Saying goodbye is never easy, but it’s often worse to lose someone without having the opportunity to express your love and affection, even if it is for the last time. This is one of the few blessings given to those who are diagnosed with a terminal illness – in cases where a disease can be found before it proves to be fatal, someone has the opportunity to settle their affairs and speak with their loved ones, tying together any loose ends and hopefully passing away with everything in order. Its idealistic, and very rarely turns out to be as neat and organised a process as it may seem to be in theory, but its nonetheless still worth discussing, since while none of us may know precisely when we are going to die, it can be oddly comforting to have a general idea of how much time we have left, if only as a means to make the most of however much life we still have to live. This is where François Ozon chooses to begin the conversations that exist in Time to Leave (French: Le Temps qui reste, which translates to the more appropriate “the time that remains”), which follows Romain, a young photographer who is diagnosed with terminal cancer, and given maybe three months left to live, especially after he elects not to get treatment, under the belief that a less than 5% chance of survival is not worth the ordeal of going through rigorous, painful medical procedures that already will only give him a very slim chance of overcoming the disease. He spends the next months trying to settle his affairs, keeping his illness a secret from everyone except his beloved grandmother (his reasoning being both that she is his only confidante, and that she is close to death, based on her age), and doing what he can to live out his final days in peace, beginning his transition to the next stage of his existence, something that even the most faithful of people struggle to understand when making their way through the final chapters of their lives. Ozon crafts yet another complex, engaging character study that explores queerness, identity and family through the lens of a hauntingly beautiful, intricately-woven examination of everyday life and the experiences that define and guide the human condition in its various forms.

More often than not, we find that films about characters navigating terminal illnesses tend to present the journey as one defined by strong emotional concepts, mainly revolving around the sadness and despair someone and their loved ones feel when it comes to working through the challenges of realising that their time together is limited, and that any attempt at overcoming the illness is futile. Time to Leave does start there, and ultimately does return to these emotions as the film progresses, but we do find that Ozon is focused on doing something slightly different, particularly in terms of how he constructs the protagonist and his journey to accepting his disease. In her seminal theory known as the Five Stages of Grief, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross reflects on the different emotions that are likely to be felt either by someone dealing with the knowledge that their life is coming to an end much sooner than they would like, or their family and friends, who have to reckon with their challenges relating to the impending death (and this isn’t even touching on the obstacles that face them afterwards, which this film doesn’t touch on at all), with one of the key points being the sensation of anger. This is a central aspect of the grieving process, and yet is somehow not as widely-discussed in artistic interpretations of these events, beyond the occasional foray into brief spurts of rage. This is what Ozon uses as the foundation for this film in particular – a melancholic, downbeat exploration of a man grappling with his death through sinking into a deep depression in which he becomes entirely despondent and isolated is certainly not irrelevant, but it is supported by depictions of his anger, showing his tendency to lash out in increasingly cruel, upsetting ways to those who simply wanted to help him on this journey. Time to Leave is not about a man working with his family to handle his eventual demise (with the central conceit of the story being that most of the people he knows remain entirely unaware of his illness), but rather a depiction of how he allows his anger to manifest as outright cruelty and disdain, which he only realises is troubling once we notices that lashing out is not giving him the emotional catharsis he imagined.

While he is undeniably a very smart filmmaker who has built his entire career around intricately-woven character-based films, Ozon is not driven by the desire to create overly complex works (except a few diversions in which the labyrinthine nature of the narrative was the entire purpose), and often prefers to develop simple, compelling stories about the human condition. Time to Leave is one of his most unfurnished, straightforward films, featuring neither heightened melodrama nor sardonic dark humour (both of which were cornerstones of previous works), and instead focused on being a bareboned, unfettered character-based drama that moves between scenes with minimal fanfare, focusing less on the concept and more on the underlying emotions. It’s one of his more dour films, but the subject matter does lend itself to a more downbeat approach, especially when every potential moment of gentle humour is quietly extinguished, showing the extent to which this disease is shifting the protagonist’s perspective. The film does not need to rely on hysterical displays of emotion to get its point across – the most memorable moments are those that are also the most quiet, such as the centrepiece scene in which the protagonist and his grandmother sit in her living room one evening (likely their last time seeing one another, a thought that lingers heavily above them, even when it is entirely unspoken), reflecting on their relationship and trying to emotionally prepare the other for the inevitable parting. In these moments, its not so much what is being said as it is what is being communicated non-verbally, and Ozon’s command over the tone – primarily through his writing and the simple direction – manages to turn scenes that would have likely been trivial and overly sentimental into more sombre, meaningful moments in which we form a strong relationship with these characters, rather than relying too heavily on the usual spectacle that we often find in similarly-themed stories.

The challenge with a film like Time to Leave, it focuses very much on the emotional content and ensuring that it never resorts to the same trite techniques that we usually see emerging from similarly-themed films. Part of the reason the film is such a success comes through its performances – Ozon has always had a strong instinct for selecting the right people to bring his stories to life, and in the case of this film, we find that he chooses Melvil Poupaud, one of the most talented French actors of his generation, and someone who has consistently proven to be nothing less than a wholeheartedly brilliant performer, capable of carrying immense emotional burdens when it comes to creating memorable characters. As a young man who is forced to reckon with his mortality and whose inner turmoil manifests as deep existential despair and profound cruelty to those around him, he’s remarkable. This is entirely his film, and the excellent work from the supporting cast merely exists to complement his performance, which is possibly his greatest work until Laurence Anyways years later. The only supporting player in this film that is given enough attention to warrant discussion is unsurprisingly Jeanne Moreau, who is the beating heart of the film, despite only having a handful of scenes, all of which occur towards the centre of the film and can be viewed as a self-contained episode in which these two wayward souls find themselves connecting, proving to be the only true confidantes in each other’s lives. It is truly heartbreaking when Moreau – playing someone who is considerably advanced in age but otherwise in great shape and perfect health – tearfully laments about how she wishes she could just “slip away” with her grandson, indicating the most emotional moment in the film, the realisation that at some point, we will be separated from our loved ones, forced to live in a world without them. It’s a beautiful pair of performances, and Ozon knew exactly what he was doing when he paired these two generational talents together in such a bold, unique work.

While it may not be his largest or most daring production, nor does it have the splendour or complexity of many of his more notable works, Time to Leave is nonetheless a very strong film, and finds Ozon doing what he does best, crafting an engaging, well-constructed narrative that pushes boundaries, challenges conventions and presents a new perspective on a subject with which we are all undoubtedly familiar in some way. As a whole, the film is a fascinating achievement – a bold, unfurnished vision of terminal disease and how it can impact both the person handling the diagnosis and realising their days are numbered, as well as the people who surround them, electing to either go on this journey by their side, or coming to terms with the impending loss and doing their best to make the most out of whatever time remains. Time to Leave is one of Ozon’s most striking works, primarily because of its simplicity and willingness to have difficult conversations without actively attempting to redefine any of its underlying themes. It’s a stunning film, and one that begs the viewer to peer beneath the surface, coming to terms with the themes that sit at the heart of the narrative and ultimately creating a more bold, daring experience that is as compelling as it is deeply moving, amounting to one of the most striking and poignant explorations of identity, family and the inevitability of death ever committed to film, and one of the many astounding entries into a filmmaking career that does not always receive the acclaim it deserves, even when the person at the helm has proven to be an exceptional storyteller and social critic.