“An atmospheric and darkly poetic film that is quite impenetrable, but still a testament to Keltek’s unique vision”
Sometimes you come out of a movie and think: “What did I just see?“If that is negative for you, then maybe Gürcan Keltek’s debut novel New dawn fades is not your cup of tea. If you find looking into the mind of a person struggling with mental health issues fascinating, even if there isn’t much of an explanation for what he’s experiencing, and even if the moments are real or imagined, then definitely give Keltek’s exploration of mental health, a city (Istanbul), and the connection between the two (also known as psychogeography) a chance. Sluggish, aimless, with little emotional connection to latch onto, New dawn fades The film is exciting, but also a tough nut to crack. It is more like a mood film than a narrative work of art. The film will undoubtedly divide audiences. It will find its niche at festivals, but has little chance of becoming known outside of these circles.
Akın (Cem Yiğit Üzümoğlu) is back home after a stint in an institution for his mental health issues, but that doesn’t mean he’s “better,” whatever that means; the definition of “madness” is in many ways a product of culture. It’s unclear what the root of his problems is, though it may have something to do with his absent father, currently living in Serbia and nicknamed “The Butcher of Belgrade.” His mother wants Akın to have any contact with him under any circumstances; her constant worry and the fact that she subjects him to a quasi-exorcism session involving cupping and leeches would drive any man mad. So Akın spends most of his time on 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 whether they are in his head or from the believers around him. Over the course of the film, he meets some key figures in his life: a friend from the psychiatric ward, a doctor who thinks he can still help Akın by increasing the dosage of medication, a girlfriend and possible ex-lover who helps him regulate his breathing. Their backgrounds are more or less nonexistent, their roles small, but they provide Akın with moments of peace. Slowly, however, his visions take over and we see some familiar faces appear in them, like the aforementioned doctor or a young girl whose face Akın saw on a “missing” poster. From the fog that is Akın’s inner world, connections between earlier scenes begin to emerge, and the ghosts that haunt him and the role they play in Akın’s mind become more concrete, although by this film’s standards that means they’re still pretty blurry.
This all culminates in a final scene that brings together multiple religions, not unlike the opening scene at Hagia Sophia, itself a site that has hosted believers of different religions at different times over time. It feels like an attempt to underscore Istanbul as a hotbed of religious history when the film throws in references to Cybele (an Anatolian goddess who predated Christianity) and Chalcedon, an ancient coastal city directly across from Hagia Sophia at the mouth of the Bosphorus and host of an Ecumenical Council that determined that in Christ, two natures are united in a single person. What this all means for Akın’s story and the film’s cryptic ending is up for debate. Keltek also inserts some political commentary, though not obvious, with a repeated mantra: “This is our last dawn. This is not our land. This is the land of those who want to kill us.“What exactly this refers to remains difficult to grasp and remains a matter of interpretation.
While the news in New dawn fades may be (intentionally) shrouded in mystery, but Keltek’s direction in creating that mystery is felt throughout the film. A sound design full of hisses, plops and whooshes, mixed with the unintelligible voices in Akın’s head, sometimes drowns out the dialogue he has in real life, creating an unsettling and nervous soundscape that keeps the viewer as on tenterhooks as the protagonist. Paired with a heavily electronic score by British producer Son of Philip, the sound hovers over the film like a dark, ominously present storm cloud. The cinematography by Peter Zeitlinger, with whom he has frequently worked with Werner Herzog, with its fluid camerawork and frequent use of a wide-angle lens, adds to the restless nature of the film and perfects the cinematic portrayal of the mental state of the film’s protagonist. All this results in an atmospheric and darkly poetic film that is quite impenetrable, but nevertheless a testament to Keltek’s unique vision and well worth seeing for anyone who likes their cinema contemplative and is not afraid of the lack of a structured narrative.
