Sublime, everything is sublime. From the very first scene I was captivated: that conversation between Amin and Ophélie, and in a single scene Kechiche announces all his talent for what will make up the bulk of the film: dialogue. You feel that nothing is written; the characters talk about trivial things, they fill the void, there are awkward silences, repetitions, the actors even correct their own pronunciation (which happens all the time in real life and is never seen in movies). And the dialogue is long, but you grow attached to the characters so quickly because you’re there with them, stuck in this slightly awkward, slightly sweet moment, with that shaky, eye-level camera that makes everything so tangible. This is one of the film’s three facets: realism.

I don’t know how it’s possible to get acting this natural. I refuse to believe these people don’t actually know each other, it’s insane. The timing of the laughs, the smiles, the lines can’t be calculated or rehearsed; everything is pure improvisation, pure life. Kechiche chose around thirty people to spend a vacation together and turned it into a film of pure, real moments. What more could you ask of art? And of course, when you’re shown people having fun, laughing, dancing, you end up feeling like part of the family too. For three hours I was there beside Amin, a slightly withdrawn observer in the face of this celebration of life.

I really appreciated the way the film gives genuine importance to every character. Sure, Amin is the “main” character simply because we see everything through his eyes, but he matters no more to the story than Charlotte, Ophélie, or Céline, each of whom has a moving story and a real personality. In that regard, the most beautiful scene is probably the first one at the restaurant where Céline dances: Kechiche briefly suspends naturalism to cut the scene to the rhythm of the bar’s music. The tension keeps rising until she leaves with the guy, and then the kiss: explosive extra-diegetic music; I got chills.

Because yes, this is a film that films bodies, and that’s its second facet: desire. Let’s be clear: the actors in the film are all beautiful to look at. Without falling into the vulgar American trap of casting only models, the characters here are all beautiful, but beautiful within the bounds of realism, the kind of beauty you might pass on the street, which makes it even more magnificent. Sensuality passes through looks: all it takes is a slightly lingering glance between Ophélie and Amin followed by a small, embarrassed laugh for us to understand everything, and to feel excited. The film also alternates with shots that explicitly show women’s bodies; contrary to what many say, I never found them vulgar, simply because we always remain within Amin’s point of view, we stay discreet observers, and never feel Kechiche’s gaze as leering.

Finally, and this is the facet that gives the film its full depth, there is grace. It’s a film touched by a mystical beauty, just like its characters are touched by that warm light shimmering over the sea. The film is filled with clearly religious images, drawn from both Catholicism and Islam. There’s that wonderful scene where the whole family goes swimming and playing in the water, with a hymn in the background—one of the rare moments with music, and therefore all the more beautiful, which really makes these family vacations feel like the closest thing to a celestial paradise. Who knows, maybe it looks something like this.

And then there are the sheep. The scenes on Ophélie’s farm are among my favorites, especially the one where she brings back the whole flock that’s spilled onto the road as the sun sets, it looks like a painting. Then there’s that shot, from one of the photos Amin took: Ophélie, dressed in a blue veil like the Virgin Mary, among the sheep, holding a lamb in her arms. I don’t have the words to say how much that image moved me. The message is clear: grace lies in love, both the love for one’s family and the love born of desiring one’s childhood friend.

But amid all this beauty, real and mystical, tender and erotic, there is pain. A real wound, and it belongs to Amin. As handsome as he is, he’s the character who remains alone throughout these three hours, while all his friends rack up conquests. He looks lovingly at Ophélie as she neglects him, and turns away every girl who desires him so openly. He is alone, in the middle of golden beaches. This melancholy is never shown head-on: the acting is restrained, without dialogue, just a disappointed, guarded look.

The saddest scene in the film is probably the second-to-last. Summer is coming to an end; Ophélie leaves with Céline before his eyes. He tries to find the tourist he’d met at a club, who was willing to sleep with him, and whom he had turned down. Too late; even she has gone. So Amin stands alone on the beach as the sky clouds over; the last days of vacation taste bitter. It’s heartbreaking.

I’ll conclude once again by preaching to the converted: if Mektoub, My Love is a great film, it’s also thanks to its editing. If you want to capture the beauty of everyday life, the grace found in scattered, banal moments, you have to capture duration, real duration. The length of a scene must evoke the length we feel in our own lives; that’s where emotion is born. That’s also why the film is so long. These three hours feel exactly like a long month of August, where everything is slow, yet everything passes so quickly. And in the end, all that remains are a few beautiful memories, and many regrets.