“Hesitation Wound” (Original title: Tereddüt Çizgisi, 2023) is less a legal thriller and more a quiet, simmering study of a moral crossroads. Directed by Turkish filmmaker Selman Nacar, “Hesitation Wound” follows Canan, a criminal lawyer (played by Tülin Özen), who is defending Musa (played by Oğulcan Arman Uslu)—a man accused of murdering his former boss. While Canan is in the process of defending her client, she’s also dealing with a deeply personal crisis: her mother is in a coma, nearing death. As these two worlds—professional duty of saving a man’s life and emotional vulnerability of seeing her mother’s slow death up close—begin to overlap, she makes a choice that impacts not only the case but her identity as a lawyer, and as a person.
The first act of the film focuses on the beginning of an important day in Canan’s life. We observe what she does, who she is, and what burdens she carries. The tone is observational, almost procedural. She handles everything on her own, taking care of her mom, preparing her statement, searching for the key witness, and even taking risks by leveraging her authority and legal expertise to postpone the court session. It all feels like too much for one person to bear in a single day, and yet she presses on, even when the odds seem stacked against her.
The film offers no exposition about Musa’s backstory or why Canan is so committed to defending him. She appears purely professional—neither emotionally entangled nor motivated by ego, ambition, or financial reward. Her resolve stems not from a desire to win but from a belief that her client deserves a fair shot at justice, trying to save a man’s life. The choice to leave Canan’s full backstory untold works in the film’s favour. It keeps the narrative tight, free from distractions, and allows space for interpretation and moral ambiguity.
The core plot is almost revealed on the long takes when both sides of the lawyers, including Canan, argue over the case in front of the Judges and the audience. We, like the judge and the courtroom audience, are absorbing the case in real time, learning more about the case and Musa. While revealing the character’s information, the filmmaker also touches upon the Turkish judicial process during the trial scenes, a nuanced statement through subtle filmmaking.
Until this point, the film has mainly shown us fragments of Canan’s day. And even as the courtroom drama intensifies, we’re never fully sure if Musa is guilty. That uncertainty is maintained until the end, and it mirrors Canan’s own limited understanding of the case. Canan wasn’t there when the murder happened, and neither were we. What she knows, we know. That narrative symmetry creates a sense of shared confusion, deliberately keeping us in a state of moral suspension.
The cinematography reflects this perfectly. The camera keeps a respectful distance from Canan and others, not coldly detached, but watchful, patient. The film avoids close-ups that dramatize emotion; instead, it allows the atmosphere to do the heavy lifting. There’s a quiet reminder in every shot: this film isn’t about the conclusion of an action, but about the process of decision-making during challenging times—and how that process leaves its own kind of scar. Maybe the film is too brief to fully develop this idea, yet the idea can be easily spotted.
Some films’ camera work sticks closely to the protagonist at all times, giving us a deeper look into their thoughts and reactions. This choice in films doesn’t always convince us that the protagonist is right, but it offers the audience a chance to step into their shoes. This can be seen in recent films focused on women, like “The Teachers’ Lounge” (2023) or “On Falling” (2024). As each film is a language of its own, it needs dedicated space to let its alphabet (characters) and words (scenes) evolve naturally. “Hesitation Wound” remains grounded and realistic, yet still manages to feel cinematic through its subtle, wide-angled camerawork.
Canan’s hard choices are revealed in the final act, not with glamour or melodrama, but with quiet restraint. The moment is subtle, perhaps too subtle, leaving less impact than it might have intended. Her moral doubts and quiet defiance, the decisions that could risk her career, are what ultimately define her character. And yet, the open-ended conclusion arrives too quickly, leaving things unresolved. It feels like it ends just when it’s about to begin, as if all the emotional weight we’ve been tracking simply passes by—like hesitation wounds: lingering, unspoken, and fading before they fully register.
Beyond Canan, the film shows us only a few supporting characters—her sister, some colleagues—but the focus never strays. This is Canan’s film, and Tülin Özen carries it with a calm intensity that is never theatrical. Everything rests on her shoulders, and she never falters. Her performance is restrained but emotionally charged. By focusing heavily on Canan and devoting most of the film’s runtime to recounting the case’s history, rather than its outcome or her emotional journey before and after making difficult choices, the film loses much of its potential intensity.
“Hesitation Wound” is a drama about choices, about the thin, often blurry lines between duty and belief, profession and emotion, not about the crime itself. It doesn’t provide clear answers. Instead, it offers a fleeting glimpse into a moment of inner conflict, where truth is elusive, and the weight of a single decision stretches far beyond the courtroom. Rather than turning it into a suspenseful thriller filled with intense twists, Selman explores the law through the lens of human complexity, where not everyone fits neatly into categories.
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