The fact that only two German films were selected to compete at the 75th Berlinale raised some eyebrows and sparked interest in the pair of sophomore features that received the distinction over new works from higher-profile filmmakers like Tom Tykwer and Jan-Ole Gerster. One such designated Golden Bear contender is Yunan by Syrian-born, German-based director Ameer Fakher Eldin. Featuring iconic Fassbinder muse Hanna Schygulla, it’s a contemplative, somewhat ineloquent drama about the exile experience that aims high but misses the mark.
Munir (Georges Khabbaz) is an Arab writer living in Hamburg. Although doctors can’t find anything wrong with him, Munir is suffering from shortness of breath and what seems to be general world-weariness. When he gives away his dog, transfers money to his sister back home to take care of their senile mother, and travels to a remote island with nothing but a light bag, you know he’s probably not planning on coming back. After checking into the guest house run by the gray-haired, straight-talking Valeska (Schygulla), Munir finds himself unable to actually pull the trigger, instead gradually striking up a friendship with the elderly innkeeper and her roughneck son Karl (Tom Wlaschiha).
Eldin’s screenplay is an exercise in sparsity. Not much happens for plot and very little is known about the characters. It’s never clear, for example, where Munir came from and how he ended up in Germany. There’s no backstory to Valeska or Karl, or what drove them to stay on the island and run their modest family business. This is, of itself, no critique, especially considering the predominant tendency in German cinema of over-explaining things. And in theory there’s no reason why a film about someone who simply does not wish to live anymore shouldn’t function. But one soon realizes that such vague depictions of desperation can be frustrating, ineffective: without conveying what caused Munir such despair or made Valeska immediately receptive to her guest’s pain, the film struggles to build dramatic tension or evoke empathy.
Where plot details lack, Eldin compensates through mood and suggestion. For that purpose he composed a mythical tale about a voiceless shepherd which plays out onscreen multiple times like a recurring dream. In this parallel narrative we see the mute shepherd and his wife silently herding their sheep, staring pensively into space. While the story clearly relates to a deep yearning that connects Munir to his roots, the opacity of the scenario means it never communicates anything specific that helps the viewer identify with the protagonist and his sorrows.
The suggestive approach extends to the many shots in the film that are just still lifes of Munir’s surroundings, real and imagined. The camera would linger on farm animals, gathering clouds, stormy waves in long, unbroken takes, or slowly pan across the arid landscape in the sheep-keeper myth. These shots are often beautiful, displaying Malick-like ambitions in their attempt to converse with nature and the passage of time. It’s daring visual storytelling; ultimately the imagery’s conception and texture aren’t quite on a level to conjure the poetry intended.
Though their roles don’t necessarily give them much to do, all three principal actors are solid, particularly Schygulla. After nearly six decades in the business, her face is as expressive as ever. With the minutest indication of a look, she reveals the warmth and generosity of someone ready to help a fellow human with arms wide open. Her posture and body language, so completely natural and assured, give every scene she’s in the weight of authenticity. Towards film’s end, Valeska joins Munir for an impromptu dance to an oriental tune. Without saying a word, the two actors engage in an exchange that’s purely physical yet says so much about the unlikely bond between their characters. In scenes like this, Eldin proves his ability to find affecting emotional truths in the everyday.
Another notable scene depicts Munir’s final detour into the alternate world of the shepherd, at the end of which his alter ego meets an unexpected visitor. Dreamily envisaged and directed with unsentimental crispness, this brief encounter comes closest to naming the reasons for Munir’s woes and packs a memorable last-minute punch. It carries the kind of urgent, personal touch the film could have used more.
Handsomely shot by Ronald Plante against the misty vistas of Langeneß, Yunan offers a brooding look at uprootedness and the possibility of finding home away from home. To take on such gnarly subject matters and not spell everything out is admirable, and a welcome change of pace for German cinema. In this particular case, however, it does feel like both the investigation of the central conflict and its resolution need more substance to fully sing.
Yunan premiered at the 2025 Berlinale.