“A fragile and melancholic work that addresses grief and the aftermath.”

In an unnamed city in some remote part of what appears to be Europe (although it could be just about anywhere in the world, based on the range of languages spoken and communities represented), everyone is doing what they can to fight the heat. The sun is becoming more of a burden to their lives than it is beneficial, a sign of what is very clearly an imminent ecological disaster – or perhaps one that has already arrived. These are the first images we are presented with when venturing into Don’t Let the Sun, the most recent directorial outing of Jacqueline Zünd, who continues to explore her fascination with the human condition through telling another story of unexpected connections. In this case it is Cleo, who recently lost her partner, leaving her to raise their pre-teen daughter Nika by herself. In an effort to give the young girl a sense of normality she hires Jonah, who works for a company that provides comfort to strangers. He is fully at their disposal to portray a loved one, or help them fulfil a particular goal that fills in the gaps left by what appears to be a widespread loss, forcing those left behind to take on several different roles – but who can these people turn to when they themselves need some comfort and guidance? A fascinating film that blends science fiction and existential philosophy with brief touches of coming-of-age drama and romance, Don’t Let the Sun is one of the year’s most ambitious endeavours, telling a story that will likely have immense resonance even if it occasionally plays in a minor key at crucial moments.

Understanding the sentiment that Zünd was interested in expressing with this film is not as straightforward as we may expect, since she deliberately refuses to provide us with clear details at the start, and is instead prioritising a more subtle approach to introducing certain ideas. Don’t Let the Sun is a film defined by its intentional ambiguities – the exact circumstances behind what seems to be a global environmental crisis are not made obvious – particularly because the film isn’t entirely focused on delivering a cautionary warning. Instead, it chooses to be a more subtle affair as far as discussing what it claims to be a fictional scenario, but which is evidently rooted in reality. The more prominent theme is that of human connections, and the fact that a cataclysmic event can not only have an impact on the economic and environmental sectors, but also has very intense social complications. We’ve seen stories (both fictional and in reality) of companies that hire out actors to represent loved ones or help achieve a particular goal, and this film adds interesting insights into this process, showing the companionship both from the perspective of the actor and their client. It demonstrates the firm friendship that eventually is formed, exceeding the boundaries of a professional relationship and instead becoming a more intricately woven portrait of the human condition and its many fascinating ambiguities.

Considering that it is a relatively complex affair as far as thematic content goes, it makes sense that the director approaches the story in a direct and straightforward manner when it comes to the execution of these ideas. Don’t Let the Sun is a potent, slow-burning work about the connections we form and how some of the most meaningful ones are those that come to us unexpectedly. This is reflected in the subdued, meditative approach to the filmmaking – every detail is well-defined and placed at a particular point in the narrative for a reason, even if we only recognise its importance as the film progresses. The concept of artifice is crucial to not only the narrative (which centres on how artificial solutions can be used to momentarily fix real-world problems, but only to a certain extent before it becomes inauthentic), but also the overall construction of the film, which uses a quiet aesthetic to reflect a world undergoing unprecedented change. The colours are intentionally quite drab and the compositions muted, creating a slightly disconcerting depiction of a world that has been plunged into a state of deep grief, the existential ponderings of the masses taking on many different forms. The emotions are kept subtle and realistic, and Zünd avoids overt sentimentality as much as possible, focusing more on the authentic demonstration of these complicated feelings, which are brought to life by a strong ensemble that takes on these difficult characters and infuses the film with an abundance of humanity.

Don’t Let the Sun is not a film that benefits from preconceived expectations, nor is it one that becomes easy to predict in terms of where the story is heading, primarily because it moves in a deliberate manner that resists categorisation and instead requires more active interpretation on the part of the viewer. It’s ultimately this quality that makes it quite effective in exploring its core ideas, even when it may not communicate its ideas as directly as one may have anticipated. It’s recommended to view this film as a stream of consciousness account of an imagined future. One that perhaps cannot be called post-apocalyptic in the traditional sense of the word, but in which reality is recognisable but slightly uncanny, instilling in the viewer a simultaneous sense of unease and curiosity. The two work in tandem to create this tender but haunting exploration of human relationships and the importance of finding solace in those willing to provide guidance, even if they themselves do not have all the answers. It is a fragile and melancholic work that addresses grief and the aftermath, but also one that doesn’t dismiss the lingering sense of hope that gradually emerges throughout. Don’t Let the Sun has some very powerful ideas and a clear direction on what it hoped to convey in terms of both its deepest topics of conversation and the most esoteric details, proving to be very effective in communicating its overall themes and the small existential cues from which they spring.