La Vérité (The Truth)
Much like Asghar Farhadi’s Everybody Knows, Hirokazu Kore-eda's first-ever attempt at directing in a different language – which differs from his own – is a challenge from a filmmaking craft point of view. It is equally an opportunity to widen the scope of thematic topography that he has explored thus far. And just as Everybody Knows isn’t exactly the best in Farhadi’s catalogue, neither is The Truth in Kore-eda's. Nonetheless, it is a film well worth watching for a whole host of reasons.
One of the main thematic pillars of Hirokazu Kore-eda's filmography has historically been the exploration of familial dynamics and dysfunction, often set against the backdrop of wider inspirations drawn from Yasujiro Ozu and Ken Loach. His newest piece, focusing on a fraught and fractured relationship between a daughter, Lumir (Juliette Binoche) and a distant mother, Fabienne (Catherine Deneuve), continues this trend but assumes a slightly different – Bergman-esque – perspective. In fact, The Truth could be a distant relative of Bergman’s late masterpiece, Autumn Sonata, a searing portrayal of a dysfunctional and neglect laden relationship. The narrative revolves around a different high-flying mother (Ingrid Bergman,her acting swan song) and a never-good-enough daughter (Liv Ullmann in one of her most powerful collaborations with Ingmar Bergman). Kore-eda employs a similar dynamic in his story, resting on a conflict between what the two women refer to as ‘truthful description of their past’.
Interestingly, the parallel between these two films is additionally coloured by a distinct meta element woven into the narrative. Fabienne’s tumultuous history with her daughter is projected onto her role in a science-fiction movie. She – an aging star – plays a woman whose own mother abandoned the family to pursue immortality in space travel and ended up visiting her briefly at different times in her life. This somewhat mind-boggling wrinkle gives The Truth an added layer of complexity. It provides a new dimension of thematic depth one could easily identify as inspired by the works of Olivier Assayas. Kore-eda. It skilfully plays with the concept of life and art being connected by a mirror-like relationship where one mimics the other, thus imbuing the narrative with an exquisitely complex flavour profile. This eludes any attempt at simplistic characterisation.
It is extremely difficult and perhaps completely counter-productive to fully comprehend this movie upon a single sitting. Between the various layers of text and subtext informing the narrative and the characters – like Lumir’s relationship with her husband (Ethan Hawke) or Fabienne’s mostly internalised process of coming to terms with the idea of passing the torch and retiring – The Truth is an insanely dense and ambitious undertaking. It is abundantly clear that Kore-eda is exploring new territories with this film. This becomes doubly complicated, however, by the fact he is well outside of his comfort zone, working in a foreign language and with stars carrying immense international gravitas. Nevertheless, he avoids drowning the narrative in tedium or buckling under the combined weight of elements by remaining disciplined in his craft. He lets the characters do the heavy lifting while keeping the camera work withdrawn and clean.
The Truth is a well-executed film equivalent of an onion, at least as far as its thematic composition is concerned. The movie hides layers of intellectual richness under its seemingly workaday demeanour, all of which can be peeled away when appropriate techniques are applied. An onion is somewhat overwhelming to the palette when consumed raw but, upon patient treatment, it will eventually caramelise and become beautifully sweet. Such may be the case with Hirokazu Kore-eda's film. It may come across as a deafening wall of thematic content – with its multiple narrative layers, various character complexities and an overall detached perspective – but it equally reveals its inner humanist sweetness. This is evident when the viewer has a chance to sit down with it once more. It could be referred to as a descendant of Autumn Sonata but conjured by a filmmaker whose heart was not entirely made of ice, though any such observation may be impossible without employing a more thorough intellectual analysis.
In summary, The Truth falls squarely within the category of ‘an acquired taste’. It has narrative quirks, thematic polytonality and – by extension – reduced accessibility to wide audiences. However, it is a commendable achievement in direction and a nuanced tour de force by two enduring heavyweights of French cinema whose on-screen chemistry can and should endear even the most switched-off viewer.
