Amidst the millions of lives unfolding daily in Berlin, a particularly painful one unfolds for 16-year-old Ilay. His mother is on her deathbed, accompanied only by her son and the caretakers Ana and Shanti.

Viewers hoping for more of a conventional plot must soon let go of that expectation, as director Saša Vajda seems intent on playing with the concept of time, capturing the standstill of time in the face of death.

Ilay balances his life between multiple jobs, seeing his friends, and boxing as an outlet. Other than that, he does not disclose much to the audience. With Ilay rarely speaking, judgement can only be formed through his actions. The slow shots and 16mm cinematography leave plenty of room to observe the characters’ relationships – and they feel especially authentic. Vajda cast teenagers from the streets, allowing them to use their own jargon, making it almost feel like hanging out with them rather than only observing. Their chattiness and eagerness to live only further highlight Ilay’s silence. Suffering from insomnia, he wanders sleepless through his life, doing everything he is expected to do while seeming far, far detached from it.

Casted caretaker Ana is an actual ICU nurse, and her movements and interactions feel grounded in her day-to-day experience, as does her understanding of the pain felt by family members. She is also the one encouraging Ilay to seek help for his mental wellbeing. His visits to the therapist seem to go nowhere: he fails to explain his feelings, only mentioning that he is “in the wrong time,” like “a ghost who is present and not present at the same time.”

Completely dissociated in his pain and helplessness, Ilay seems unreachable. He barely interacts with anyone, whether it is his sick mother or the concerned caretaker Ana.

This creates a sense of blurred uncertainty about where the plot is heading, leaving the audience in a strange waiting room between life and death. Confusing or frustrating to some, this may very well have been Vajda’s exact intention.