Not too long ago, on an airplane, I watched the Joachim Trier film, Sentimental Value. It’s not something I would normally choose — I have watched enough European films about old male auteurs to last a lifetime — but it had been recommended by a friend and I was intrigued by its claim to be a tribute to “the power of art” or some such. (Spoilers below.)

The film tells the story of two sisters who, upon the death of their mother, endure an unexpected reunion with their estranged father who left the family when they were young and is now an esteemed filmmaker. The elder sister is an acclaimed theater actress who struggles with horrible stage fright and poor romantic choices. The father has returned, not really to mourn their mother, but to ask this daughter to star in his next film, which deals with his own childhood trauma (trigger warning: suicide figures prominently). However, the daughter still resents the father for abandoning them, and for their mother’s subsequent depression. She initially refuses, but upon reading the script realizes that the film is an apology and her father’s attempt to heal their rift.

I found the film quite moving, and it is beautifully written, acted, shot and edited. I also love a good “film within a film” conceit that unveils the trickiness of the medium and turns us back on ourselves: We watch the people in the film watching (or making) a film and thus become aware of its artifice, its art. We are complicit in the construction of the story.

In this sense, Sentimental Value is a good film about the power of art. It lays out how artifice, make-believe, role-playing can heal, how art is, in the end, a communication, whether a declaration, a protest, or an apology. But the larger message it sends troubles me. The famous filmmaker casts his daughter, not only to work through his own guilt and trauma, but to further her career. He is established and powerful enough that he can make whatever film he wants, no matter how self-indulgent, and the “gift” of his apology is both emotional and material. What kind of effort would he have had to make had he not come swanning back into town with a film crew in tow? He would have had to work on himself instead of his art. He would have had to burnish his own empathy, listening, and communication skills rather than his screenwriting prowess. I believe art can heal, but great art is not an excuse to be a terrible person.

(For those working in archives, I believe the same can be said about records and the work of preserving and providing access to them: they can heal, but not at the expense of horrible behavior.)

Sentimental Value is thus just another brick in a massive wall that props up the enfants terribles (big babies) of the art world. Perhaps I am doing the same by writing about it here, although I suppose that’s what newsletters are for — to take random thoughts out for a walk.

As a counterpoint, I offer my review for the LA Times of To Share a Stomach, an urgent exhibition of works envisioned by Iranian artists and realized by artists in LA. It’s an all too rare exhibition that centers empathy, listening, and communication — amid antagonism, bombardments, and information blackouts — over perfect, pristine art. If you’re in the LA area, I hope you’ll check it out.