Rating: A-
The sheer force of the legends involved in The Truth (La Vérité) is astounding. Not only is it Japanese director Hirokazu Kore-Eda’s first non-Japanese film, it also unites the radiant talents of French actresses Catherine Deneuve and Juliette Binoche with the American actor Ethan Hawke. This is the kind of cinematic union we so rarely get to see. It is a perfect storm of legends joined in a singular purpose.
It is, at its best, a beautiful ode to the power of the cinematic lexicon and a reminder of the boundaryless potential of art. That so many legends from across the world could join forces in service to an otherwise simple drama tells us much about the universality of the form. As with all Kore-Eda’s films, The Truth is imbued with an eye for the artistry of the mundane, where small moments compound to create a beautiful and impactful whole.
Though it’s far from the director’s greatest work, it’s a fascinating addition to his oeuvre that succinctly explores many of the themes that Kore-Eda has dwelt upon throughout his career. The Truth is an exploration of memory vs. truth, and how one’s perceptions can affect how one lives their lives and takes their place in the world. Quiet and unassuming, it is a powerful lesser work of an incomparable artist.
Binoche stars as Lumir, daughter of the (fictional) legendary French actress, Fabienne Dangeville (Deneuve). After years away from Paris, Lumir and her husband (Hawke) bring their daughter to France to celebrate the release of her mother’s memoirs. At the same time, Fabienne has begun work on a new film, an adaptation of Ken Liu’s excellent short story, “Memories of My Mother.” Amidst this backdrop, Lumir and Fabienne are thrust into a confrontation about old pains, perceived slights, and long-simmering resentments.
The Truth is at its best when Binoche and Deneuve share the screen. The two are involved in an intimate dance of resentments that cut both ways—Lumir, who has never forgiven her mother for all the times she missed and all the failures she committed, Fabienne, who has never forgiven her daughter for leaving—and both actresses push and pull each other to fabulous dramatic heights.
The film’s movie-within-a-movie backdrop serves well as a both a thematic counter and support. Liu’s short story, about a young mother who is diagnosed with an incurable disease and decides to spend her remaining time on a time dilation ship so she can see her daughter at various stages of her growth, is an intriguing through line about the difficult decisions of motherhood. However, The Truth assumes a previous knowledge of the work and does little to explain the film they are making. Those without knowledge of Liu’s short might miss some of the more subtle thematic parallels.
That said, Kore-Eda balances his multiple moving parts beautifully. Each scene adds to the pathos of its characters, with the call backs to previous issues and resentments bubbling up in the most subtle and moving of ways. The script, which Kore-Eda wrote, is deceptively simple and bubbles with the emotional complexity the writer/director is exploring here. It moves at a slow, deliberate pace, allowing the range of feeling time to grow in perfectly organic ways.
While Kore-Eda doesn’t quite reach the heights of his previous works—most notably, perhaps, Shoplifters—The Truth is still a remarkable little film that expertly pares down giant ideas into a manageable size. Fans of both classic French and modern Japanese cinema will revel in the film’s stylistic wonders and performances. Despite being relatively small compared to the director’s previous works, The Truth is still a beautiful, emotional little film.
The Truth is now available via on demand platforms.
