The True Pain

Jesse Eisenberg's newest film, The True Pain, invites viewers on a reflective exploration of history, memory, and the complexities of personal identity. The narrative centers on two distant cousins who embark on a journey to Poland, seeking to reconnect with their family's heritage. What emerges is not merely a story of rediscovery but a profound investigation into the contradictions and moral dilemmas we face when trying to fully understand the suffering of others.

Eisenberg, recognized for his performance in The Social Network, takes on the roles of writer, director, and lead actor in this project, sharing the screen with Kieran Culkin, known for his role in Succession, who plays his cousin. From the outset, the film presents itself as a deeply personal and intellectually stimulating work, seamlessly intertwining the mundane with the significant.

One of the film's most notable strengths is found in Eisenberg's writing. This marks his second screenplay, following "When You Finish Saving the World," and he once again showcases a remarkable talent for creating dialogues that strike a balance between simplicity and complexity. The interactions between characters resemble authentic conversations—seemingly trivial yet rich with depth and underlying meaning.

A compelling illustration of this is a scene where the cousins debate who should shower first, prompting one to use the other's phone to play music. What appears to be a minor incident later gains unexpected significance, enhancing the film's thematic essence. Eisenberg demonstrates a knack for crafting dialogue that feels organic, steering clear of artificiality while subtly establishing important emotional outcomes.

The editing of the film is also pivotal to this narrative approach. Scenes frequently conclude just before reaching their full resolution, preserving only the crucial dialogue. Subsequently, snippets from these earlier exchanges reemerge, unveiling additional layers of interpretation. This structure allows the film to engage in a continuous self-reflection, with previous scenes acquiring new importance as the narrative progresses. It serves as a dynamic storytelling technique that echoes real-life discussions, where seemingly casual remarks can take on profound meaning in retrospect.

The cinematography in The True Pain serves as both an ally and a contrast to the screenplay. The imagery frequently opposes the dialogue, generating a nuanced yet impactful tension. A notable instance of this is the tracking shot, where the camera trails the characters as they walk, often oblivious to the historical significance beneath their feet—the very past they seek.

In another striking scene, the film contrasts visuals of desolate spaces with a voiceover that highlights their historical importance. The disparity is pronounced: a pharmacy has ceased to be a pharmacy, a home has lost its identity as a home. This approach to visual storytelling emphasizes the film’s core message—that history, despite our attempts to revisit it, can never be entirely reclaimed.

The film centers on the relationship between two cousins, each illustrating a distinct method of dealing with pain. One articulates his suffering, while the other conveys it through subtle and intricate expressions. This dynamic suggests that one cousin symbolizes the narrative's dialogue, while the other represents its visual elements—each incomplete without the other.

The film further delves into the complexities of genuine pain. A pivotal scene is highlighted by an on-screen title that reads The True Pain, which initially leads viewers to believe that the character depicted is the sole sufferer. However, as the narrative unfolds, it becomes evident that pain is multifaceted. It is a shared experience, perceived in various ways, and often concealed beneath layers of complexity.

A particularly moving scene occurs when the guide revisits a conversation with Benji (played by Eisenberg) later in the film. This moment underscores the theme of introspection, as the film continuously reflects on and reassesses its earlier events, mirroring the journeys of its main characters.

The film boldly critiques the manner in which individuals engage with history. It highlights the uncomfortable truth that revisiting the past often serves more as a means of personal affirmation than as a pathway to true comprehension. One cousin approaches the experience with a sense of detachment, viewing history as if it were merely a display in a museum. In contrast, the other is eager to connect with the pain of the past, believing that experiencing it directly will deepen his ties to his heritage.

This internal conflict reaches a poignant climax: the characters travel in first-class on a train that once transported prisoners to concentration camps. This stark juxtaposition is deliberate and profoundly disturbing, compelling the audience to reflect on how privilege influences our relationship with history.

Benji, in particular, personifies this tension. He yearns to fully engage with historical suffering, yet remains fundamentally alienated from it. He ridicules his cousin for retiring early, yet he too succumbs to sleep, despite his wish to resist comfort. He aspires to live like a local but struggles with the Polish language, leaning instead on his American identity. His journey is marked by an internal struggle—a longing to embody something that is inherently beyond his reach.

The True Pain serves as a profound exploration of the challenges inherent in fully grasping another person's suffering. While we can empathize, learn, and reflect, the reality remains that we cannot genuinely inhabit someone else's pain. This theme is poignantly illustrated in a scene where characters stand before a glass display containing the clothing of Holocaust victims. They are acutely aware of the historical weight, yet the barrier of glass keeps them from truly connecting; they will never don those garments, having arrived in comfort rather than in anguish.

Jesse Eisenberg has created a film that is both incisive and deeply compassionate. The True Pain compels us to examine our own contradictions, our yearning to engage with history, and the boundaries of our comprehension. It serves as a reminder that our own suffering is valid and sufficient. We do not need to appropriate the pain of others to affirm our existence—our individual experiences, regardless of their differences, hold profound truth.