Weighty, solemn and portentous, Winter Sleep is a patience-testing 196-minute slog in which the dullest stretches are made all the more frustrating by the brilliance found elsewhere within.

Protagonist Aydin (Haluk Bilginer) is a former actor living in his isolated hotel together with his much younger wife Nihal (Melisa Sözen) and sister Necla (Demet Akbag). Surrounded only by the hotel’s few guests and a handful of other locals, this trio’s fragile relationships are dissected through brief, bitter exchanges ultimately leading to three lengthy, charged conversations, which act as the film’s structural linchpins.

Throughout the film, but most notably in these three significant encounters, personal conflicts are subsumed by philosophical ones, as the characters battle with ideas and ideals rather than behavior, one’s beliefs seemingly proving more fundamental than actions.

Then again, perhaps that’s purely a reflection of Aydin, a pseudo-intellectual whose arrogance and entitlement keep him separate, smug and superior, obsessing over the moral character of others while detaching from the world so that his own remains unassailable – and untested.

In terms of plot, Winter’s Sleep moves at a glacial pace befitting its themes, and its a testament to the quality of both scriptwriting and editing that it remains engaging for much of its three hour-plus running time. At times, however, the film is simply a chore, with insufficient intellectual heft to reward the ponderous pacing and lengthy detours.

Cinematographer Gökhan Tiryaki makes exquisite use of the wintry, isolated Turkish setting, but these stunning widescreen shots are doled out sparingly through the film, as the audience and characters alike are kept confined inside. The lengthy, closely shot, firelit conversations are made all the more claustrophobic by our knowledge of the vast, endless expanse waiting outside, just out of reach.

Winter Sleep’s best moments come when its excellent cast are unleashed on the biting exchanges that punctuate the film. The character relations here are complex, and would reward multiple viewings if you have sufficient patience, with little of their interpersonal history explained and emotional encounters clouded by ideological conflicts. Sözen offers a restrained performance as Aydin’s disempowered wife, whose stone-faced anguish is finally unleashed in a climactic scene that may be one of the film’s missteps, its emotional intensity arguably tonally out-of-step.

Winter Sleep is a film that seems to think almost as highly of itself as Aydin, proudly wearing influences from Chekhov to Voltaire on its sleeve, but beneath the bluster it can be a frustratingly shallow film, lacking the intellectual rigour or sophistication to justify the indulgent length and pacing. Beautifully shot and beautifully acted, it’s hard to argue with the art on display here, but the rest of the film seems on the verge of toppling under its own weight.

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