Patrick Bruel in What’s In a Name? (Under the Milky Way)

It’s not often that an English-translated title of a foreign language film carries more heft and substance than the original. Direct translations often misemploy colloquialism and the original meaning is lost; major changes can lose the essence of the intended subtext. But for the French film Le Prénom, meaning literally as “The Surname,” the title for English-speaking audiences becomes What’s in a Name? It’s in this minor but necessary adjustment that the subject matter gains considerable traction and the film earns a sense of contemporary urgency.

Adapted from their eponymous play, writers and directors Alexandre de la Patellière and Matthieu Delaporte demonstrate that their talents are not confined to the bounds of a theatrical stage. Their cinematic intuition becomes palatable early on, through their disarming decision to list only the first names of the cast and crew in the opening credits. Viewers are immediately compelled to consider the weight of a name and how easily one’s craft (and, by proxy, one’s life) can be summed up by a string of letters. What’s in a name, indeed.

Chasing a pizza delivery bike through the bristling streets of Paris, an unnamed male narrator recounts the savage histories associated with the men behind given monikers of each street. Comically macabre, this lighthearted introduction sets up the entrenched implications that names (and, by extension, labels) will invariably bequeath onto our interactions, relationships, and identities.

Subsequent to the pizza drop-off, the directors briskly introduce the five main players: a bickering but ultimately devoted husband and wife, Pierre and Elisabeth/”Babu” (Charles Berling and the exquisite Valérie Benguigui); her frumpy-go-lucky best friend, trombonist Claude (Guillaume de Tonquédec); the strikingly austere, and pregnant, fashion editor Anna (Judith El Zein); and the father-to-be, a wealthy real estate agent, brother to Elisabeth and our narrator, Vincent (Patrick Bruel, charmingly arrogant). The interconnections between these five companions are simultaneously familial, remote, and decisively complicated.

The majority of the film takes place inside the apartment of Pierre and Babu, rekindling the spirit and structure of the original stage play. But while this confinement could have led to melodramatic claustrophobia, the setting only reverberates the intensity of the characters’ interdependence–harsh words are not enough to demolish the walls of this family structure, built by years of bonding. These are people who have laughed, fought, loved, and grown together throughout their entire lives, but with all of their compassion, there inevitably lies levels of suppressed contention.

The crux of the film lies in Vincent’s announcement that he and Anna have decided upon a name for their unborn son. A guessing game ensues, but no one can pinpoint the chosen epithet. When Vincent’s future child’s name is revealed, the revelers are less than pleased. Or, more accurately, they are irrepressibly outraged. The resulting arguments escalate as subjects shift from inappropriate name designations to deeper, hidden dissent, reintroducing longstanding disputes and resentments.

Sharp-tongued dialogue and naturalistic responses abound throughout the spiraling tête-à-tête, evidence of ample rehearsal and familiarity of the roles by an exemplary ensemble. (Four of the five performers originated from the stage production. Only Berling is new here, and he fits right in to this mingling mess of a familial community.) Organic transitions between awkward, mood-killing silences and fleeting instances of ceasefire are timed with impeccable awareness of the characters’ need to regain composure. But before long, the friends are at it again.

Ultimately, the film remains steadfast in underscoring the overarching message: How do we ensure a sense of identity if, when all is said and done, our fundamental legacy lies in nothing more than a name? Aren’t we more than our career, or our money, or our sexual preferences? Shouldn’t life be commemorated by the journey rather than the destination?

The directors adeptly pose this intrinsic concern that we all face, and leave the audience with an opportunity to discuss, combat, and navigate their own sense of identity. Because, really, a street sign may immortalize a name, but it fails to communicate the depth and significance of a life.