"Istanbul is a place…where people come to disappear." This is the sad conclusion arrived at by late in this moving film by one of its principal characters, Lia, a stern-faced older woman who has crossed over into the Turkish capital from the Black Sea's Batumi, a desolate-looking spot in Georgia. A retired school teacher, she has left her home after making a promise to her now-dead sister. The promise was to find that woman's child, who's living in Turkey. All Lia has to go on is a name, and the fact that the now-adult child is transgender.
The movie, written and directed by Levan Akin, begins in the messy, tumultuous house where Achi, a young man who's for all intents and purposes still a boy, lives miserably under the thumb of his older brother. Lia happens by the house, is recognized by one of its residents, and on the spot Achi concocts a tale, saying he knows the niece, Tekla, and has an address for her. He attaches himself to Lia, who accepts his company reluctantly, and soon they're off, settling awkwardly in cheap lodgings and combing the poorer areas of Istanbul with not much to go on but hope.
The two actors who play Lia and Achi, Mzia Arabuli and Lucas Kankava, are marvels. Kankava has a wide-open face that registers Achi's boundless naivete, which is always there no matter how cocky or obdurate he makes himself. Arabuli's own expression as Lia is often pinched, but as time wears on her, and as she starts to let herself go in a "what the hell" sort of way — she likes to dip into a bottle of a fermented drink called "chacha," a habit she initially tries to hide from Achi — a pained vulnerability makes itself felt. These are two lost souls who make an unlikely temporary fishbowl for themselves, far from homes they may never return to.
On one of their ferry rides, Akin's camera makes a graceful camera move away from the anxious Lia and Achi and settles on the more content-in-the-moment face of a trans woman, whose story the movie then picks up. This is not, as is soon made clear, Tekla. The character's name is Evrim, and she's a woman who's found a purpose. Near to completing a law degree, she works for a trans rights NGO that also looks into various cases in poorer neighborhoods; at one point we see her springing a young boy and his younger sister, who act on the peripheries of the movie's central story threads, from jail. She's confident and compassionate, enjoys a fairly robust sex life, but she's subject to condescension — at best — from the various authority figures she's obliged to deal with. Deniz Dumanli's portrayal of the character is extraordinary, grounded, vanity-free.
Lia and Achi's story will intersect with Evrim's, but not right away. Akin is here working in a tradition established in Italian Neo-realism — and by the end of the film, he shows he can turn on the viewer's tear ducts as deftly as De Sica did in his prime — but his narrative approach brings a vivid freshness to the proceedings. The camerawork he concocts with cinematographer Lisabi Fridell, often shooting through windows and doorways, often gives the viewer a "fly on the wall" feeling, but never becomes voyeuristic. It invites empathy, not titillation. And the movie's portrait of Istanbul — roiling, unglamorous, and yes, packed with stray cats — makes the city a character in and of itself.
