Dead Language - Tribeca 2025
A quiet exploration of distance, memory, and the spaces between words
In their new film “Dead Language”, Mihal Brezis and Oded Binnun unfold a story that takes place entirely in the quiet cracks of life. These are moments of waiting, fleeting glances, and words that remain unspoken. The film opens in the arrivals hall of Ben Gurion Airport, a place that embodies both connection and separation, hope and loneliness. Aya, the film’s protagonist, is waiting for her husband but ends up mistakenly picking up a stranger. What could have remained a passing incident becomes the beginning of a charged and delicate encounter that continues to echo within her long after the man disappears. This introduction sets the tone of the film. It is quiet without being calm and precise without being cold. What seems like a simple mistake gradually turns into an emotional journey that reflects on memory, longing, identity, and moments of closeness in a world that sometimes loses its way.
What sets “Dead Language” apart is its ability to reach emotional depth through everyday and modest situations. Brezis and Binnun do not stage drama in the conventional sense. They create a suspended emotional state that floats between reality and dream. The directorial choices, such as a hesitant camera, warm tones that counterbalance inner loneliness, and a minimalist soundtrack that flows like a distant memory, enhance this feeling. The film does not rely on dialogue to move the story forward. Instead, it builds an entire world through silence and an internal rhythm that seems to come from another place, perhaps even from the past. The world of the film acts as a tangible presence, speaking its own language of signs, glances, and emotional distances.
At the center is Aya, portrayed with moving restraint by Sarah Adler. Aya appears to live a calm daily routine, but as the story unfolds it becomes clear that her calm is based on suppression and emotional gaps. Adler gives the character a sense of continuous self-discovery, filled with almost innocent moments that resemble a first experience of love. It is not directed at the stranger she meets but at what he symbolizes. Through her silences, fixed gaze, and carefully chosen words, Adler conveys powerful emotion. One scene in particular stands out, where Aya works in customer service and reads sentences generated by a computer but manages to charge them with deep emotional meaning. The contrast between mechanical delivery and genuine emotion creates a strong feeling of estrangement that somehow still contains hope.
Opposite her stands her husband Aviad, played by Yehezkel Lazarov, whose character is presented with emotional complexity. He is distant and condescending at times but also soft and human. At first the viewer sides with Aya and views Aviad as a source of disappointment and dullness. But as the story continues the film reveals subtle depths in his character that enrich the dynamic between them. Lazarov expresses the shift between restraint and warmth with unusual sensitivity while staying fully in tune with the story’s atmosphere. These moments are among the film’s most beautiful because they do not seek blame. Instead they reflect on human complexity.
“Dead Language” is more than just a story. It is an experience of disconnection, of someone living in a language that is not their own. The film uses cinematic tools to evoke a state of feeling, with soft lighting, careful aesthetics, and a quiet score that resembles a forgotten memory. The recurring horse race motif appears in several scenes, symbolizing passion, longing, and internal tension. The sounds of hooves echo through intimate moments and also appear in quiet domestic spaces. The race reflects the constant movement between closeness and distance, pleasure and unease.
Beyond its cinematic beauty, the film offers a subtle and piercing commentary on relationships. It shows how people drift apart not because of one dramatic event but because of a slow buildup of silence. “Dead Language” portrays a couple not through conflict or compromise but as a space full of small disappointments and habitual connections. When Aya meets the stranger, she remembers a different possibility. It is not necessarily better but simply different and alive. His disappearance leaves a void not only of his presence but of what could have been, whether with him or alone.
As the film continues, it moves with quiet and dreamlike rhythm. It avoids building toward a single dramatic peak. “Dead Language” explores the shifts that affect intimacy, memory, and identity during times when the ground beneath begins to tremble. What initially seems like a simple misunderstanding gradually becomes a reflection on the stories we tell ourselves and the way we become strangers even to those closest to us. Between brief encounters and prolonged silences, the film lives in that emotional space between rediscovery and reinvention. It gently asks what remains when certainty fades. Like a forgotten language finding new life, it invites us to listen for echoes of connection in the most unexpected places and leaves behind a lasting, tender impression long after the screen goes dark.
(Or Paz)