REVIEW: Certified Copy Offers Juliette Binoche in (Gasp!) Kiarostami Lite

Certified Copy, the title of writer/director Abbas Kiarostami's latest film, comes from the name of a book-length essay by one of its leads, lecturer and art historian James Miller (William Shimell). And, like much of the Iranian filmmaker's work, the believable observations are present from the very start; when Miller enters a room to begin a speech, the place is about two-thirds full. Miller plows ahead the distracted assertion of a man used to holding his own before crowds -- his voice fills the room with a sueded elegance. But coming after his game (and game-playing), 2008 diversion, Shirin, Certified Copy is something unique to Kiarostami's career, bringing to mind an adjective I never thought I'd append to him: adorable.

The opening moment crystallizes what feels like the filmmaker's immersion into a new section of his career, a journey that has included directing documentaries, dramas set in his homeland, stage operas and now has him embarking on a story that has the breathy, eyes-open bent of a Henry James essay on Italy. (Shimell has qualities close to the "Roman amenity, urbanity and general gracefulness" James ascribed to Italian men.) Miller impresses a gallery owner (Juliette Binoche, even more of a graceful urbanite) in the audience, who offers to show him around Tuscany. As the flirtation between the pair flowers into an odd relationship, Copy seems a little determinedly lighter than air -- sweating a little to get down to fighting weight.

The gambit that Shimell and Binoche play out as their day together goes on becomes a way for the couple, and the movie, to constant redefine the concept of familiarity -- it alone is worth seeing the movie for, and it'd be unfair to give the entire thing away here. The film floats between stations -- the languages include Italian, French and English, and the idea of original versus copy continually appears ("There is no immutable truth to fall back on," Miller says at one point) and toys with a daffy self awareness. When Shimell, a British opera baritone making his movie acting debut here, says, "I'm not used to being recognized in this field," you have to laugh.

The flurry of words produces a pixilated delight. Screenwriter/film scholar Jean-Claude Carriere (whose work includes the co-adaptation of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, in which Binoche also co-starred) turns up here as well, and not only are Carrierre's reality-folding exercises with Luis Buñuel neatly evoked throughout, but we're reminded of Kiarostami's own past, too; the filmmaker's penchant for extended dialogue scenes in moving cars comes into view here. There's an enchanting, and very Western, musicality in Certified Copy, a mash-up that charms; Mad Decent -- master masher, dj and producer Diplo's label -- aptly describes it. (Diplo and Buñuel would've loved each other).

Some Kiarostami adherents looking for something more portent laden -- one hates to use the word substantial -- will find themselves dismayed. But for those with a desire for something different -- a group that no doubt includes the director himself -- look no further.