Anatomy of a Fall

Using ambiguity in film -- the deliberate omission of information -- is risky. Most movies save ambiguity for the ending; The Thing's tense last drink between Mac and Childs, or American Psycho's slow zoom into Patrick Bateman's face as he realizes how far gone he may be. But to make an entire movie where ambiguity is the point, where the search for the truth is more important than revealing it, is throwing the dice and hoping for snake eyes. The average viewer wants the dots connected in a meaningful, logical way. Life may leave threads dangling, but most people don't want their movies to do that. Anatomy of a Fall has zero interest in answering all the questions. The premise is simple: a man in the French mountains falls from his home and dies. He has a nasty head wound, which was the cause of death. His wife is charged with murder. The prosecution says she struck him and pushed him over, she says he committed suicide. The movie, then, goes about in a very methodical manner, without a score to guide the viewer one way or the other, to lay out the theories and the available evidence. There is a verdict, but we all know that a verdict is not the truth, it is a judgment on the efficacy of the arguments presented. Anatomy of the Fall does not, at any point, suggest, or even hint, at what the truth might be. That is important, because Anatomy deals with many major themes, but there are two I want to touch on for the sake of this review, the two I think are most important. The first is the relativity of truth. Some things are absolutely true: Emma Stone has two Academy Awards to Amy Adams' zero, or the San Francisco 49ers play in Santa Clara. But then there is relative truth; a metal folding chair is a chair if I'm sitting on it ... but if I stand on it, is it not a step stool? If I swing it at someone, is it not a weapon? If I use it in a dance, is it not a prop? Life is full of these things -- objects, moments, what have you -- where concrete reality breaks down in the face of perspective, and nowhere is that more demonstrated that individual points of view. Anatomy of a Fall illustrates this all throughout its runtime. There is blood spatter on the shed near where Samuel fell. The prosecution has a blood spatter analyst who says these could only have come from Samuel being struck in the head. The defense says it is more likely could have come from Samuel hitting the shed on the way down and bouncing off. Both people are presented as experts in the field of blood spatter analysis, but have wildly different conclusions. What is the truth? It also shows this with memory and personal narratives. Daniel, the young sun of Samuel and Sandra, is visually impaired; there are different kinds of tape put up by Samuel with different textures for Daniel to use as guideposts. During questioning, he insists he was outside when he heard his parents discussing something, even with loud music playing, because he remembered touching a specific kind of tape on the shed. After authorities, through a recreation at the scene, prove he could not have heard them speaking right before Samuel's death, he says he must have been mistaken, he was inside by the door to the porch. Which memory is wrong? Is it possible neither of them are right? Anatomy of a Fall challenges the viewer about how memory and personal narrative interact and conflict. We are all the main character of our own story, but we're also the editor. How much editing do we do, and how much of it can be done before there's a gulf between truth and perspective? When Samuel's psychiatrist takes the stand, he and Sandra argue over his state of mind. Is it possible that one is lying? Or is it possible that Samuel confided different things to different people for his own reasons? Anatomy not only asks us who to believe, but dares us to consider the possibility that the subjective truth (what a person remembers) and the objective truth (what actually happened) might not have as much overlap as you think. It's not about multiple conflicting viewpoints like Rashomon; it's about the very nature of truth itself, and how we interact with it. The other theme Anatomy touches in is a specific aspect of marriage: the secrets we keep. "Oh, but we're a totally open book couple! We tell each other everything!" I hear you say, and I respond with "BULLSHIT". If your wife asked you if this dress makes her look fat, and it did, would you say "honey, it's not the dress"? Of course not. If your husband wants to invite his buddy over to watch the game, are you going to tell him his buddy is an annoying man-child? No, you're going to watch bunny TikToks or go to the mall or anything else to get away and not be irritated for four hours. Every marriage has secrets. It's normal. It's healthy, in fact, as long as those secrets don't curdle into resentments. Sandra and Samuel harbor a ton of them. Sandra has had affairs; Samuel forced the family to move from London (a neutral site, as he is French and Sandra is German) back to his hometown. These are major grievances that they've been holding onto, and by not discussing them, they become cancerous. These two themes collide in a recorded argument played at the trial that occurred the day before Samuel dies; he brings up the affairs and accuses her of refusing to be sexually experimental, while she accuses him of sexually shutting down entirely. More accusations are thrown at each other, secret resentments that they've been harboring until now, when they can be weaponized. Samuel thinks Sandra imposes her will on their lives, forcing them to do things her way, and accuses her of taking an idea he had for a book and using it for her own. Sandra says Samuel has refused to let go of assumed guilt for the accident that damaged their son's vision, that it has destroyed his sense of purpose and ambition, and that he is a prisoner of his own trap. How much of these accusations are subjective observations, and how much are objective truths? Anatomy doesn't show us the before-times, so we don't know. We know that when an argument between couples can get heated, it's not uncommon to lash out with words that strike at the soft underbelly of our egos. These could just be strategically thrown darts at weak points. But this argument also feels like the long-overdue boiling-over of a pot that has been simmering for God knows how long. How much is objectively true and how much is manipulated narrative in their minds? Anatomy doesn't say. The Theory of Relativity -- you know, E=MC² -- says that two airplanes traveling at different speeds, measuring the length of a river, can get two different measurements, but despite the sums being different, the equations will be identical. Anatomy of a Fall is that equation, because that equation reflects reality. Anatomy has no interest in pretending the world has clear through-lines and clean endings. It knows the truth, the objective truth, that life is messy. Memories are slippery. The truth is a matter of where you're standing. The evidence can say murder and accident at the same time, and depending on what you believe -- what you WANT to believe -- one conclusion or the other will be the truth as you see it. But it may not be the truth. Anatomy isn't trying to get you to question your eyes; it instead is interrogating your point of view, your biases, the lenses with which you see the world, and your partner. Is that wriggling worm of a grievance in your mind really an issue to be discussed, or have you blown it out of proportion? Can you, and are you willing to, step outside yourself and see the world without your filters? Is the chair just a chair, or is it also a stool, a prop, and a weapon?