Marielle Heller
Copia originale

You can almost breathe it, the dust of Lee Israel's house, a failed writer who reinvents herself as a high-class fraudster, capable of selling about four hundred letters from famous people, artfully created to make ends meet. You feel the frustration lingering in the air, the ticking of the clock that pokes at the woman's pride in front of the blank page. You can easily catch the smell of cat litter and the annoying buzz of flies buzzing around the dirty and messy rooms.

Marielle Heller has made a film from another time. A film that suits our times well, because it knows how to set the right premises, it knows how to build with punctuality an entire human scene full of pain, one that never feels sorry for itself, and advances it with precision, without trying for even an instant to make a woman appealing and likable who is neither.

The immersion into her existence is deep, her prickly character seems familiar, like that of a great-aunt that we make every effort to avoid at all costs. And we like her a bit more because she doesn't have a sweet heart hidden behind the armor, she has no bright surprise that redeems her. No, Lee remains insufferable until the end, or almost. And even if she understands that she has lived badly, that she wasted her life chasing a dream for which she was not suited, well, the director does not save her for that. She gives her just a final breath, a gasp of oxygen after holding her breath, before revealing in the end credits how her story ended, which in a very oblique, sense - is also salvific.

But it's much better to concentrate on the deviant, and predominant, traits of her figure. The sweeteners are minimal, fleeting consolations amidst the bitterness. The cat, the alcohol, the unexpected friend Jack Hock. They are honey pills that do not brighten a gray, ungrateful life, stubborn to the point of the incredible. And it is comforting to watch a film that looks the pallor of existence in the face, the shit-colored nuances in Lee's and everyone's rosy dreams, which sifts through all the skirmishes, embarrassments, and despair of a life without pampering its protagonist and without making her antipathy likable.

There are some hilarious moments, of course; Lee Israel's life is gray, caught in a loop, rather than tragic. It is the tepid condemnation of having to swallow bitterness every day, without real chasms (because by isolating herself, she has no affections that can truly hurt her), but never truly being able to soar in a surge of happiness.

The counterpoint is given by Jack Hock, who is in even worse financial condition than she is, but does not seem to mind. He is the one who gives something, an emotional vibration, to Lee's twilight life. But when she understands it, it's already too late.

Praise for a film that does not narrate extraordinary events, but meticulously scans a mediocre life, perhaps memorable in its mediocrity. A copy... yet authentic, peculiar, original indeed. It manages to do so thanks to a highly measured script, which always says the right thing, with reticences and additions always well-placed. And also thanks to two actors who lovingly embrace their roles as limping human beings.

7+/10