Fabienne (Catherine Deneuve) is one of France’s finest actresses and has recently written a book about her life, where she purports to tell “the truth”, even titling it as such. The problem is, most of what she writes about are fictions and fantasies about her career and personal life, a fact that only becomes clear when she’s confronted by her daughter, Lumir (Juliette Binoche), a screenwriter who has taken the trip from New York to visiting her mother for the book launch, accompanied by her actor husband, Hank (Ethan Hawke), and young daughter, Charlotte (Clémentine Grenier), who quietly harbours ambitions to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps and become a star. In between interviews and intimate meals with her chef-cum-boyfriend (Christian Crahay), Fabienne also has a small role in a prestigious film production called Memories of My Mother, where she is playing the older version of one of the characters’ daughters. The lead of the film is Manon (Manon Clavel), an up-and-coming actress who, despite her reputation in the industry as a beloved titan of French cinema, Fabienne is terribly frightened of. This is only because she possesses a specific breadth of talent that is often considered to remind critics and audiences of a younger version of the veteran actress, who has always secretly struggled with being in the shadows of someone else, including the elusive Sarah, a friend and fellow actress (implied to be deceased), who had more of an impact on the life of Fabienne’s family and her career than she expected, and whose spectre continues to linger in the lives of everyone who knew her. Lumir, realizing the true scope of her mother’s delusions, is gently coerced to remaining in France for the remainder of the shoot, mostly the result of Fabienne’s long-time assistant (Alain Libolt) quitting, which may or may not have been a calculated move to give Lumir and her mother the chance to resolve the deep-seated problems that have made them grow apart. Somehow, through the conflict and existential crises, the mother and daughter find a common ground and realize they may not have been that different all along.

Despite having made several masterpieces that left an indelible impression on cinema and gained him a reputation as one of the most important filmmakers of his generation, Hirokazu Kore-eda somehow still resides in relative obscurity from the mainstream, not being embraced nearly as widely as someone who has demonstrated a remarkable longevity in the industry, as well as a skilful ability to produce an impossibly high-calibre body of work, with an array of his films being upheld as some of the most endearing of the past two decades. Other than adherents to contemporary Japanese cinema, and more dedicated cinephiles that devote their time to world cinema, Kore-eda has yet to break through in a meaningful way, in spite of the countless accolades he’s been given, and the high standard of work he’s been producing regularly since the 1990s. He gained legions of admirers with Shoplifters a few years ago, and his most recent effort seem to be a continuation of his journey towards much wider recognition, as well as another opportunity for his devotees to once again find themselves transfixed by his mesmerizing vision. The Truth (French: La Vérité) is a very simple film – on the surface, it doesn’t appear to be much more than a straightforward drama about familial relationships, but as we venture further, and look at it through the lens of the director’s fascinating approach to exploring the depths of the human condition, we can see how wonderful it actually is, and the lengths to which Kore-eda goes to consolidate his place in the industry as one of the most important filmmakers working today. Like with nearly everything the director has made in the past, The Truth delivers exactly what it offers, but now explores these themes through a different social and cultural context, remaining just as elegant, funny and insightful to the deepest recesses of our existence as we’d expect from a film by Kore-eda, whose incredible ability to portray the human condition through the most delicate means possible, while still making a profound impression, is almost unprecedented.

Taking a simple story of the conflict between an ageing actress who has been struggling to come to terms with the facts of life, and the daughter that has developed deep insecurities as a result of constantly being trapped under her mother’s shadow, The Truth functions as an unostentatious glimpse into the lives of ordinary people, which is very much aligned with what we normally tend to see Kore-eda convey in his films. Like many acclaimed international filmmakers, Kore-eda challenges himself by venturing out of his native Japan, making a film in Europe with a predominantly French-speaking cast. We’ve seen some of the finest cinematic voices fail when taking this approach, and the stakes were certainly impossibly high for The Truth. The joy of realizing that Kore-eda stepped out of his comfort zone, but didn’t abandon his style, is truly delightful, and further proves his immense talents. In retrospect, all doubt towards him making this film seem unjustified – not only does he succeed and make yet another tremendously moving film, he adopts his style in such a way that this is quintessentially his own. Anyone familiar with his previous work will see his most indelible traits reflected in this film, whether it be in the visual compositions (which are strikingly gorgeous while remaining so incredibly simple), or the underlying themes that sees Kore-eda venturing into some profound depths in order to demonstrate the mighty power of a story well-told, and the extents to which something as remarkably unfurnished can go in showing the inner machinations of a family going through a challenging time – this has always been a prototypical standard of Kore-eda’s work, and he establishes that The Truth is not going to deviate from this reliable pattern all that much from the opening scenes, where the delicate beauty of existence is laid bare, becoming fertile ground for the director’s continuous investigation of our collective spirit.

