If who you are is a sin, what are the consequences of simply living your life? Traditional spiritualism clashes with modern individualism in Nader Saeivar’s Hijamat, a tense and intelligently observed drama about the repercussions for a Turkish family living in Berlin when one of the patriarch’s sons is rumored to be gay. At its core a movie of considerable compassion, it uses its non-judgemental approach wisely, exploring the conflict wrought both within communities and within individuals when opposing perspectives are held sincerely and expressed passionately, though its own sincerity and passion make for a heavy watch.
Murat (Kida Khodr Ramadan) stands at the center of his extended family — husband to Leyla (Nicolette Krebitz), originally from Kosovo, and father of their young son; son himself to Ibrahim (Vedat Erincin), a devoutly religious restaurant owner; older brother by some 20 or 30 years to Kerem (Jael Cem Ilhan). When photos circulate intimating Kerem’s homosexuality, the family and community react with hostility. Under both danger and disapproval, Kerem is pressured to pursue a spiritual path to cleanse himself of the supposed sin he’s suspected of committing, but Murat, charged with protecting and guiding his younger brother, is more sympathetic to his cause.
Saeivar doesn’t waste much time with speculation — even before Kerem’s sexuality is confirmed to the audience, it’s never in any substantial doubt. And smartly so, since Hijamat is less about the societal perils of hearsay and innuendo than it is about the personal perils of denying one’s true self. Kerem, of a different generation than Murat, is torn between what others compel him to do and what his own nature compels him to do, and his response, brave and sometimes melodramatic, is in necessary contrast to his brother’s. You see, Murat has his own secret, and it’s their contrasting methods of coping that give Hijamat its narrative drive and its thematic resonance.
The problem with Kerem isn’t actually a problem, and thus it precludes the potential for solutions; attempts to find solutions will therefore only cause genuine problems. The tension isn’t so much in the uncertainty of the outcome as it is in the certainty that it won’t be a positive one. But this creates another problem, one for the movie. Hijamat is so intensely dramatic that it almost feels doom-laden, and even moments of tenderness — Murat’s interactions with Margot (Nastassja Kinski), a friendly but deeply troubled neighbor with severe trauma from the Cold War, or the sweet surprise of the final shot — carry some burden of suspense or sadness. Furthermore, Saeivar’s fixation on the intricacies of this family’s challenges is missing any real relief — little (if at all) is shown or spoken that’s not of importance, and the combination of narrative density and emotional intensity eventually becomes overwhelming.
Yet it mostly remains very astute material. All characters, both major and minor, are richly drawn (to such an extent that some feel underused) and recognizable, giving the details of their intertwining connections interest and plausibility. It’s an honest movie, understanding both the nature of each person’s position and the consequences that either holding to it or abandoning it may have (the lack of resolution in the end, then, may feel avoidant for a movie that’s otherwise distinctly resolute in its plot construction, but anything more concrete might have been a betrayal of its complexity). And, despite its near-perpetual gloominess, it’s not without surprise, specifically in Murat’s development, never adopting a definite stance on whether or not his actions could be construed as sinful, and even bait-and-switching our expectations of him in one early scene to keep the audience on its toes. There’s an undeniable treasure trove of fine character writing and thematic expression in Hijamat, but the film could have used a generous touch more levity and variety to polish it into its ideal form.
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