‘Nino’ has a distinctly French New Wave sensibility about it, both in its style and in its fascination with a character drifting through life while confronting an existential crisis. The premise is intriguing: a young man, Nino (Théodore Pellerin) in his twenties is informed that he may have a potentially terminal cancer diagnosis, and the film follows him over the course of a long weekend as he attempts to come to terms with what lies ahead. One immediate practical consequence is that he must arrange to have sperm preserved before undergoing treatment that is likely to leave him infertile.

Yet the film is far less interested in medical procedures than in the emotional paralysis that accompanies such a revelation. Nino does not appear to have much direction in his life. He has no obvious career prospects, no settled future, and now faces the possibility that even if he survives, he may never have children. Something as simple as finding a private space to provide the sperm sample becomes an unexpectedly difficult task after he finds himself locked out of his flat.

What makes the film so unusual is that it never becomes overtly sentimental. Instead, we watch a dazed and disoriented young man moving from place to place, encountering former friends, old girlfriends and family members, yet rarely finding the words to explain what is happening to him. He carries this enormous burden of knowledge but seems incapable of sharing it. Even with his own mother, he cannot bring himself to speak openly about his diagnosis.

There is a striking irony at the heart of the story. Nino has throat cancer, and yet emotionally and psychologically he already lacks a voice. The illness becomes a metaphor for his inability to communicate. Time and again, he approaches moments of potential honesty only to retreat from them. In one particularly moving scene, he leaves a postcard for an ex-girlfriend. When she unexpectedly catches him in the act, he still cannot bring himself to reveal why he has come or what he is trying to say.

The film’s real subject is mortality and the strange disconnect that can occur when a person is suddenly confronted with it. Nino is not someone who appears equipped to deal with such a profound crisis. He seems unable fully to absorb the reality of what is happening, let alone articulate it to others. As a result, he drifts through the city in a state of emotional suspension, observing life rather than actively participating in it.

Very little actually happens in conventional dramatic terms, yet that is part of the film’s appeal. It captures the way everyday life continues regardless of personal catastrophe. The world does not stop because one individual receives devastating news. People continue with their routines, relationships and minor irritations. In that respect, the film resembles the experience of a birthday: for one person the day feels momentous, while for everyone else it is entirely ordinary.

‘Nino’ is a gentle, understated film about isolation, communication and the fragility of existence. Beneath its wandering structure lies a poignant reminder that moments of grace can still emerge amid uncertainty, and that sometimes the hardest thing is not confronting mortality itself but finding the words to tell someone else that it has entered your life.