Somewhere between the haunting black and white cinematography of Béla Tarr and Robert Bresson’s focus on performance through gesture, lies the tonal core of Polish director Pawel Pawlikowski’s latest feature Ida. A short, but compelling film, Ida tells the story a young nun (Agata Trzebuchowska), who, on the verge of taking her vows, postpones her pledge to the church on orders from her convent’s mother superior in order to track down her last living relative, her Aunt Wanda (Agata Kulesza).

Quickly, we learn from Wanda that Anna, as she has been known, is actually called Ida. Moreover, Ida is of Jewish heritage: her parents were victims of the Holocaust. As one revelation gives way to another, the pairing of Ida and Wanda venture further afield to discover the truth behind their family’s tragic past.

Each performance is masterful, although it really is Kuelsza’s Wanda who takes centre stage, despite what the title of the film would suggest. A chain-smoking, alcoholic judge whose glory days appear to be behind her: Wanda begrudgingly helps her niece find a past she would rather soon forget.

In fact, Ida is less of a character and more of a blank slate. For all the tragedy of her story, Ida paces ghost-like through the narrative, barely reacting to the revelations of those events which have shaped her life. This is no criticism, but rather an acknowledgement of her profound characterisation, which suggests a complex identity beneath her enigmatic surface, fragments of which are revealed in brief moments fleeting before the camera. We are left to project onto Ida what we desire to see in her character, although where her future lies is anyone’s guess.

A cold, yet mesmerising piece of cinema, Ida is bound to stay with the spectator for days after viewing.