The fun and traps of mixed formats are all in the evidence of French actress-turned-to-director Romane Bohringer's "Tell Her I Love Her", a keen narrative that influences her struggle for her mother's abandonment, avoided through similar experiences by politicians, activists and writers Clémentine Autain Autain. Her investigation may be greater than grim ambitions, allowing Bolinger to place the meta-novel in automatic novels, a scattered method that, despite this, still collects momentum and feeling. Finally, through other potential niche interests personal history, she visits truths about mothers and daughters, memories and fallacies that are more common. We cannot hope to fully understand our loved ones we hardly remember. But perhaps through the act of memory, we can better understand ourselves.

Created framed devices through a bunch of footage, through TV coverage, home videos and atypical precious voiceovers, the film begins a shaky start, but soon the Meta-Meta narrative emerges. Bohringer reads Autain's book - a painful interrogation of the fragmented relationship between Autain and his mother actress Dominique Laffin, who died as a teenager - and resonates with his own life. Her mother, Marguerite Bourry, left when Bohringer was still a baby and later died when she was still young, when Bohringer was only 14 years old. Both mothers are struggling with addiction, both spinning their time Bohemian creative class, and we both feel the same social empowerment as traditional mothers. Their now adult daughters recognize that the untreated sorrow and hurt in their lives resonated with, and perhaps they will gradually increase as their children reach the age of their mothers when they were.

Not only will Bohringer automatically allow her and her co-author Gabor Rassov to mine the book for their film, but he can also play herself. It was the right decision: when automatically reading excerpts of the manuscript, the automatic behavior contrasted with Bohringer's more demonstration moments when she was cool. It's unclear why Bohringer chose to include a failed audition of several well-known actresses - Elsa Zylberstein, Julie DePardieu and Celine Sallette, unless it's just to add a little behind-the-scenes spice to the pot. But when we are already following two contemporary women and pieced together the story of our mothers (Eva Yelmani is dazzling at Mercurial, Mectrial, Magnation Laffin), we are shocked in the whole aspect of the film.

It was like other thrivings, such as Bohringer's teenage son dressed up like a black detective from the 1940s and relieved his mood through some detectives of family history, and incorporating Bohringer's meeting with the psychologist (Josiane Stoléru) (Josiane Stoléru), making the whole project too illuminate the entire project. For a movie designed to tear and reveal, “Tell Her I Love Her” is often layered and hidden. But perhaps concealment itself is inspiration. As Romane said when discussing the project with his father Richard, he himself is a well-known actor - "You are a kid who plays hide and seek, and she doesn't know she's afraid or want something more: staying hidden or being discovered."

The creativity and eclecticism of the Borhinger approach is refreshing, but the film has the greatest impact, not in some ways, rather than the collision between them. Given the huge entertaining nature of Yelmani in the dramatic entertainment of Autain's memory of his mother and the lovely grainy warmth of DP Bertrand Mouly, they look like soft and full images that are constantly recalled to present the story of Laffin as pure novel. Not that Bohringer's sad documentary about Bourry's troubled background is not worth it, nor is it worth it for the distracted narrative. Again, the real power of perhaps puzzling but quietly moving “Tell her I love her” is not a check on absent, unstable maternity, but a constant study of the identity of a daughter, which is how to provide a more generous insightful experience than its intimate premise. Because any woman may become a mother at some point in her life, but every woman is a daughter.