Berlinale Review: Yunan Lacks the Depth for a Complete Resonance

      The selection of only two German films for the competition at the 75th Berlinale drew attention and raised questions, particularly regarding the two sophomore projects that were chosen over newer works by renowned filmmakers like Tom Tykwer and Jan-Ole Gerster. One of these selected contenders for the Golden Bear is "Yunan," directed by Ameer Fakher Eldin, a Syrian-born filmmaker based in Germany. Starring the legendary Fassbinder muse Hanna Schygulla, the film is a reflective, somewhat clumsy drama examining the experience of exile, which aspires to great heights but ultimately falls short.

      Munir (Georges Khabbaz) is an Arab writer residing in Hamburg. Despite doctors finding no physical issues, he experiences shortness of breath and a sense of general fatigue towards life. His decision to give away his dog, send money to his sister for their ailing mother, and travel to a remote island with just a small bag indicates that he likely doesn’t intend to return. Upon checking into a guest house operated by the pragmatic, silver-haired Valeska (Schygulla), Munir struggles to follow through on his plans and instead gradually forges a friendship with the elderly innkeeper and her rough-edged son Karl (Tom Wlaschiha).

      Eldin’s screenplay is sparse and minimalistic. The plot progresses slowly, and little is revealed about the characters. For instance, it remains uncertain where Munir comes from or how he ended up in Germany. There is no background information on Valeska or Karl, or what led them to stay on the island and manage their humble family establishment. While this approach is not inherently a criticism—especially considering the common tendency in German cinema to over-explain—one quickly realizes that such ambiguous portrayals of despair can be frustrating and ineffective. The film struggles to generate dramatic tension or evoke empathy, as it fails to clarify what drives Munir's distress or why Valeska is so immediately sympathetic to his pain.

      In the absence of strong plot elements, Eldin instead uses mood and suggestion to compensate. He crafts a mythical story about a mute shepherd, which resurfaces throughout the film like a recurring dream. This subplot features the silent shepherd and his wife herding sheep and gazing into the distance. While this tale clearly reflects a deep longing that connects Munir to his origins, its vagueness prevents it from effectively resonating with the viewer's understanding of the protagonist’s grief.

      The film also includes many shots that are still lifes of Munir's actual and imagined environment. The camera lingers on farm animals, billowing clouds, and crashing waves in extended, uninterrupted takes or pans slowly across the barren landscape depicted in the shepherd’s tale. These visuals are often striking, showcasing Malick-like aspirations to engage with nature and the passage of time. This bold visual storytelling, however, does not quite achieve the poetic impact it seeks.

      Despite their limited roles, all three main actors perform well, particularly Schygulla. After nearly sixty years in the industry, her expressiveness remains remarkable. With the slightest change in her expression, she communicates the warmth and generosity of someone willing to embrace another person without hesitation. Her natural and confident demeanor lends authenticity to every scene she inhabits. Towards the film's conclusion, Valeska joins Munir for an impromptu dance to an Eastern melody. Without uttering a word, the two actors engage in a physical exchange that conveys the depth of the unexpected connection between their characters. In moments like these, Eldin proves adept at uncovering poignant emotional truths within everyday interactions.

      Another significant scene shows Munir’s last venture into the shepherd's alternate reality, culminating in an unexpected visit. This moment, thoughtfully visualized and directed with a clear-eyed approach, comes closest to articulating the reasons for Munir’s suffering and delivers a powerful impact towards the film's end. It introduces the kind of urgent, personal touch that the film would have benefitted from more extensively.

      Beautifully filmed by Ronald Plante against the misty backdrops of Langeneß, "Yunan" presents a somber exploration of displacement and the quest for a sense of home away from home. Tackling such complex themes without providing explicit explanations is commendable and offers a refreshing change in German cinema. However, in this instance, it does seem that both the exploration of the central conflict and its resolution lack the depth needed to resonate fully.

      "Yunan" premiered at the 2025 Berlinale.