“An ambient and darkly poetic film that is quite impenetrable but a testament to Keltek’s singular vision.”

Sometimes you come out of a film and think, “What did I just watch?” If that is a negative for you, then maybe Gürcan Keltek’s fiction debut New Dawn Fades is not your thing. If being inside the head of someone dealing with mental health issues sounds intriguing – even without much explanation of what he is experiencing and even if moments could be real or imaginary – then by all means give Keltek’s exploration of sanity, of a city (Istanbul), and of the interconnection between the two (otherwise known as psychogeography) a chance. Languid, meandering, with little emotional connection to hang onto, New Dawn Fades intrigues but is a tough apple to bite into, more akin to a mood piece than something resembling a narrative work of art. A film that will no doubt leave audiences divided, it will find its niche in festivals but has little chance to venture outside of the circuit.

Akın (Cem Yiğit Üzümoğlu) is home after a period of being institutionalized for his mental health problems, but that doesn’t mean he is ‘better’, whatever that connotes; the definition of ‘insanity’ is in many ways a product of culture. It is unclear what has caused his issues, although it might have to do with his absent father, currently living in Serbia, a man who earned the nickname ‘The Butcher of Belgrade’. His mother doesn’t want Akın to contact him under any circumstances; her constant fretting and the fact that she submits him to a quasi-exorcism session of cupping and leeches would drive any man crazy. So Akın mostly takes to the streets, mysteriously drawn to the many religious buildings that dot the city. When he is in these majestic and ethereal places he hears voices, although it is unclear if they are in his head or from the worshippers around him. Over the course of the film he meets a few key figures in his life: a friend from the mental health ward, a doctor who thinks he can still help Akın by increasing drug dosages, a female friend and possible ex-lover who helps him regulate his breathing. Their backgrounds are more or less non-existent, their roles small, but they provide Akın with moments of calmness. Slowly his visions take over though, and we see some familiar faces pop up in them, like the aforementioned doctor or a young girl whose face Akın saw on a ‘Missing’ poster. Connections between earlier scenes start to appear out of the mist that is Akın’s inner world, and the spirits that haunt him and the role they play in Akın’s mind become more concrete, although by this film’s standard that means they are still pretty fuzzy.

This all culminates in a final scene in which several religions are pulled together, not unlike the opening scene in the Hagia Sophia, itself a place that over time hosted worshippers of different religions. It feels as if Keltek meant to underline Istanbul as a hotbed of religious history when the film throws in references to Cybele (an Anatolian goddess who pre-dates Christianity) and Chalcedon, an ancient coastal town located right across the mouth of the Bosporus from the Hagia Sophia, and host of an Ecumenical Council at which it was defined that in Christ there were two natures united in a single person. What this all means for Akın’s story and the film’s cryptic ending is food for discussion. Keltek also slips some political commentary in, even if it is not overt, with a repeated mantra, “This is our last dawn. This is not our country. This is the country of those who want to kill us.” Again, what exactly this refers to remains elusive and is open to interpretation.

While the messaging in New Dawn Fades may be (intentionally) shrouded in mystery, Keltek’s direction in creating that mystery is all over the film. A sound design filled with hisses, plops and static mixed with the undecipherable voices in Akın’s head at times drowns out the dialogue he has in real life, creating an unnerving and jittery soundscape that keeps the viewer as much on edge as it does the protagonist. Compounded by an electronic-heavy score by British producer Son of Philip, the sound hangs over the film like a dark storm cloud, ominously present. The cinematography by frequent Werner Herzog collaborator Peter Zeitlinger, with its flowing camerawork and frequent use of a wide lens, adds to the restless nature of the film, perfecting the cinematic representation of the mental state of the film’s protagonist. It all combines for an ambient and darkly poetic film that is quite impenetrable, but a testament to Keltek’s singular vision and well worth a watch for those who like their cinema contemplative and are not afraid of the absence of a structured narrative.