Munir (Georges Khabbaz) is out of breath, waking up and coughing in the middle of the night, his health failing him. He’s sitting in his rustic hotel room in Langeness, Hallig Islands, west of the edges of northern Germany. This melancholic, silent man stands on Hallig Islands’ landscapes, flat farmland at the mercy of nature. The hotel’s owners Valeska (Hanna Schygulla) and her son Karl (Tom Wlaschiha) are initially hostile. Or at least, it starts that way until they start sharing drinks and the occasional wrestling match. Karl, Valeska, and the rest of the townsfolk don’t know why he chooses Hallig Islands for vacation. That may stay a mystery, Munir remembers a story that his mother Eman (Nidal Al-Askhar) tells. One about a shepherdess, Kamilya (Sibel Kekilli) and her husband Yusuf (Ali Suliman), a cursed, silent man.

Director and writer Ameer Fakher Eldin captures the right kind of strong darkness in capturing the Hallig Islands. I don’t mean there’s something sinister about the Islands –  nothing wrong with that but it’s not that kind of film, thank God. There’s a power to this film as it depicts Munir visiting just as the Islands get a flood they haven’t seen in decades. There’s also subtle commentary in Yunan as the flood strengthens a silent bond between Munir and the Islanders. The dialogue during the Island scenes is minimal and there’s less of it during the dream sequences except for narration. Ali Suliman and Sibel Kekilli are a joy to watch even when they can’t speak, and there’s a point to their silent lives. But it’s understandable if some viewers want to cut some screen time on either timelines on an already ‘slow’ film.

As Yunan progresses, it becomes apparent why Munir, a sick man, chooses Hallig as his vacation destination. Or at least, some viewers can make the assumption that this vacation spot may be the last one he ever takes. One can also make other conclusions in knowing Fakher Eldin’s roots in both Palestine and Syria. Regardless of one’s health, sometimes somewhere else is easier than returning to one’s homeland. The film doesn’t always sell its mysteries, and one can interpret the ending as fatalistic and grim. The wrestling scene is also something that happens in films with characters with certain tendencies. It seems like it’s mourning the impermanent relationships of a character who’s perpetually unmoored. But there’s also something beautiful about these characters’ ephemeral relationships to any place.

Watch Yunan in select Canadian theatres.