Close-Up (1990, Abbas Kiarostami) (Patreon)

66/100

Third viewing (last seen 2010), down from 72. (Sincere apologies to the patron who requested this specifically in the hope that my rating would go up. Alas, like Sammy, I've gotta be me.) Subsequently flipping for The Imposter, which likewise invites a charlatan to recreate his deceit for the camera, likely clarified my feelings about Close-Up, even though the two films are worlds apart in most other respects. Layton is ultimately less interested in Frédéric Bourdin—fascinating sociopath though he is—than in the much more compelling question of why Nicholas Barclay's family believed him in the (literal!) face of plentiful, unmistakable evidence that he was not Nicholas; the answer to that question speaks to deeply rooted human weaknesses that explain much of the toxic bullshit that's happening right now. By contrast, there's no reason why the Ahankhah family should have been skeptical of a man claiming to be a well-known film director. Instead, the key question here is why Sabzian felt compelled to pose as Makhmalbaf, and the answer to that question runs a tad therapeutic (and also glory-of-cinema) for my taste. It's admittedly quite moving that the family agrees to withdraw its complaint after hearing Sabzian's testimony, and that Makhmalbaf embraces his double...though the pathos is tempered somewhat once you learn that Kiarostami engineered virtually all of that. As we'll soon see, I had to decide whether or not to let extratextual knowledge heavily influence my opinion; I've decided against it, so "genuinely heartwarming" it is. 

Close-Up's reputation as a towering masterpiece, however, rests largely on its innovative* blurring of the lines between documentary and fiction. That's the aspect of the film that most interests me, which is why I've always been partial to its lengthy pre-credits sequence: a re-created account of the events leading up to Sabzian's arrest, during which Kiarostami opts to remain with the taxi rather than enter the Ahankhah's house with the journalist and the police. (Apparently, this whole sequence was originally in the middle of the movie, where it chronologically belongs, and got moved to the beginning after Kiarostami saw it accidentally projected that way and found that he preferred that order. Which theoretically makes me less impressed—its apparent perversity being the artifact of a mistake, not conscious design—but, again, I'm ignoring extratextual info, for consistency's sake. Plus taking advantage of serendipity is part of a director's job.) We get some seemingly mundane "where you from?" chitchat while matters of import happen offscreen, and are eventually left alone with the cab driver, who gets out of the cab and wanders around the cul-de-sac picking flowers and winds up nudging an empty spray can down the steep incline, with the camera observing its long, clattering roll into the gutter below. This moment feels so beautifully inconsequential, and looks so spontaneous (the can just sorta falls out of a pile of leaves as the cabbie picks flowers, and he just sorta idly nudges it with his foot), that it's both startling and hilarious when, several minutes later, the journalist gets so excited about having found a portable tape recorder that he happily kicks that same can further down the street, making it abundantly clear that every aspect of every shot has been carefully thought out. It's such a perfect 16-minute short unto itself that the rest of the film almost feels superfluous, at least insofar as it's exploring that same meta-cinematic idea.

Which it definitely is, throughout...but only for those who read about the film in addition to watching it. Not sure why that didn't bug me previously—I knew all the details when I last watched Close-Up 11 years ago (or at least learned them immediately afterward; can't recall how much context I had in 1997, when I first saw it)—but this time I was acutely aware of how differently the courtroom scenes play when you understand that Kiarostami orchestrated the proceedings with a specific outcome in mind, how differently the finale plays when you understand that the audio dropouts were added in post. To be clear, I think that both play better with that understanding—nothing onscreen is nearly as compelling to me as Kiarostami's humanistic yet dictatorial shaping of "reality." But the shaping needed to be in the film itself, not an adjunct to it. There isn't the slightest detectable implication of any funny business, as far as I can tell; if you simply watched Close-Up and never delved further, you'd go to your grave assuming that the 16mm footage is all legit and thinking it a shame that the microphone cable failed to pick up what Real Makhmalbaf and Fake Makhmalbaf say to each other. Obviously, there's still plenty here that's facially unorthodox—just having everyone involved in the affair portray themselves in the re-enactments was remarkable and thought-provoking—but the film qua film, in my opinion, absent supplementary materials, is merely pretty good (again, in large part because I'm just not bowled over by Sabzian's desire to feel important and respected, which is front and center if you don't know about all the chicanery going on). Kiarostami's admittedly the greater filmmaker overall, but Makhmalbaf's A Moment of Innocence would take this ball, run with it, and sail it between the goalposts again and again. 

* "Revolutionary" would be more accurate, but that's a potentially misleading adjective in this context.