While there are some comic scenes which ensue, such as a subplot with a mouse, mouse glue strips, and mouse droppings - sort of a Turkish The Odd Couple - the film basically deals with how both of the main characters are defined by the film’s title. Mahmut does it with reclusion, with nothing left to say to the world, while Yusuf stalks attractive young women through the city, and is frightened to speak to them.

Yusuf is aimless, shifty, slovenly, and more than a bit lazy, while Mahmut is self-absorbed, imperious, and standoffish. Yet, both are recognizably human. Even more so than in Clouds Of May, Distant showcases Turkey as a modern country far more at home in the modern Western world than being linked to the Middle East, due to its dominant religion of Islam. The scenes of Istanbul in winter are a marvel, and almost every scene in the film radiates with beautifully composed shots that display a sense of depth and beauty for nature and the man-made world. Ceylan’s earlier career as a photographer shines through in spades.

One scene, where Yusuf applies for a job down at the docks, shows this huge ship lying on its side in the water. How it got that way, in real life or the film, does not matter. But it is a great metaphor for Yusuf’s and Mahmut’s existence — immobile and distorted. Another scene that aptly displays these two qualities in a both more cerebral and comic way is when, one night, Mahmut is watching cable TV and trying to appear the superior arty to the more naïve and bumpkinish Yusuf, he watches an Andrei Tarkovsky (another filmic influence) film, Solaris, with Yusuf in the room. Bored, Yusuf goes to sleep, and Mahmut switches to watch porno.

It is a scene like this, or the symbolism of the overturned ship, that represent Ceylan’s Great Leap upward from Clouds Of May. Distant is filled with shots that evoke silent German Expressionism. Barely a page of dialogue is uttered for the film’s first twenty minutes and the rest of the 105-minute film does not waste a word after that.

Like Ozu, Ceylan lets scenes play out in natural time. Yet, instead of a contrived feel, one senses that the camera eye has just arrived, moments before a natural epiphany. This is a key point that many bad writers and filmmakers, indeed all artists that practice narrative forms, often do not get. It’s not the length of a scene that matters, but the length of a scene relative to anything of narrative, symbolic, or developmental significance occurring. One can watch an Antonioni film go on for ten minutes, and be utterly entranced as nothing seems to occur. One can watch an Ozu scene play out for a while, merely showing the peeling of a vegetable, and be moved deeply by what that seemingly banal act represents. But, one can watch a Hollywood "thriller" or a Steven Spielberg sci-fi film, loaded with nonstop action, and be bored shitless.