Sentimental Value

TIFF REVIEW: BY EDEN PROSSER

September 4, 2025

4 OUT OF 5 STARS

Family: the very term begets some form of sentiment. For most, such etymology depicts a bond, be forged or borne in blood, casting the individual into a cared collective. Fraught, taut, loving; oft complex: there may be many a descriptor; still, there’s something to be said for sentiment, particularly as presented—and examined—in critical darling Joachim Trier’s latest, the aptly-titled Sentimental Value. One of the hottest titles of this year’s festival, the laureled Cannes darling has amassed much buzz, praised for the winning combination of a thoughtful script, industry focus, and many a powerhouse performance.

Chronicling the interiority, the conflict, of a fractured family, the film centres around stage actress Nora (Renate Reinsve), who grapples with the reconciliation of belonging, of a dream, in the wake of her mother’s death—further complicated by the recent re-emergence of her famous, and long-absent, filmmaker father, internationally-celebrated Gustav Borg (a never-better Stellan Skarsgård). Never having broken out of her regional spotlight, the offer of a script—a role scripted specifically, tailored exclusively for her—might seem the break of a lifetime. If only the decades of simmering pain, the anguish of deep-rooted betrayal, didn’t cloud the very prospect of acceptance. Alas, generational rage, stubbornness, are forces true and strong; still, rather than retreat, Gustav vows to shoot the film, as planned, in the confines of their childhood home—casting American rising star Rachel Kemp (Elle Fanning) in his daughter’s stead, drama deepening both on and off the page as she gradually blends into the role of surrogate daughter.

Presented via a series of chronological vignettes, Sentimental Value leaps through the temporal plane, tracing the production of said absent patriarch’s latest opus—and, cognately, the juncture of ‘art’ and ‘family’—across the span of its production. Interspersed silences, atonal blankness, bookend every chapter; they are disorienting, in their occurrence, each transitional moment lingering just a fraction of a second beyond expectation. At times, such separatist inclusions may appear baffling; would the prototypical single-frame transition not produce sufficient result? Alas, such a qualm remains purely aesthetic; such vignettes—though, at times, visually distracting—seldom detract from the film’s narrative strength, perhaps even becoming a stylistic fingerprint through which the film procures its own identity.

Such elocution is further signification of Trier’s faith in his audience—and, in turn, his trust of their intellect. Sentimental Value, like many of the year’s best, anticipates its viewers’ capability to perform interpretation. As we follow the generations of estranged Borgs, one comes to recognize their dreams, drives, traumas through action—and interaction—alone. Though unquestionably humanistic, never is its audience led by the hand; not once does exposition weigh a sentence, dialogue rife, instead, with poetic grace, lyrical authenticity. Such implicit confidence results in a truly gratifying viewing experience—one in which success is borne of realizations, space set aside for continued interpretation and contextualization.

A melancholic overtone is brushed upon each frame: pastel colouration, backlit shots, continuous shades of blue, of beige, of grey. Such visual distinction crafts an emotive palette, upon which its central players’ states of being can be reflected in the most understatedly opaque of manners. This, in turn, provides a palette upon which the core cast can build, explore. Trier conducts a gold-standard ensemble, each member of the cast—Reinsve, Skarsgård, Fanning, Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas—delivering performances well-worthy of major awards contention. Lilleaas is a revelation, providing a distinctly grounding air as Nora’s sister Agnes, while Reinsve provides the beating heart of the narrative, wrenching unfiltered emotion through each gasp, each dream, each tear. Any of the four would be excellent nominees in this year’s acting race: drawing compulsion through their effortless portrayals, each powerhouse performance anchors the film in sheer enthral, elevating simple drama into unforgettable poeticism.

Some of this may, too, spring from the strokes of Trier’s pen. There is, indeed, such sentiment that pours from every frame, lines scraped from a well of raw empathy, self-discovery—and, perhaps, a desire for familial belonging. Much like 2021 title The Worst Person in the World, Sentimental Value continues the multi-hyphenate’s exploration of loss, value, in one’s early adult years: Nora, paralyzed with incertitude as the promise of perfect family, a star-studded career, hover just beyond her reach. There’s a quiet depth to the evocation: a glimpse of beauty shining through the rust of long-buried pain, a question as to whether forgiveness should be offered—or earned. The film may, on its surface, share features with the longtime self-referential awards season favourites; and yet, Sentimental Value is less an exploration of show business itself than a glimpse into the individuals—revered; working-class; struggling still—lingering behind the gild. Only in  glimpses does the atmosphere evoke any semblance of glamour: a press junket, reeling in a modern air; a festival audience, reminiscent of many a metatextual moment. Instead, much of the film delves into the interiority, not of the entertainment industry, but the humanity of just a single family within it. It’s grounded, raw: unafraid to confront the ugly truths buried within individuals across nations, industries: rage. Self-doubt. Stubbornness; hatred. Arrogance. Defiance. In this, the film becomes a mirror, reflecting the concerns not of the elite, but of the whole: unifying its audience, opening itself to lasting conversation, deepening its emotive impact.

At times, it may feel a tad, well, slight. Lacking the opulence of prototypical industry glamour, it revels, instead, in slice-of-life mundanity: a decision that, though displaying masterful restraint, maintains its audience at arms’ length. Though, as aforementioned, the four leads astound, when one steps away from the events onscreen, the characters begin to thin—not significantly, not enough to weaken any such performance, but to a point at which one simply wishes there’d been a deeper dive. This is particularly evident in the character of Fanning’s Kemp: though foil she may be, seldom does she display any motive of her own. Not quite a surrogate daughter, not quite an idolized star, she seems more ‘plot device’ than ‘realized star’: though this is of no fault of Fanning, who shines with the material she’s given, it becomes a pattern shared by any player outside Reinsve’s Nora.

Still, there is beauty borne between the frames. At times, it almost feels as though the scribed events are their own version of a fairytale; there’s such fascination wrought through the very concept of a ‘recast’—of a daughter; of a self—and the toll that such an act might take on one’s concept of worth, of dignity. Deeper, still: deliberation over burrowed demons, traumas; an exploration of the size to which such pains can swell without proper confrontation. Hiding, fleeing: such salves are temporary, Trier hints; catharsis can only be brought about through direct engagement. These themes are subtle, understated—and yet presented with such unfiltered authenticity that one cannot help but feel inexplicably moved. As the film steers towards its denouement, a gently-lilting epilogue that provides perhaps the most elation of the two-plus-hour runtime, one is simply left with the lingering echo of empathy—an ache, hearkening to the sheer magnitude of human emotion. It is beauty, and, concurrent, it is pain; most of all, however, it is wholly, deeply human.

Perhaps the film is subtle. Perhaps it’s understated. Still, in the wake of such mounting anticipation, it’s simply all the more impressive that Trier, Reinsve, Skarsgård, Lillieaas, and Fanning have displayed a continued commitment to astound. Sentimental Value, is, above all, a film that commands utmost respect; its taut restraint burrows deep into the soul, while the gentle ache left in its stead lingers long beyond the credits’ roll. There’s simply such humanity: a constellation of darkness, hatred, love, and hope, each artist unafraid to confront the most human of truths. No glitz, no glamour, happens to be required. Sentiment, it seems, is entirely sufficient.