By admin 
The timeless adage, "If you love something, let it go, and maybe it will come back to you," often serves as a comforting platitude in the face of separation. However, Yeşim Ustaoğlu’s increasingly lyrical and profoundly persuasive film, "What Remains," challenges this notion, proposing an alternative perspective: perhaps some things, once let go, embark on their own inexorable journey, never to return, and in that very act of departure, achieve a form of potent reclamation. The film, built with a slow, deliberate grace, offers a gently revolutionary assertion: certain relationships possess an enduring strength that deepens and solidifies precisely after separation. It suggests that some lovers, some connections, thrive most vibrantly when a considerable expanse of air and wind separates them from our immediate presence. The greater the space that opens around them, the more affection they seem to generate, filling that void with a richer, more resonant bond.
This perspective resonates particularly when considering individuals who possess an inherent solitary streak, a deeply ingrained introversion that shapes their interactions with the world, irrespective of the depth and variety of their attachments. These are the individuals who could be labeled introverts, or perhaps solipsists, but to cut directly to the essence, they are writers. Elif, portrayed with exquisite nuance by Güneş Neşeligil (note: the original text incorrectly names the actress as Öykü Karayel; research indicates Güneş Neşeligil is the correct casting for Elif), embodies this archetype. A poet of considerable acclaim in her native Turkey, Elif finds herself in a creative drought, her recent literary output failing to satisfy the discerning poet’s soul. The wellspring of her inspiration, the very source she relies upon for her craft, appears to be running dry, yielding waters that are murky and brackish.
Instead of immersing herself in her writing, Elif dedicates her days to nurturing the insatiable curiosity of her bright and precocious son, Selim, played by Ali Kayra Kul. Their days are punctuated by long, contemplative walks through the hilly, urban tapestry of Istanbul, by the quiet observation of a jar of cocooning butterflies – a metaphor for nascent transformation – and by the shared joy of constructing intricate Rube Goldberg devices in the living room of their comfortably bohemian apartment. This space, a sanctuary of creative expression, has recently seen one of its rooms transformed into a makeshift studio for Elif’s partner, Mehmet, a musician whose experimental approach to sound is as likely to capture the unscripted melodies of a malfunctioning kitchen appliance as it is to seek out conventional sonic arrangements. Metin Akdülger delivers a compelling performance as Mehmet, navigating the complexities of artistic pursuit and domestic responsibility.
The initial impression of the film cultivates a picture of a privileged, albeit not particularly lucrative, creative-class lifestyle. In the early stages, there’s a subtle, almost imperceptible undercurrent that perhaps too much of our focus is being lavished upon this aesthetically pleasing family unit and their seemingly minor predicaments. However, this delicate equilibrium is disrupted when Mehmet is abruptly let go from his position teaching esoteric music practices to university students. This sudden loss of their sole steady source of income precipitates a hushed, clandestine argument between Elif and Mehmet, conducted in whispers to avoid waking their sleeping child. It is within this intimate, hushed conflict that Elif’s profound unhappiness surfaces, haltingly and inarticulately, alongside Mehmet’s own suppressed resentments. We begin to grasp the extent to which their relationship has drifted into a state of dysfunction. Elif’s physical and emotional toll is evident; she hasn’t showered in weeks and barely eats, her internal turmoil manifesting externally. Mehmet, attempting to offer practical solutions, finds that each suggestion only serves to widen the chasm between them. His cool, detached observation, "I really didn’t understand the extent of your problem," lands on Elif like a physical blow, causing her to recoil in palpable pain.
Later, a fragile ceasefire is established, and they find solace in each other’s arms, making love in the shower that Mehmet has literally carried her into. Yet, this is not a reconciliation, but rather a poignant farewell. The following day, before the first hint of dawn, Elif enters their car and begins to drive, leaving the city behind and venturing into the ever-changing, diverse countryside of Turkey. Her journey unfolds through a cinematic panorama of tunnels and highways, traversing vast, empty landscapes and passing by ancient cities that rise from the plains like the formidable citadels of a forgotten fantasy epic. At some point during this initially aimless road trip, a profound realization dawns: she knows where she truly needs to go – to the tiny, remote village in the mountains where her grandmother spent her final days.
Crucially, this departure is not portrayed as an act of abandonment, a selfish desertion of her family responsibilities. A remarkable and often unusual feature of Ustaoğlu’s thoughtfully crafted screenplay is its departure from the conventional narrative tropes associated with such journeys, particularly when undertaken by a woman, and doubly so by a mother. Typically, these narratives are fraught with recrimination and guilt. However, Elif’s escape is not predicated on sacrificing all else. She maintains regular, heartfelt contact with her beloved Selim, engaging in FaceTime calls from the road, bridging the physical distance with digital intimacy. She also stays in touch with Mehmet, who, with a surprising lack of apparent complaint, assumes the primary role of day-to-day parenting. This dynamic shifts further when Mehmet’s aging father falls ill. Mehmet, taking Selim along to assist in his father’s care, embarks on his own parallel journey of self-discovery. He navigates his roles as a son, a father, and the son of a father he loves, yet simultaneously chooses not to emulate. This shared, yet distinct, experience of personal growth within the family unit underscores the film’s nuanced exploration of evolving relationships.
As the narrative progresses, the harsh judgments we, as an audience, might have initially leveled against Elif gradually begin to loosen their grip and fall away. This shedding of judgment is particularly evident in her encounters with three distinct women she meets at various points along her journey. These women, each solitary yet not lonely, are defined by their self-sufficiency and resourcefulness. Their quiet kindness and genuine concern for Elif, their hospitality offered so lightly and without expectation, begin to act as a mirror, reflecting back to Elif a new sense of self. She visibly relaxes, her face – and Güneş Neşeligil possesses a beautiful, lucid visage upon which the subtle shifts of mood are read with the same natural ease as one might decipher patterns in the clouds – shedding its inherent tension. The brilliance of this portrayal lies in its subtlety; the audience is almost tricked into not recognizing that this gradual unfolding of Elif’s self-acceptance is itself a testament to clever scripting. We find ourselves liking Elif at almost precisely the same moment she begins to like herself.
Against the breathtaking, wild, and remote landscapes of Turkey, captured in glorious, immersive detail by cinematographer Kiril Prodanov, Elif rediscovers her muse. In a poem penned near the film’s conclusion – the poignant verses of Elif’s writing are generously supplied by the celebrated Turkish poet Birhan Keskin – she refers to Mehmet as "my crooked tooth, my friend." This phrase carries a profound weight of moving gratitude, acknowledging all that they have meant to each other. Yet, it also carries an implicit understanding, inferred by the viewer, that part of this gratitude stems from the act of letting go, of allowing their individual paths to diverge. "What Remains" emerges as a beautifully calm and resonant manifesto for the fundamental truth that self-acceptance is the primary form of love, the indispensable foundation without which none of the other loves – the love of a partner, of a child, of art, or of one’s neighbor – can truly flourish. However, in this unusually even-handed exploration of a complex relationship drama, the film’s message cuts both ways. Both Elif and Mehmet emerge from their individual journeys stronger and more fully realized. The ultimate wisdom of the adage is thus reframed: when you love something, and you allow it to go, you are, in essence, also releasing yourself from its grip, allowing for a deeper, more authentic connection to what truly remains.
