Death has many purposes. Scientifically, it’s the ceasing of all biological functions. Philosophically, it is the process where we come to accept our inevitable fate. Socially, it is the chance for all those who knew us (whether lovers, friends or adversaries) to reflect on their relation with the deceased. These are all the primary tenets of any story that looks at the concept of dying or death as a whole, often undergoing a process of being woven together to form a complex portrait of the experiences surrounding life’s most unavoidable reality, namely that it is going to end. Patrice Chéreau used this as the starting point for his deeply melancholy but achingly beautiful Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train (French: Ceux qui m’aiment prendront le train), which tells the story of a recently-deceased artist who requests his burial in the small provincial hamlet in which his family originated, and follows the story of roughly a dozen different characters as they make the long journey to attend his funeral, interacting with one another along the way, while reflecting on both their shared past with their departed friend, as well as their own individual existential quandaries that are provoked by this downbeat affair. Chéreau’s gifts as a filmmaker are evident in every frame of the film, and his subtle but deeply meaningful approach to exploring a range of ideas that should be familiar to all of us, although not in a way that is particularly pleasant, since it provokes many uncomfortable conversations that most of us would prefer remain out of sight, especially when they deal with something as terrifying as death, which is somewhere rendered as so exceptionally beautiful in this film.

Intersectionality is one of the most important components when it comes to deconstructing Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train. This is not a film purely about death – if anything, the actual demise of the unseen main character is relatively minor in comparison to the other ideas that the director is intent on exploring, purely being the catalyst for the events of the film, and the scenario in which all other discussions, whether relating to death or not, inevitably orbit. However, it is still the emotional anchor of the film, and the concept that every discussion inevitably has to be traced back to, in order to create this poignant emotional landscape that Chéreau is so extraordinarily invested in inspiring. The film has numerous layers, and they’re all conveyed through this very simple realist drama, one that does not have any interest in excess, instead choosing to remain subtle, with the director’s style being effectively simple and straightforward. Often quite bleak in its worldview, but still actively searching for some thread of optimism that proves that death does not need to be exclusively a time to mourn, but also to reflect on several other aspects of reality, Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train is incredibly poignant. The idea of using a train as the central motif contributes to this idea beautifully – several individual lives heading from one destination to another, essentially sitting in the same place but somehow remaining perpetually in transit – it speaks to the philosophical undercurrent of this film, which is designed to be as simple as possible, allowing all of its time to be spent exploring these characters and their lives as they go on this voyage that may have a clear destination, but where the journey itself is what matters more than anything else in reminding them of their unimpeachable humanity.

At its heart, Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train is a film that is made possible by the ensemble. There are several performances that are individually brilliant, but this is a communal effort, which is emphasized through the constant shift in focus between the characters. There is not a weak link amongst the cast, each actor playing off each other exceptionally well – the veterans hold court and turn in suitably reliable performances, while the newcomers are dynamic and offer strong insights into their raw talents. Everyone brings something different to the film, meaning that we simply can’t view it as anything less than a collection of remarkable performances that work best when they’re in communion with each other. The best way to describe this film and its approach to using its ensemble is to note how the story is essentially a tapestry of lives, people drawn from numerous different backgrounds that find themselves sharing the same space (both physical and metaphysical) for a short amount of time, and gradually the icy tension and formality erodes and they start to interact with one another, which unearths a range of new ideas that lay dormant. Everyone in the film is simply incredible, with Pascal Greggory, Valeria Bruni Tedeschi, Bruno Todeschini and Sylvain Jacques in particular commanding the screen as the most prominent characters at the start, and Jean-Louis Trintignant and Vincent Perez making relatively late entrances, but commanding every scene they are in. The former in particular warrants a very special citation, since he is inarguably one of the greatest actors to ever work in the medium of film, and one whose appeal is perfectly encapsulated in this performance, in which he is able to convey the deepest and most intricate emotions through simply allowing it to transpire naturally. His incredible ability to hold our attention brings the character to life, and undeniably makes him the character who lingers with us the most by the time the film concludes.

Considering the range of characters who are woven into the film, each of whom represent wildly different traits and internal quandaries, we find that Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train is a film as much about identity as it is about dying, with the two themes existing in close contact, even if they only really come together properly in the final few scenes. The director makes some fascinating choices in terms of how he explores each character individually, looking at their varying traits as indicative of a broader range of identities. It’s a film deeply rooted in queer theory, with a few of the characters being individuals that find themselves questioning their sexuality and gender – but Chéreau masterfully avoids retreading the dreadful tropes in which someone’s death leads to some shocking revelations (as is unfortunately quite common in films with this subject matter), instead drawing our attention to a more subtle, well-formed series of discussions, which place the concept of death in contrast with the idea of rebirth, whereby someone’s passing can signal a new start for those that presented themselves in one way while they were alive. Centring the film on a range of characters, from his family to his lovers, allows Chéreau the space to explore varying identities without having to resort to cheap melodrama that often comes with films that focus on domestic strife such as a patriarch dying. Moreover, the director actively avoids hysterics, keeping most of the emotions at the heart of Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train subdued and realistic, which allows those few instances of more dramatic content to register as far more impressive and meaningful, since they seem to come from a place of genuine complexity, rather than simply existing for the sake of stirring emotions that may not have been authentic in the first place.

Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train is an absolute masterwork of existential cinema, a subtle but boldly ambitious philosophical drama that dares to take on the most terrifying inevitability. A film that romanticizes death is inherently going to be controversial in some way, but there’s a certain method that Chéreau employs that makes it so effective, avoiding any sense of insensitivity. Part of this comes in the fact that every character, whether central to the plot or merely peripheral, is well-formed and has a purpose. Few films have been able to accurately capture the intimidating but beautiful existential concept of sonder, the realization that every human being has their own unique and vivid life, than this one, and Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train captures the feeling of being lost in a world that is populated by more individual lives than we can comprehend – and while we are only witness to a few brief snapshots in lives of a small group of people, it is enough to reaffirm the sensation of being hopelessly intimidated by the sheer scope of the human condition. The film is incredibly beautiful, especially when it takes the time to really explore these characters and understand not only their own individual existential crises and varying methods of mourning, but also what they represent as a whole outside of the film, since Chéreau is touching on themes that are universal in many ways. There is a brief but beautiful moment towards the end of Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train in which there is nothing but silence as these characters just succumb to the reality that life is unpredictable and cannot ever be truly understood – but rather than continuing to combat these inevitable philosophical challenges, these disparate lives come together to form a homogenous entity, divided by their radically different backgrounds, identities and memories, but united in their shared existence, both in relation to the recently-deceased artist they have gathered to mourn, and in the striking humanity that the director so beautifully conveys in every moment of this astonishing and deeply meaningful meditation on life, death and everything in between.