Of all the fixations a director may possess, of which surely none are sufficient to carry a film, there can't be many as trustworthy as Juliette Binoche. A Thousand Times Good Night plays like an extended portrait of her face, still so disarmingly wrinkle-free as she enters her sixth decade of life. The film opens with an impressive, effectively wordless, 15-minute-odd sequence in which her war photographer character demonstrates the terrifying lengths these artists / documentarians will go to for their work - not merely showing up in the right place at the right time, but almost becoming an active participant in acts of terror. You'll barely even register Binoche's brilliance, since she appears to do so little here, yet it's evident in Erik Poppe's rather pedestrian direction that she is what makes this opening so gripping. It provides enough psychological and ethical sustenance for the remainder of this film, which unfortunately disintegrates thereafter by failing to pick up on this. Awkwardly scripted exchanges between Binoche and her frazzled family members contain nowhere near the same power, while the internal, mental argument she must navigate through, between whether to put her work or her family first, is hampered by Poppe's resolute focus on herself, thus rendering her husband and children little more than whining gripes. The narrative conclusion that is eventually reached, though, addresses this argument satisfactorily, suggesting that, once one has thought long enough to make such a monumental decision, it may be too late to do so, and this brave, conflicted woman may have lost it all in trying to have it all. This is one among several compelling moments in A Thousand Times Good Night, yet still these are few and far between. Interminable Ireland-set stretches stink of middle-class soap-operatics, and the sense of armchair-liberal do-goodery hangs over even the film's most potent scenes. It's only Binoche that suffices to carry this film, and only to a limit.
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