Its 1960s Poland and young nun Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska) is living the quiet, sheltered life in a convent house, and the verge of taking her eternal vows. When the Mother Superior pulls her aside to inform her that she has a surviving family member and recommends she seek her out, Anna heads into the city to be reunited with her aunt Wanda (Agata Kulesza). A hard-drinking, hard-smoking, hard-loving woman, she is completely at odds with Anna, living her life to full while clearly still damaged by her past. Anna discovers that she is in fact Jewish, her parents killed during World War II, and they both set off to find their final resting place, both in search of some kind of closure.
Gorgeously captured in harsh monochrome and a 1.33:1 ratio, set against the equally harsh Polish winter, Ida makes for some grim watching. Poland as a nation is still one giant open wound, unsure if it’s ever going to heal properly, its population still dazed and confused by what it witnessed, endured and were forced to do during the war. With the camera nearly always placed low, angled towards the ceiling or sky, it’s as if the film itself is seeking out God for an explanation.
The two actresses are both stellar, with Trzebuchowska’s other-worldly black-eyes managing to be the darkest things on the screen; set against her porcelain white face, she remains the vision of an innocent china-doll, perhaps best not exposed to her own history. Kulesza has the more emotionally complicated role to play, as a woman in a position of power who isn’t powerful enough to help herself; she supplies the small injections of dark humour and the constant hum of heartbreak.
Even at only 82 minutes, the movie doesn’t have an awful lot of story to tell to fill the time, content to luxuriously let silent conversations pass between the two actresses. Some may find the point belaboured, others will find it hypnotic. In truth, it’s somewhere between the two. While there isn’t much to love in Ida, what little there is will undoubtedly leave a lasting impression.
