Istanbul Ansiklopedisi

The cultural revelations, struggles, depth of message is why I give this series a high rating. That said, several times in the earlier episodes I almost quit watching / almost blocked it; The level of anger, rage, yelling in the earlier episodes by many many of the characters was not well done. That said: Something of great value kept me viewing. I glad I stuck it out. Had it not been on Netflix where I could fast forward past the abusive personalities/ characters, which so many of them are, I'm not sure I would have made it to the excellent experience of what is definitely a series that expanded my understanding of the inner turmoil and choices of Muslim women and the hijab, as well as the nearly set in stone negative projections they have on each other within their culture. This series opens doors of pondering wtihin myself no doubt for many weeks, maybe years forward. I'm willing to consider that what I frame as unnecessary yelling and abuse between characters, I don't know, might be the behind closed doors norm of that country/ culture. TV series and Movies are an exaggeration, so I'm concerned that if I"m drawing this reflexive conclusion, others might also reflexively frame it this way as well. Therefore I continue to undo that reflesive frame, remind myself that it's only one screenwriter's norm or story, and that other TV series / movies as well depend on the adrenalin component of yelling and abuse to keep interest. Kudos to Netflix for including so many international options to view.

Istanbul Ansiklopedisi is not a documentary-it's a quiet act of remembrance. Watching it feels like walking through a half-forgotten dream, where every alley and voice holds a story you didn't know you missed. It's not about nostalgia for the sake of beauty; it's about memory, identity, and the layers we live on without always noticing.

There's no rush, no dramatization. Instead, the film lets Istanbul speak through people, places, and pauses. Its rhythm is slow but steady-like the city's own heartbeat. You don't just learn about Istanbul; you feel its breath, its wounds, its wit.

By the end, I felt like I had been handed a photo album with no captions-just moments, quietly powerful and impossibly familiar. It's a love letter, not to the city we see, but to the city we sense-just under the surface, still whispering.

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 opening a timeworn diary - one written not with ink, but with cobblestones, faded photographs, and the echo of seagulls. The rhythm was slow, like a city stretching awake at dawn, revealing its soul not all at once, but piece by piece. What moved me most was how the ordinary became sacred: a street name, a forgotten café, the way light touched old windows. It didn't just inform - it embraced. Watching it felt like walking hand in hand with memory, through fog and golden light. There was sorrow, yes - the ache of what's been lost - but also wonder in what remains. It reminded me that a city isn't just buildings or history, but layers of lives, stories, and breath. When it ended, I felt quiet - not empty, but full of something ancient and alive.

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.