her jackanapes – after standing in the rain just wearing a T-shirt – told her “I’ll die. So what?” Instead of agreeing with her son’s illogical behaviour, Shimell’s character interprets his assertion philosophically as “We’re all gonna die. So what?” As if in a married couple, the “husband” figure doesn’t agree with the obvious, and disagrees in defiance of “his wife”. The art historian’s behaviour catalyses a series of unnecessary verbal combats between the two, wherein he keeps on assailing her, and she becomes the “impolitely” infuriated person. This is the certified copy because, married or not, two people will always construct awkwardly sounding conversations as a consequence of their urge to be the alpha in everything, every time.
The viewer might suspect there’s a predictor for the two’s reality that Kiarostami has subtly hidden. However, perhaps what we see is what is. What if Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” was thrown in the river Arno, and another bloke’s copy – “Mona Francesca” – was the one exhibited in the Louvre? We see the painting; it is there. Its origin won’t be known, but “Mona Francesca” will still be the most famous picture around the globe. Hence, the woman and the art historian virtually become a married couple. Because what’s the difference?
When one examines art, one always tries to unravel its logic. Unfortunately, in this case, there’s more than one plausible answer to what Kiarostami might deem the copy’s essence. So, maybe one should leave that obscurity and focus on the copy’s capability to inspire. Indeed, a marriage can’t be “original” because all of its problems have been repeated throughout history – negligence of chores, infidelity, never-changing arguments, etc. But the ways the couple maintains the marriage can mould a source of invigoration, even though there aren’t “original” ways to do that. Eating the same sushi set, riding the same bike, watching the same movie, embracing and kissing the same significant other are processes reflecting copies of experience. Still, they manage to vivify one’s existence. Life comprises myriad copies, so go find yours.