For those of us born after 1987-ish, there are so many tangible snapshots of yesteryear. We were the first generation to grow up with parents constantly clutching camcorders and cameras, more portable than ever, capturing every possible moment of our respective childhoods. Then, the selfie entered our lexicon just as we entered adulthood. No prior generation has had such accessible, concrete tools to chronicle everyday reality. And yet, despite all those technological advancements, no invention has emerged to erase the pain and uncertainty we must all grapple with as we look to our pasts. On the contrary, those “definitive” fragments serve to enhance those emotions. Why don’t our recollections map over those grinning, harmonious images nestled in scrapbook pages? Someday, Sasha (Eylul Guven), the protagonist of Blue Heron, will understand this. Perhaps, as it does for many, it will gnaw at her, torment her.

For now, though, she’s a child adjusting—along with her Mother (Iringó Réti), Father (Ádám Tompa), and siblings—to a new home. Among those siblings is the quietly tormented teenager Jeremy (Edik Beddoes). He’s off somehow, frequently disobeying his parents, acting out, or suddenly vanishing. The move has only served to turn the already strained relationship between Jeremy and family more contentious.

Writer/director Sophy Romvari plunges audiences headfirst into adolescent Sasha’s world without an omnipresent narrator or ham-fisted exposition to establish character dynamics. Instead, the visuals alternate between evocations of memory and observational cinema. The former fascinatingly informs many details, mirroring the jagged, imperfect nature of human recollection. Scenes begin or end abruptly. There are suggestions of childhood shortcomings in understanding and forgotten moments.

Thus, the incomplete and the obscured populate Blue Heron. Romvari and cinematographer Maya Bankovic masterfully capture the sensation of clarity or a needed detail just out of reach. For instance, Sasha watches through a grimy window as her Father and Jeremy engage in a tense, sometimes physical conversation. The camera stays with her, stranding the audience with the child, all saddled with ambiguity by a single pane barrier. The film returns to these moments, effectively putting viewers inside Sasha’s mind.

Take, for instance, a lengthy single-take sequence where Sasha’s mother struggles to explain to her daughter why a friend visiting with Jeremy’s current issues isn’t a good idea. The camera lingers on Mother’s hands, squeezing a bowl of potato skins, hiding her face out of frame, and keeping Sasha blurred in the background. The unexpected camera placement evokes similarly subversive positioning in Dea Kulumbegashvili’s April. It also suggests many stirring interpretations. Does the blocking imply that watching the mother’s hands offers more insight than her face? Does it suggest a desperate scramble by adult Sasha (Amy Zimmer) through her memories, zooming in on the smallest details, hoping they provide answers about her brother? The visual priorities of Blue Heron are both immediately compelling and lastingly thought-provoking, tremendous to experience on a theatre screen.   

The same goes for Blue Heron’s sound design, which establishes a subtly detailed sonic landscape that comes alive via theater surround sound. For instance, a pivotal sequence finds Mother and Father figure out Jeremy’s future. Elsewhere in the home, the distant sound of What’s Opera, Doc? can be heard, revealing the children’s blissful unawareness of potentially seismic changes afoot only a few rooms down. The tragic reality hits harder because of how this depth of sound captures the complexity of life.

This kind of layering, where big moments coexist alongside the ordinary and everyday, is captured in the plotting as well. At one point, Mother is at the doctor and Father finds himself unable to provide the answers Sasha seeks. Instead, he delivers an impromptu lesson on MS Paint, distracting her immediately as she draws Mrs. Mousey, her favorite stuffed animal, and changes the background to pink. As the warm hues from the computer dance over these two souls, this moment’s eventual significance is astonishingly palpable. It is the “throwaway” obscuring the significant event brewing in the background. However, Romvari grasps that these encounters have their own importance, their own significance. Even without resorting to a grandiose or wistful tone, she conveys the importance of this brief moment of father-daughter bonding.

Perhaps the most important artistic accomplishment, though, is how and when Romvari decides to keep her characters silent. In the void where dialogue might go, uncertainty festers. At times, she does this in big ways, as when Jeremy slams a basketball against a wall instead of speaking to Mother. At others, she goes smaller, subtler, an unhurried study of adult Sasa as she cooks breakfast, for example, the hints at an omnipresent uncertainty.

How could this joy exist in a household so tormented? How could Jeremy be so aloof yet have Sasha asking so many questions? Why do those images of Sasha and her siblings smiling feel like they’re from another reality? Blue Heron’s quietly somber ambiance and most distinctive visual flourishes provide a perfect bedrock for such weighty questions. Gaze upon the silences and empty spaces Sophy Romvari’s camera emphasizes. You’ll witness something unshakably aching.

Blue Heron is now playing in select theaters and will expand into further locations in the coming weeks.

Blue Heron Trailer: