A Familiar Touch – A Film about a Long Journey

A Familiar Touch marks the directorial debut of Sarah Friedland, which I caught in the non-competitive section of the Mastercard OFF CAMERA Film Festival. The film had already stirred attention after winning three awards in the “Horizons” section at the Venice Film Festival 2024—Best Debut, Best Actress, and Best Director—naturally heightening the anticipation around it.

In a sun-drenched, modest kitchen, an elderly woman moves about with quiet purpose. Ruth is likely in her eighties—tall, frail, composed. She is preparing breakfast. Her closely cropped, feather-light white hair barely veils the skin of her scalp. The toaster clicks—the bread has popped out. She takes out the slice without hurry and places it beside a row of plates aligned in the dish rack. She lingers a moment, as if studying the scene.

Dementia was something I barely understood, until it visited both of my grandmothers. Since then, each return to the topic feels like reopening old wounds I have spent years tending carefully. Of the few films I have seen on the subject, the one that lingers most vividly is Florian Zeller’s The Father. What struck me most was how, as a viewer, you could not tell what was real and what was a product of dementia. You simply existed alongside Anthony Hopkins’ character: you felt what he felt, and saw the world through his eyes. I remember the moment the film ended. The first thing I did was step into my grandmother’s room. I was not afraid anymore.

After placing the toast on the dish rack, the next scene finds Ruth in her bedroom, picking out clothes, preparing for the arrival of a guest. She sets the table with quiet care. A man enters the dining room, clearly much younger than she is. They sit down to eat, and Ruth begins to flirt, openly and without hesitation. “I do have a husband, but…” she says softly, resting her hand on the man’s knee, catching him off guard. They don’t finish dinner: they are late for something. “Mom, this is Villa Gardenia. Don’t you remember? You chose it yourself. We came here together and you said, if I ever need help, bring me here—you liked this place.” “Mom? I’m not a mother. I never wanted children,” she replies sharply, her expression turning cold as the truth sinks in. She has been tricked. What she thought was a romantic dinner turned out to be her arrival at a care home. She is not angry, not exactly. It is something softer, heavier: disappointment.

It is at this point that we, the audience, begin to truly observe Ruth, to witness her slow adjustment to this unfamiliar reality. We know very little about her, except that she always dresses with understated elegance, and her silver jewelry is always perfectly in place. She is composed and reserved. Often, she watches the home’s more “eccentric” residents with quiet curiosity, but keeps to herself. Her only real interactions are with the staff: Dr Brian and her caregiver, Vanessa. “Hello, my friend,” she greets them, as if they have known each other for years. Perhaps it is her subtle form of protest—in her eyes, these are not caretakers, but her new friends.

She tosses and turns all night, restless. At the crack of dawn, she jumps out of bed and rushes to the kitchen. “Oh, you’re here too?” she says to the surprised staff gathered to prepare breakfast. “Right, you’ll chop this. I’ll take care of that. Understood?” No one protests. They glance at each other, and as if used to scenes like this, reply with a simple, “Yes, ma’am.” She serves the food on the dishes with such finesse that for a moment, you forget it is a care home; it looks like something out of a Michelin-starred kitchen. Slowly, it becomes clear: Ruth was once a chef. She even used to write cookbooks: “Well, who says I have memory problems?” she asks Dr Brian during her weekly check-up, her voice trembling. Then, with astonishing precision, she begins reciting a recipe in detail. You can see that she fights, determined to prove she is still capable of remembering. It is strange to forget your own child but remember every step of a recipe—I think for myself. And I remember my grandmother. “Who are you?” she would sometimes ask me, puzzled, even though we had lived under the same roof for forty years. But as an actress, she never forgot her lines. “Sit down,” she would say, “I want to recite a beautiful poem.”

Despite the emotional weight of its subject, watching the film is a genuine pleasure: believe me, you’ll find yourself laughing. There is humor, lightness, and a quietly mesmerizing presence in Kathleen Chalfant’s portrayal of Ruth. Her Ruth is layered: strong, proud, and dignified, but also frightened and fragile. She is a witty, flirtatious woman, yet also a vulnerable elderly soul, utterly alone in the world. The film’s gentle narrative and dialogue, laced with subtle humor, are mirrored visually: soft pastel tones seem tasked with easing the gravity of this transition. The camera moves with deliberation, often settling into close-ups that allow us to study Ruth’s face, her closed eyes, her silence: all of it speaking volumes. With Friedland, it feels as if the camera is trying to hold time still, to let us remain with her just a little longer, to truly see her.

In the final scene, a new caregiver is with Ruth. “Alright, give me your right hand—yes, just like that, well done,” she says, continuing: “Now stretch out your left.” Ruth lifts her arms without a word, quietly compliant. Her eyes, blank and glassy, stare into the distance, fixed on some invisible point. They no longer speak. Now, she is truly a resident of Villa Gardenia.

But this film is not really about dementia, nor about the heartbreak that so often follows in its wake. It is not about the sorrow of those who fall victim to it either. It is about transition, about the passage from one state to another.

It’s a film about the road. About a long journey. And about letting go.

Salome Kikaleishvili
Edited by Birgit Beumers
©FIPRESCI 2025