“Haim” is the debut work of young director Daria Libinzon, created during her studies at the New York Film Academy. The phrase “student film” often carries an unfair prejudice — we expect something raw, overly ambitious, perhaps naive in its intensity. Young filmmakers are often driven by maximalism, by a burning need to say everything at once and in the most striking way possible. And while that passion is natural — even beautiful — it can sometimes overshadow subtlety. But “Haim” is different. This quiet, 11-minute film has not yet been released to the public, but it has already been selected for screening at the Beverly Hills Film Festival and the Lisboeta International Short Film Festival this spring. It does not shout. It does not demand attention. Instead, it lingers — and once it takes hold, it refuses to let go.

The review contains plot and visual spoilers

Synopsis
Rima is young and pregnant — and deeply unsure. Doubt gnaws at her: is she ready to become a mother? Can she carry this life forward when the man beside her is emotionally distant, cold, almost absent? Her world feels small, suffocating, devoid of space to truly hear herself. All of a sudden comes a phone call from the art academy she once dreamed of attending — a fragile echo of who she used to be. That call fractures her reality and forces her into painful, yet necessary reflection. Rima falls into a dream that forces her to search for answers about her own desires and motherhood. At the center of this reflection is the fundamental question of what kind of person Rima wants to become.

Visual and Narrative Language
The film is structured like a split consciousness. The first half — reality — is claustrophobic. Cold. Airless. The second is "a dream", a bright, theatrical landscape. Throughout the film, visual techniques serve as a guide, being inseparably linked to the narrative, highlighting and emphasizing the key moments for reflection. The cramped apartment, the scattered objects, the trembling handheld camera, the tight close-ups — everything presses inward. Even the color grading feels drained of oxygen. This is not simply a setting; it is a psychological prison. Reality has become a cage Rima ended up in almost without noticing, as so many of us do. The casting is striking. In Rima’s face we glimpse two people at once: the bright, creative young woman she once was, and the exhausted, overwhelmed, still tender figure she has become. Her eyes carry both memory and resignation. That duality is heartbreaking. Then the film exhales.

The transition into the dream world feels like stepping into another dimension — a theatrical, luminous space that subtly echoes Alice in Wonderland. Rima, now in an unknown world, is invited to a theatrical performance, reflected in the way the dream sequence is divided into chapters, and the square framing, which adds a certain cinematic quality and serves to separate the unreal from the real.
An evening dinner, with Rima as the guest and center of attention, becomes an act of self-reflection and a straightforward dialogue with her own self.
Although the image of the dream and the forest suggests that the dialogue should be as convoluted as the diverse paths of life, it, in fact, turns out to be quite superficial, creating the impression that Rima has not yet found the answer to the question of what she should do with her life.

To her right: a glass of wine. To her left: a baby bottle. The symbolism is disarmingly simple — and devastating. Within Jewish cultural tradition (hinted at by the film’s title), wine embodies blessing, sanctification, and the elevation of the soul. Spirit. Calling. Potential. A baby bottle represents something no less sacred — but immediate, demanding, inescapable. A life that requires sacrifice before self-discovery has been fulfilled. And yet, despite the rich imagery, the dialogue during this dream dinner feels intentionally blunt — almost disappointingly so. Phrases about independence and family are spoken plainly, without mystery. Perhaps that is the point: life’s greatest choices are rarely wrapped in poetic riddles. They are painfully direct. And still, neither Rima nor any of us seem to reach clarity. The answer remains elusive.

The Web
If there is one image that binds the entire film together, it is the web. A spider’s web — delicate, intricate, shimmering — yet capable of trapping what flies into it. Rima is both a butterfly and a spider. She feels caught in circumstances she did not consciously weave. She hesitates, avoids risk, fears responsibility — and that paralysis makes her future feel predetermined, almost fatalistic. But the web is also a symbol of authorship. The spider creates it. It controls it. It lives at its center. Before returning to reality, Rima speaks to a woman whose face is hidden from us. When she asks if they have met before, the woman replies, “Not yet.” The line lands like a quiet prophecy. This is Rima’s future self — composed, sovereign. The ring shaped like a web on her finger suggests ownership. Even the “wrong” choices have become part of her design. It is not about perfection. It is about authorship.

The Price of Rejecting One’s Desires
And then — the rupture. Rima wakes in her bed, with blood stains below her stomach. The film offers no explanation. Was the miscarriage a punishment for doubt? A divine verdict? Or was it mercy — an intervention, a redirection, a second chance? The director refuses to judge her heroine. There is no moral lesson imposed, no guiding hand explaining what to think. The ending remains open, suspended in ambiguity — and that is precisely what makes it linger.

“Haim” unfolds like a parable, but not one with a neat conclusion. Instead, it asks questions that echo long after the screen fades to black: Am I living the life I truly want? What part of my web did I weave — and what part trapped me? What am I sacrificing, and for whom? Who do I want to become? The film does not give answers. It does something braver: it leaves you alone with them. And perhaps that is its quiet triumph.