Sanatorium by Gar O’Rourke is a film that patiently glides through the faded hallways of an institution that seems to have stopped in time. Filmed at the Kuyalnik sanatorium, on the outskirts of Odesa, Ukraine, the documentary portrays the persistence of life in an environment where the Soviet past still inhabits the architecture, medical treatments, and the bodies of those who pass through it. While war looms on the horizon—sometimes literally, in the form of smoke or rumors of bombings—the sanatorium continues to operate as if nothing has changed. In the current context, this, in itself, is a form of resistance.
O’Rourke, an Irish filmmaker who had already shown his interest in the relationship Ukrainians have with the body and health in Kachalka (2019), here creates a symphony of observation and tenderness. Without falling into nostalgia or exotism, Sanatorium looks squarely at the decay of a place that was once a symbol of collective well-being and that today remains standing thanks to the perseverance of its workers and patients. There is something profoundly human in this act of continuing, of finding meaning in the repetition of routines, in the healing mud, and in the impromptu dances in the old disco.
Among the characters populating this time capsule, Dmitriy, the massive manager of the place, stands out. His presence dominates the building, but it also reveals an unexpected delicacy as he floats alone in the therapeutic pool. Other memorable faces include Olena, the entertainer who organizes parties as if she were piloting a plane in free fall; Natalia, who insists on finding a partner for her forty-something son with the help of a telescope; and the patients who come seeking relief for bodily and soul wounds. One woman tries to conceive, another struggles with the grief of her husband, who died at the front, and a soldier recovers from his injuries without knowing if he will ever be able to “resurrect mentally.”
Denys Melnyk’s camera moves with contained elegance, composing symmetrical shots, institutional color palettes, and slow zooms that capture the suspended rhythm of the place. The aesthetic, with its strange retro charm, occasionally evokes the cinema of Wes Anderson, although here the artifice is constantly broken by the rawness of reality. The musical choices—ranging from Ukrainian pop, liturgical chants, to George Michael’s Careless Whisper—add to the atmosphere of temporal and emotional displacement.
Sanatorium is a documentary that avoids easy dramatization, instead finding a modest and luminous beauty. The refuge it offers is not free from pain, but it is permeated by an unshakable faith in people’s ability to support one another. In a present marked by uncertainty, the film offers a warm, ironic, and profoundly vital look at what it means to move forward, even when everything around you seems on the brink of collapse.
