The first few minutes of Fresno Filmworks' "Certified Copy" might lull you into thinking you've stepped into a static, intellectually dense cinematic experience.

We meet our two major characters at a numbing author lecture -- one of them (an English art critic played by William Shimell) speaking at the lectern, the other (an antiques dealer played by the fabulous French actress Juliette Binoche) sitting in the audience. The visuals unfold with the stultifying impact of a low-budget cable books program, and it's as if the film is daring us to hang on. The issues are meant to excite the brain, not the camera:

Does a copy of a piece of art carry with it the same weight as the original? What is the relationship between the two? Why are we as humans so hell-bent on worshipping the first of something -- in art, in ideas, in relationships -- when a well-crafted replica can do just as well?

But just as you're getting settled into the lull of those questions, something happens. Like some mischievous prankster, director Abbas Kiarostami -- the Iranian legend whose films such as "A Taste of Cherry" have rocked the culture -- starts working his magic.

"Certified Copy" has two wonderful things going for it, and both are potent: Kiarostami's playful authority; and Binoche's radiant artistry. Without them both, it's hard to imagine this souffle not collapsing.

Binoche's character, unnamed in the film, lives in the picturesque Tuscan city of Arezzo. She professes great admiration of the art critic, who has written a book about authenticity in art. She gives him her phone number, and he suggests a drive, which expands to an entire afternoon spent together. Just about the entire film, in fact, is spent with them just talking to each other.

There isn't any meaningful way of talking about the movie past this point without dissipating some of the surprise, so consider this a half-way spoiler alert. Let's just say there's a peculiar crackle of energy between the two. At one point, a waitress in a coffee shop mistakes the pair as an old married couple, and from then on, something weird starts to happen -- they almost seem to be playing those roles.

The questions for the viewer start coming fast and furiously, and you won't get them all answered. Do these two know each other? Is this all some bizarre role-playing exercise? Kiarostami seems to delight in the ambiguity as much as he does dancing around the overriding theme of authenticity. Is he, perhaps, making a "copy" of a European-style art film -- and pointing out the flaws of that genre?

Buoyed by Binoche's performance, the whole exercise is gripping even as it unfolds with low-key exasperation. Binoche won the best actress award at the Cannes Film Festival for the role, and it's easy to see why: It's so multilayered that it's hard to know how much of her character is actually "real" and how much is an elaborate construction. (Then again, isn't all acting such a construction?)

When she explodes with indignation, then, or breaks into a beatific smile at the sight of a newlywed couple (Kiarostami peppers the film with matrimonial references) the whole experience seems drenched in a golden glow. Whatever else you say, her performance -- and "Certified Copy" itself -- is an original.