Once Upon My Mother

We live in an era of cinematic noise. Between the eleventh chapter of a superhero’s mid-life crisis and the latest AI-generated landscape in a streaming-only sci-fi, it’s remarkably easy for a "small" human story to get swallowed by the algorithm. Then comes a film like Once Upon My Mother (2025), a movie that feels like it was unearthed from a time capsule, despite being shot with the crisp, digital precision of the mid-2020s. It’s a unapologetic "handkerchief" movie, the kind of mid-budget French drama that Gaumont used to churn out like buttered baguettes, but with a contemporary edge that acknowledges how we view family, disability, and destiny in the current moment.

I watched this on a rainy Tuesday afternoon while my radiator was making a rhythmic, metallic clanking sound that weirdly synced up with the 1960s pop tracks in the first act. It was the perfect atmosphere for a story that is essentially about the friction between a harsh reality and a mother’s refusal to accept it.

The Architect of a Destiny

At the heart of the film is Leïla Bekhti as Esther Perez. If you’ve followed her career from The Source (2011) to her more recent work, you know she’s the queen of the "iron fist in a velvet glove" performance. Here, she has to age across decades, and while the makeup team deserves a raise for the subtle work they did, it’s Bekhti’s posture that does the heavy lifting. When her youngest son, Roland, is born with a club foot in 1963, the medical "wisdom" of the time is essentially a shrug and a "good luck with that."

Esther’s response isn't just maternal instinct; it’s an act of pure, stubborn defiance. She promises Roland a "fabulous life," and the film tracks the collateral damage and the miraculous payoffs of that promise. It’s a performance that could have easily veered into "saintly mother" territory, but Bekhti keeps Esther grounded. She’s occasionally overbearing, frequently exhausting, and utterly singular. She isn't just raising a child; she’s engineering a human being.

From Comedy King to Club Foot

The real wild card here is Jonathan Cohen. For anyone plugged into French pop culture, Cohen is the face of chaotic, cringe-inducing comedy—think his legendary turn in La Flamme. Seeing him step into the role of the adult Roland is a bit like watching a high-wire act without a net. He has to play a man who has been "willed" into normalcy by his mother, carrying the physical and psychological weight of her expectations.

Cohen brings a surprising vulnerability to the role, utilizing a subtle physicality to portray Roland’s condition without ever making it the character's only personality trait. His chemistry with Joséphine Japy, who plays Litzie Gozlan, provides a much-needed breath of fresh air. Japy (who was so luminous in Breathe) acts as the audience’s proxy, reacting to the Perez family’s beautiful, suffocating intensity. The scenes where the sprawling family gathers are where director Ken Scott—the man behind the original Starbuck (2011)—really shines. He understands that in a large Sephardic family, a "private conversation" is a physical impossibility.

Behind the Lens: A Transatlantic Feel

It’s interesting to see Ken Scott back in the director’s chair for a project like this. Scott has a very specific "feel-good" DNA that bridges the gap between North American pacing and European sentimentality. He avoids the "streaming era" trap of letting scenes meander for the sake of runtime; at 102 minutes, the film is tight. He’s aided by cinematographer Guillaume Schiffman, who previously lensed The Artist (2011). Schiffman gives the 1960s segments a warm, kodachrome glow that slowly transitions into the flatter, cooler tones of the modern day, visually mirroring Roland’s journey from a mother’s protected dream into the stark light of adulthood.

The production also snagged French icon Sylvie Vartan for a role that adds a layer of meta-nostalgia for older viewers. Apparently, Vartan was so moved by the script's depiction of the 60s Yé-yé era that she signed on almost immediately. It’s a clever bit of casting that anchors the film in a specific cultural history, making the Perez family feel like they truly belong to the fabric of French society.

The Weight of the Modern Miracle

In our current cultural moment, we’re often skeptical of "inspirational" stories. There’s a fine line between celebrating resilience and "inspiration porn" that simplifies the reality of living with a disability. Once Upon My Mother mostly manages to stay on the right side of that line by focusing on the relationship rather than the "cure." The film argues that the "miracle" isn't that Roland walks; it’s that Esther convinced him he was capable of a fabulous life before he even took a step.

Is it a bit sentimental? Absolutely. Does it follow a fairly predictable narrative arc? Yes. But in an era where so much content feels cynical or designed by a committee to offend the fewest people possible, there is something refreshing about a film that wears its heart on its sleeve like a neon sign. It’s a story about the labor of love—the literal, grueling, decades-long labor of it.

While it doesn't reinvent the wheel of the family biopic, Once Upon My Mother succeeds because it trusts its actors to find the grit within the grace. It’s a beautifully shot, expertly acted reminder that sometimes the most "fabulous" lives are the ones built on the back of someone else's refusal to give up. If you’re looking for a movie that will make you want to call your mother and then immediately argue with her about something trivial, this is the one.