Paweł Pawlikowski’s Ida (2013) is a sparse, devastating film that looks at the extended aftermath of the second World War in Poland. The winner of the 2014 Academy Award for Best Foreign Film is a work of art from which the viewer can’t turn away. Pawlikowski draws a tense, broken post-war image of a Poland that is struggling to accept the events of the war and the German occupation, and that is still recovering sixteen years after the fighting ceased. The film’s power is defined by what it omits–music, visual effects–and these deliberate absences make the emotional content of the film stand out in a powerful way.

Set in 1961, Ida begins with the titular character (Agata Trzebuchowska) as Anna, an eighteen-year-old orphan raised in a convent. Before she takes her vows to become a nun, her Mother Superior orders her to visit, for as long as she needs, her only living family member, a judge named Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza). After traveling to the city of Lodz–a far cry from the quiet stillness of the rural convent–Anna, wearing her novice’s habit, is greeted brusquely by her aunt, who calls her a “Jewish nun,” shocking her. Immediately after they meet, Wanda informs “Anna” that her real name is Ida Lebenstein, and that she’s Jewish. Wanda is the sister of Ida’s mother, and she tells Ida that her parents were among the three million Polish Jews who perished during the war. The encounter lasts a few minutes, and Wanda promptly shows Ida out and seems set to send Ida on her way. However, later she reconsiders and the two ultimately go on a road-trip of sorts to discover the fate of Ida’s parents. As their journey progresses, the source of Wanda’s disillusionment and heartbreak is revealed–not only did Ida’s parents die during the war, Wanda’s son did as well. The film is multi-layered, both an intimate portrayal of the relationship between two women confronting the differences dividing them and a complex exploration of post-war Poland.

The film’s emotional and thematic center comes from the relationship between Ida and Wanda, and the contrasts and connections between the two. Pawlikowski paints a picture of two women who are complete opposites–sinner and saint, jaded and innocent, Communist and Catholic. While on the surface they’re opposites, they are ultimately connected by their shared past and by the Polishness of their conflicts. Ida is a victim of the German occupation and Polish anti-semitism, and Wanda has become hurt and disillusioned by the corruption of the Communist party ideals. They are on two different paths, but both women are struggling with their pasts and their presents and ultimately need each other to overcome the challenges they’re facing. The differences between them allow them to help each other and grow throughout the film as the worldview of each challenges the other’s. Pawlikowski does a masterful job of conveying these two opposing women without passing judgment on either. Ida and Wanda are portrayed as equals and the viewer feels for them equally.

One defining characteristic of the film is its use of sound, and lack of sound. Silence is used as a tool that makes every sound, line of dialogue, and bit of music a statement.  This is a quiet film; each clink of a spoon against a bowl, each exchange of words between characters, and snippet of music played by a jazz band is set in stark contrast to the silence that threads persistently through the film. Pawlikowski doesn’t incorporate a soundtrack for the film; the only music comes from the characters putting a record on or attending a dance. The film also uses dialogue sparingly, making the viewer take in each line with maximum impact. The disruptions of the jazz music that recur throughout the film highlight the way that American and western culture are breaking through the Iron Curtain and slowly beginning to become part of life in these countries. They also signify the disruption of Ida’s quiet life that comes from her trip with Wanda and the challenges that the woman brings into her world. Silence is an essential vehicle that conveys the stark world these women are living in.

Visually, the film also use absences and contrast to their advantage through stillness, a black and white palette, and the use of space. The characters are almost surreally still in this movie, especially Ida, and their immobility is complemented by Pawlikowski’s use of long, unwavering camera shots and the limited use of changes of field. These cinematographic choices allow the characters to be truly still, creating striking portraits for the viewer. Ida’s stillness in particular is part of her power, calling attention to her stoicism and the learned emotionlessness that she has been brought up with in the convent. The use of black and white film could seem pretentious here, but instead it allows a stark portrait of the realities of post-war Poland. What could feel like a cheap trick acts instead as a muted background to highlight both the characters’ pain and the figurative colorlessness of their world. It also allows for a vivid play of light and shadow, with a single light often used to illuminate a scene, leaving the characters half in shadow, a beacon piercing the darkness around them.

In many films, what they lack is what detracts from their power, but Ida demonstrates the inverse. The characters can’t avoid their pain–even if they try, with Wanda having sex and drinking, and Ida immersing herself in her religion–ultimately they cannot, and neither can we. Ida is a powerful, arresting film that captures the viewers in its stillness and quiet and immerses them in the emotional journeys of its characters.