‘Trial of Hein’ Berlinale Review: The Unstable Nature of Identity

Stories built around identity theft or impersonation—whether real or imagined—almost always carry an unsettling dramatic charge. While today it’s far harder to sustain doubts about whether someone is who they claim to be (technology tends to settle those questions rather quickly), there were periods when such uncertainty felt far more plausible. Trial of Hein, a German drama, takes this classic premise and pushes it in an unexpected, political-philosophical direction.

The film unfolds in a remote village on the North Sea, an isolated fishing community seemingly cut off from the rest of the world, somewhere between the late 19th and early 20th centuries. One of the striking aspects of Kai Stänicke’s debut feature is its deliberately theatrical setting. Many of the village houses lack roofs or fully built walls, functioning more as stage scenery than as realistic constructions—an approach faintly reminiscent of Dogville. The film never explains this choice outright, but its artificiality becomes increasingly evident as the story progresses.

Into this village arrives a young man by boat who calls himself—or claims to be—Hein (Paul Boche). He has returned after fourteen years away, having left as a teenager. But Hein is not welcomed as he expects. No one seems to recognize him: not his sister, not his two closest childhood friends. His mother, elderly and ill, also fails to acknowledge him, though this might be attributed to her fragile mental state. He does look different, it’s true, yet Hein cannot grasp what is happening. Unable to fully prove his identity, the village authorities convene a kind of formal trial, gathering testimonies in which memories, facts, and events are compared according to how each person recalls them.

The premise collapses if approached with strict realism, but it’s clear from the outset that Stänicke isn’t interested in that kind of logic. The film operates on a symbolic, metaphorical level. It quickly becomes apparent that the conflicting memories point to some buried secret from the past—one that Hein’s return threatens to expose. In that sense, it seems almost convenient for the community to collectively “play dumb” and insist they don’t know him. Every detail Hein remembers one way is recalled differently by everyone else. And just when that interpretation starts to feel too obvious, the film shifts the ground once again.

Those who know the most are Hein’s childhood friends, Friedemann (Philip Froissant) and Greta (Emilia Schüle), yet neither steps forward to defend him against the increasingly hostile accusations of the village elders. At a certain point, the danger is no longer merely social exclusion: the risk that collective hysteria could push the situation much further becomes very real. It’s here that Stänicke raises deeper questions about what we really mean when we talk about identity. Who is a person, after all? What others see—or what one feels oneself to be? And who ultimately gets to decide?

A recurring card game offers a telling metaphor. Hein used to be excellent at it but now seems to have forgotten how to play, which only heightens suspicion. It’s a game built around bluffing—knowing how to lie and how to detect a lie. That’s precisely the skill Hein must relearn if he’s to understand what’s happening and find a way through the maze of contradictions. Moving between truth and deception, between who we are and who others believe us to be, Trial of Hein emerges as a sharp and thoughtful debut about the enduring mysteries of identity.