Kore-eda’s films tend to be collections of poignant moments, facilitated by simple premises and gorgeous writing, and interpreted by gifted actors in ensembles of varying sizes. The Truth has one of the director’s smaller casts, but its nonetheless populated by some of the most impressive actors currently working in the medium. At the heart of the film are two iconic stalwarts of French cinema, who are positioned across from each other (and surprisingly collaborating for the very first time). Juliette Binoche and Catherine Deneuve possess a certain magnetic quality that allows them to command the screen with such ease and unique sensibilities that prove that they can elevate even the most paltry of material. In theory, none of the characters in The Truth are all that compelling – in fact, they’re often not much more than thinly-veiled archetypes of this kind of simple drama. The faded actress, her insecure daughter, her fish-out-of-water romantic interest and a bevvy of other individuals woven into the fabric. Its in practice that these characters come to life, becoming enriched by the irrepressible talents of a brilliant cast. Deneuve in particular stands out, playing the part of Fabienne with the dynamic skillfulness she has consistently shown throughout her long career. In casting the role of an actress who is simultaneously larger-than-life and grounded in reality, there are few better choices than Deneuve, who embodies the very definition of a near-mythological icon. She brings such an elegance to the part, being incredibly regal in taking on the broader aspects of the character, but without neglecting the more intimate, grounded parts of the role. Her otherworldly glamour commands the screen and draws the viewer in, but what keeps us captivated is her undeniable humanity – the small moments of intimate vulnerability that allows the performance to be so deeply compelling, and entirely unforgettable, further proof that she is one of the screen’s most enchanting presences.

Deneuve proves herself to still have the same astronomical talents today as she did at the very start of her career, taking on the part of Fabienne with such immense gusto, its impossible to see her as anything other than one of the greatest actresses to ever work in the medium. She’s contrasted beautifully with Binoche, who is just as incredible, playing the salt-of-the-earth Lumir with conviction and the same kind of tortured gracefulness that has defined her own career, venturing deep into the confines of an otherwise pedestrian character and finding the truth. Lumir is the opposite of her mother – unimpeachably grounded and dedicated to hard work, rather than coasting on her reputation, choosing the more humble profession of a screenwriter, rather than attempting to become an actress, as she doesn’t need yet another reason to be seen as a lesser version of her mother, whose own reputation is indelibly connected to her, and will remain a part of her life, both privately and professionally, for as long as she lives. Her chemistry with Deneuve is remarkable – it’s truly an astounding fact that this was their first collaboration, especially since they portray these characters so well, you momentarily forget you’re witnessing the amalgamation of the talents of two enormous screen veterans. They demonstrate a comfort with each other that isn’t witnessed commonly on screen, bringing such depth to the most primal and sincere relationship of a mother and daughter, selling every moment as entirely authentic and honest. They make for a formidable pair and manage to distract from the presence of a solid, but slightly miscast, Ethan Hawke, who does his best, but understandably fails to make much of an impression – although to be fair, when the focus of your film is two hours of elegant sparring between two of Europe’s finest stars, even the best actors tend to fade into the background.

While it may occasionally feel like the director is flirting dangerously close with banality throughout The Truth, particularly in how the premise of the film can appear relatively aimless at times and not have a particular narrative direction, it is very much par-for-the-course for Kore-eda, as his work has always been primarily rooted in providing snapshots of existence, derived from his fascination with social realism and the general movement of artists throughout history that sought to describe rather than dictate or coerce, where something doesn’t always need to make a profound statement, but can merely exist on its own terms, giving audiences an insightful glimpse into lives of others, and in the process give us insights into a kind of reality that is recognizable but far from dull. We can’t avoid the fact that The Truth is not a particularly eventful film, and this can be seen as a lack of substance, especially considering how the film always seems to be on the precipice of some moment that will kick-start the main narrative, which never quite happens, instead taking the form of a series of moments in the lives of these characters that don’t have much intention other than to explore the depths of their relationship. However, this is where the beauty of the film comes in – as the title very simply states, each one of these characters is looking for some kind of truth, or running away from it. Not necessarily a film built on the idea of deceit (even if this is the basis for one of the film’s most touching scenes, where the young Charlotte claims that she’s an actress in Hollywood, her innocent expression betraying this lie, as she hides her face behind a copy of her grandmother’s book, suitably titled “The Truth”), but rather the untruths we peddle in our daily life, perpetuating these small, inconsequential lies until they become reality, whereby a lie loses its effect the moment you start believing it, and where the boundaries between honesty and necessary deceit gradually begin to blur, leaving us to question the ambigious confines of truth.

Brimming with vibrant warmth and effervescent wit, The Truth is a marvel. Understandably, it doesn’t reach the impossible heights of some of Kore-eda’s canonical masterpieces such as Nobody Knows and Still Walking, but it is still some of his strongest work, mainly since it sees him daring to try something new, taking the risk to work outside of his native country or language, while not abandoning the qualities that made him such an important filmmaker in the first place. Whether or not you subscribe to the brand of social realism that Kore-eda infuses into every frame, its almost undeniable that the film is just a pleasant experience, a wonderfully buoyant family drama that doesn’t make any bold statements, nor lead to a particular narrative point that can be considered revolutionary. However, what it does do especially well is become an overwhelmingly poetic exploration of familial relationships that is as brutally honest as it is profoundly funny, with moments of genuine humour scattered throughout an achingly beautiful story of a mother and daughter coming to know one another after years of stoic hostility that neither of them is ready to take responsibility for perpetuating. Assembling an impressive cast, which is most significantly anchored by Catherine Deneuve’s bewitching performance as an actress reconsidering her place in the industry, as well as her personal life, The Truth is a wonderful film in every conceivable way. It has a notably subdued approach, and some of the more traditional dramatic beats that would come with this kind of story aren’t present in the narrative, but it all converges into a poignant exploration of the human condition, siphoned through the vision of one of the few directors who has always prioritized the most fundamental aspects of existence as the basis for the majority of his films, with The Truth being yet another engaging character study that gives us ineradicable insights into the varying idiosyncrasies of life.