The defining feature of Richard Linklater's truly unique warbling on 21st century romance continues to be strength of voice and hyper-focused characterization in his newest film, Before Midnight. Each scene is as texturally vibrant as it is well acted and our nine-year awaited return to Jesse and Celine feels as poignant and timely as ever.

Following up on a one-of-a-kind franchise that is based solely on walking-and-talking through foreign landscapes and our established interest in a relationship between two star-crossed lovers, this third installment takes us to Greece to catch up with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy's intricately crafted characters. Tapping into our collective fears of rejection, of aging and of love as an ever-fleeting feeling, Before Midnight shows a maturity devilishly rare among modern day cinema.

The film opens in the sprawl of a Greek International Airport where Jesse is sending his son, Hank (Seamus Davey-Fitzpatrick), back home to his mother in Chicago. After the closing moments of the last film, Before Sunset, we are pretty much left to assume that Jesse and his now ex-wife are probably not on the best of terms but that strained relationship is really fleshed out in this opening sequence. It's clear that Jesse's infidelity did not go down smoothly and his relationship with his son has become collateral damage as a result of of that decision made nine years ago.

Jesse and Hank share some quiet moments where Jesse tries to reach out for his son and seems to keep coming up empty-handed but in the last moments before Hank returns back home, he admits that this has been the best summer of his life. This sparks an internal narrative in Jesse that will flow throughout the film and will later cause waves within Jesse and Celine's relationship.

Outside the airport gates, Celine waits for Jesse with their two curly-haired little girls and they begin a lengthy car ride back to their summer home, chatting about this and that in a naturalistic manner. Together, they decide to bypass the ancient runes that their sleeping daughter so badly wanted to see. Honest interactions like these are not a critique of them as parents but a genuine interplay of the circumstances at work and a peek into the decision-making process they, together, engage in as parents.

As Jesse eats the remnants of his slumbering child's apple, he admits to feeling cheated out of Hank's life as Celine muses about her wavering decision to abandon non-profit work and ally with the government. There's nothing tremendously important said or done in these scenes outside of the context of their personal lives but it's the conventionality of these affairs that make it, and the franchise, so engrossing. We don't feel like we're witnessing a romanticized love story - some silly and meaningless fairy tale - we feel like we're checking in with a pair of people. Their lives aren't tremendously exciting, nor are they particularly boring, but their little issues, insecurities, second-guessings and chats are all they have. In these opening moments, the scene is set for another deeply personal and empathetic film.

Cruising through the Greek countryside, Linklater takes us to the villa where Jesse, Celine, Hank and their two daughters have spent the summer. It's a beautiful piece of land, marked by budding fruits, ocean-view verandas, and countless rows of scrawling trees. Jesse and his family are here by invitation of a fellow writer for Jesse to use as a muse of sorts for his next book. As always, the absorbing feeling of location simply boils from the screen but, unlike the other films in the series, we don't feel like tourists hitting the highlights so much as locals going about their day-to-day. 

At dinner, a philosophical debate breaks out between Jesse, Celine and four Greeks on the benefits and drawbacks of marital interdependence - the benefits and drawbacks of living one collective life or two highly distinguishable lives. These discussions offer an interesting counter point to (also Greek) Plato's Symposium, in which Aristophanes puts forth the notion that love comes from a primal searching for a part of ourselves. All humans are created and then split in two. Our entire lives are devoted to the idea that we can recover what is missing from ourselves and, from that, achieve happiness and fulfillment. While Linklater doesn't really come down on one side or the other in terms of this popular philosophical tenant, he lets his characters do the talking. 

Like in all circumstances, Jesse is the hopeless romantic, Celine - the unwavering realist. For Jesse, love is eternal. It is giving and without bound but like most philosophers, it's something to be talked about rather than engaged in on and day-to-day basis. For Celine, love is in the details. It's not some grand theory, it's the ins-and-outs of everyday living. It's doing the laundry and matching socks. It's being there and being present. Their contesting ideas on love as a foundation stretches from this conversation into the bulk of the film and sets out an uncertain path for this couple who, up to this point, we've only seen in the stages of courtship. The question arises: is love eternal?  

Although their gender roles seem to hem closely to a conventional sense of familial structure, there is an obvious push from Celine to break free. She sees this traditional setup as a barrier to her career goals and faults Jesse for always putting himself and his work first. Jesse, wavering on understanding but fundamentally traditional in his outlook, sees her dissatisfaction with her own standing as a self-created whirlwind set in motion by her back-burnering her own true desires. In other words, it's not him standing in the way of her dream, it's her. Their relational positioning is age-old and yet as timely as ever in the face of new-wave feminism.

Linklater's films function in a reality where clear horizons are more a puff of smoke than an actuality. Clashing is a natural occurrence. Fights arise from needing to blow off steam and conflicting wants and needs lead to relationship issues. Tapping into our collective fears of not being understood or appreciated, we witness the cathartic ups-and-downs of a real love relationship in Jesse and Celine and understand them both equally.

There's therapeutic nihilism in Celine's rough-hewn outlook on love and the world and Delpy embraces this character with a blanket of understanding. Even when Celine is being admittedly crazy, she sticks to her guns like a nagging coon, unable to help herself. Blanketed behind five-o-clock shadowed grit, Jesse is equally at fault for their relationship woes as his cock-eyed grin and boyish reflections don't fill his quota for being a daddy. As a pair, Delpy and Hawke are solid gold.

Throughout it's 109 minutes, there is not an ounce of narrative fat asking to be skimmed off nor is there any pandering to a broad and blasé audience. The tender handling of insecurities is all that can be asked for as Linklater again acquaints us with an unusually contemplative couple who have earned our love and attention. As a continuing character study, it's nuanced and brilliantly acted. As a philosophical pondering, it's meaningful and important. As a film, it's damn near perfect. Serving as the apex of the trilogy, Before Midnight asks both: what is love and where do we go from here?

A+