Encyclopédie d'Istanbul

This movie is not really about Istanbul per say, except as a metaphor, as many big cities are, for escaping to the masses.

Meaning away from the fishbowl of where you came from, and the limiting borders of your previous existence, and to the generic mass of humanity, where you either lose yourself or find yourself. Or possibly both.

The premise is interesting, if not fully fleshed out. Students of architecture are asked to share the impact the city has had on them.

Our two leads, both female, have come to the city from a smaller city many hours away. One came a long time ago, and one just recently. You see the before and after effects. The seasoned, hardened mature woman, and the fresh-faced acolyte.

You never see any of the students sketching things. Yet you would think that architecture majors would be constantly drafting. There is very little discussion about buildings or urban planning.

But there is plenty of narration about the neighborhoods of the city as experienced by the young lead. The mature woman is done with this city and the country. That's an important part of the story.

The combined forces of a complex and perhaps suffocating culture, and her personal baggage have beat her down.

There is no action in this movie whatsoever, nor sex. It is strictly discussions, arguments, crying, and philosophical observations.

The main characters feel torn between obligation, and the yearning to be free. People who make movies are generally liberal and sometimes free spirits.

So don't be surprised that this film presents traditional religion as burdensome to women. Some may find it offensive. There is some graphic symbolization.

Casting was impressive. The mature lead has a gravitas about her that draws you in. The young one is radiant.

The cinematography is excellent. There are interesting shots of the city and creative angles.

But be ready for potential boredom too. Because there is an enormous amount of talking, shots of people listening or thinking, and crying.

Turkey is an ancient place. Let's hear more about what exactly plagues the city and country, that is driving out one lead and baffling the other.

Istanbul Encyclopedia feels less like a documentary and more like a whispered confession from a city trying not to forget itself. It's not loud or urgent-it's patient. It listens. The camera doesn't force your gaze; it gently invites you to notice what's fading.

Old buildings crumble in silence. Faces pass by, unnamed, yet full of stories. Streets breathe memory. There's no grand narrative, no hero's journey-just fragments of a city wrapped in time. The kind of film that doesn't give answers but leaves echoes.

I watched it and felt something shift-subtle, like dust settling. It made me want to walk through Istanbul slowly, to hear the walls, to see the past layered beneath paint and noise. It's a love letter, yes, but written in shadows and sighs.

By the end, I didn't just miss the past-I mourned it.

This isn't a film you watch-it's a city remembering itself. Slowly. Softly. With no urgency to explain, only the desire to be seen. There's no plot to follow, no voice to guide you. Just corners. Sounds. Faded textures of life once lived.

It feels like drifting through the soul of a place that's always been too loud to truly hear. But now, in stillness, it speaks. Cracked walls, forgotten courtyards, distant echoes of laughter. It's not nostalgia-it's presence. Unadorned and intimate.

The camera doesn't rush. It lingers, invites, and quietly asks: Do you remember this? Did you ever look?

By the end, I wasn't moved in the usual way. I felt quieter. Slower. Like something old and tender had brushed against me and left a trace.

This isn't a documentary. It's a love letter whispered through stone, shadow, and silence. You don't watch it-you drift through it. No narration, no urgency, just the gentle unfolding of a city remembering itself.

Every frame feels like a forgotten corner of your own memory. Cracked tiles. A shop window covered in dust. The echo of a call to prayer, not as sound-but as feeling. It's not nostalgia. It's intimacy. The kind you only share with places that have shaped you.

There's a kind of quiet magic here: the beauty of things left unsaid. Of buildings that have seen more than they'll ever tell. It invites you to listen-not with your ears, but with your attention.

When it ended, I felt slower. Softer. As if I had wandered through someone else's dream and recognized pieces of myself in it.

It felt like leafing through an old book where each page was scented with memory - textured, intimate, and quietly alive. The city wasn't just a backdrop; it was a breathing character, shifting with time, watching silently as lives unfolded within its veins. Every episode was like wandering through a different street at dusk - where laughter echoed off the walls of the past, and shadows whispered stories you almost remember. What moved me most was the tenderness in its gaze - it didn't try to impress, it invited. It let the city's poetry speak in gestures, glances, and shared silences. Watching it felt like returning somewhere you've never been, but somehow missed. And when it ended, I didn't feel like it was over - I felt like I had been entrusted with a secret, one only the heart could translate.