If I Want to Whistle, I Whistle and Certified Copy

I believe Silviu, the lead in If I Want to Whistle, I Whistle, has a tempest in his soul. He's eighteen and has been incarcerated for four years, and in a conversation with his mother says he spent eight years raising his brother, so he started raising his younger brother around the age of six or ten (did he raise his brother from his cell? If the mother has only just arrived, possibly). I think it's fair to say Silvie has a tempest in his soul.

"Most of all I like eating pizza."

The movie is a great portrait of trapped feelings, with a heightening condition of incarceration, helping focus the film on themes of control and manliness (brotherhood, fatherhood, selfhood). It begins slowly as crescendos do. In the beginning moments I enjoyed the film's grainy texture and its invitation into the world of Silviu; it really opens up with Ana's appearance. She's an exterior force, and he dreams of being with her after his imminent (fourteen days away) release. "And I'll pick her up from work, and we'll fuck right there in the car. And we'll fuck on and on and on," he speculates.

She becomes a goal, along with a reunion with his brother. When his mother threatens to take his brother away to Italy, Silviu, in jail, wonders not only what to do, but how to even do it. His mother's interference signifies the presence of obstructive factors in the pursuit of his goals, an indication of uncontrollable reality, so different from prison. The actor, George Pistereanu, who plays Silviu, has the gift of believability. He doesn't betray, through his performance, or through his eyes, his character's future. For the audience member this means a feeling of a shared experience, it allows us to come near him emotionally, and understand the extremity of his desperation by the actions of the film's later moments.

At a certain moment in the film another interceding moment of harsh reality reconfigures the film's stakes. It becomes a much different film than its proceeding moments have indicated, yet remains logical, and mostly consistent. It's as if the gates have opened, and life has poured in. Locked inside Silviu, we are trapped as he is trapped, scared as he is scared. This is the gift of a good film.

Certified Copy begins with a scene waiting for action: an empty table set up for a book discussion. A man enters the frame and makes an apologetic announcement into the microphone: the author is late, and he can't blame traffic because he's staying upstairs. Scattered laughter. Moments later the author arrives and unwittingly makes a similar statement: the banality of the joke is apparent, and no one laughs this time.

Kiarostami has made his point in the first couple minutes of the film, but the idea of an original and a copy will take manifold permutations throughout the film. So too will there be multifarious jokes about Elle (Juliette Binoche) and James (William Shimell) being married, although they met just this day. The joke, as it's elaborated, nearly replaces the actuality of their relationship, and becomes its own copy of a life. Certified Copy is an essay film and a romantic comedy, not one more than the other, which is impressive. I was emotionally invested in every moment of the actors' encounters with each other, and also found my mind working out the ideas being discussed. It's an "invitation to self-inquiry," as the author speaks in the beginning moments.

"I wrote the book to convince myself of my own idea."

Elle initiated the day by passing on her number to the author's friend. Her son, present only in the opening scenes, challenges her reasons for wanting to meet an author whose book she's claimed to dislike. Elle will also tell James, in moments over the course of their time together, how she does not like or disagrees with his book. Sometimes she suggests she does not like him, and in one instance he flatly states that something she's said has made him not like her. Romantic comedies often generate laughter by noticing the differences between the male and female characters, and Certified Copy does this too, but it's also serious about the meaning of their differences and the friction it creates.

"All that stuff's good for books."

Some people may not find it romantic at all. I found it romantic, but not very funny (much of the comedy is monochrome). I think this is what happens when a film is full of life. I think this is what films should be like. I believe there's a proper, acceptable way for a film to be flawed, and that's by virtue of flawed characters or admissions of flawed existence.

In Certified Copy, Kiarostami lets life in. The film buzzes and hums with life. Ambient noises and conversations float in the air, and cell phones ring at inappropriate times. His camera is endless curious and attracted to what it finds most interesting, most telling (and it's never insincere). Life happens between moments in the film, like when James answers his phone and leaves the coffee shop, and Elle begins a conversation with the lady who works at the shop; or when Elle pretties herself in the restaurant, and returns to find James in a different mood (this is the end too - you wonder what condition James returns to find Elle in). The frame has limitless potential with Kiarostami, and as when we watch a movie our thoughts are somewhat encapsulated by the frame, Kiarostami then frees our minds too. In this one, he wants to free our hearts as well, but he knows how hard that can be, and he knows that "simplicity is not simple."