Joseph, Jan Nowicki travels through a dream-like, liminal landscape aboard a dilapidated train to visit his dying father, Jacob, in a sanatorium that feels more like a memory than a hospital. Upon arrival, he discovers a place on the brink of ruin: corridors that seem to breathe, patients left unsupervised, and a sense that the clock has forgotten how to tell time. The sanatorium’s walls murmur with echoes of the past as time itself behaves in capricious, unpredictable ways, reanimating moments that may have happened long ago or were never meant to occur at all.
Joseph is an adult in appearance, yet his choices and impulses often carry the innocence, curiosity, and vulnerability of a child. He forms a delicate bond with Rudolf, a curious young boy who keeps a postage stamp album, and Filip Zylber brings that character to life with a quiet wonder. The stamps—tiny windows into distant places—trigger a cascade of associations and adventures, weaving a tapestry of memory, longing, and possibility as Joseph moves through the hospital’s shifting rooms and remembered scenes.
In the midst of this dreamlike odyssey, Joseph re-enters childhood episodes with his wildly eccentric father, a figure who even now lives among birds in an attic, heightening the sense that the boundary between father and son, past and present, is porous and playful. The film weds intimate memory to grand, surreal imagery, inviting the viewer to trace how memory can shape identity as surely as it shapes space and time.
The narrative also drifts into moments of formal disruption: at one point, Joseph is arrested by a mysterious unit of soldiers for having a dream that is harshly criticized by those in power, a sequence that underscores the film’s sly critique of authority and censorship. Another thread follows the boyhood fantasy of a girl Joseph once imagined, a reminiscence that surfaces with tenderness and unease, testing how longing can coexist with unease in a nightmarish beauty.
As the dream deepens, Joseph commandeers a group of historic wax mannequins, turning them into an hallucinatory chorus that amplifies the film’s sense of spectacle and possibility. An ominous, blind train conductor returns repeatedly, a death-like presence who stalks the carriages and headlines Joseph’s journey with a chilling, inexorable rhythm. The conductor is brought to life on screen by Mieczysław Voit, whose performance anchors the piece’s haunting mood.
Interwoven with these surreal episodes are reflections on the Holocaust that extend beyond the source texts, reading Bruno Schulz’s prose through the prism of the author’s death in World War II and the broader destruction of the world he described. These meditations deepen the film’s meditation on memory, art, and the fragility of human history, lending a moral weight to the dreamlike imagery without dulling its wonder.
All of these elements—the dream logic, the artful disarray of the sanatorium, the odd companionships, the wax-figure tableaux, and the haunting refrain of the blind conductor—cohere into a visually arresting phantasmagoria. The result is a long, singular voyage through grief, memory, and imagination that feels both intimate and epic, inviting viewers to linger on textures, faces, and the elastic surface of time itself. The film remains resolutely faithful to its mood while expanding the sense of possibility that memory can hold, even as it warns of the ways in which history can distort, renew, and haunt us.
