Abbas Kiarostami turns a real impersonation case into a patient, funny and unexpectedly moving film about wanting to matter. Its slow passages ask for attention, but we recommend it even to those wary of films about cinema.
Close-Up asks us to take an impersonator seriously, and makes that request seem reasonable. Abbas Kiarostami’s film combines footage of a real fraud trial with scenes reconstructed by the people involved, including Watching Sabzian, the accused. Across 98 minutes, it gives his passion for cinema the patient attention usually reserved for the details of a crime. We would recommend it without requiring any prior interest in how films are made: the wish to be noticed is enough to understand it.
Watching Sabzian take part in the reconstruction of his own deception is initially peculiar. We know that he has impersonated someone, and now the film is asking him to perform again while offering us a chance to understand him. Kiarostami, who also wrote and edited the film, moves between the trial and the reconstructed scenes without explaining away that discomfort. The editing keeps us alert to how readily a performance can win our sympathy, even when we have been warned about the performer.
Ali Reza Zarrindast’s cinematography gives Sabzian’s face time and space, and the plain images make that scrutiny feel unusually direct. The closeness matters because we have to watch someone explaining himself without the reassurance of a polished performance. Kiarostami also lets long takes drift towards ordinary activity, delaying the business that a tidier courtroom drama would hurry to reach. Kambiz Roshanravan’s music is effective, though the emotional weight falls chiefly on the time the camera allows Sabzian.
We were moved by Sabzian’s attempts to explain his attachment to cinema. What gets to us is how seriously his need to feel like somebody is heard, without being reduced to an eccentric detail in a fraud report. Sabzian’s participation adds an awkwardness that a smoother performance might lose. There is humour in the distance between his deception and his devotion, and the film lets us recognise the absurdity without inviting us to despise him.
Our reservation is about Kiarostami’s control of the encounter. The reconstructions make his involvement visible, yet the film’s warmth can still encourage us to accept its sympathetic account of Sabzian too easily. We wanted a little more resistance to that sympathy, particularly when the fascination with performance risks crowding out the consequences of deception. The unhurried pace will also frustrate anyone seeking a tightly argued courtroom drama, though we found the waiting largely justified by what it lets us observe.
A conventional fraud drama might ask us to enjoy being cleverer than the impostor. Close-Up makes that position uncomfortable, because Sabzian’s love of cinema is taken seriously enough to become recognisable. We can question his explanations and still feel that the time spent hearing them has been worthwhile. Give it an uninterrupted evening; the slow passages are part of what we are recommending.
