‘Deaf’ Review: A Child, Two Worlds, and a Fragile Bridge

That reality is a subjective construction—shaped by our ability to connect to or adapt to it—is, by now, almost a truism. The world as we know it is only a manifestation of our particular perspectives. In Deaf, that defining idea is brought to the forefront with striking clarity. There’s a gap, a difference, between the way the protagonist engages with the world and the way the rest of her family does. Both sides try, in their own ways, to bridge it—to cross that enigmatic stretch that separates their respective experiences. But it’s not always possible.

Deaf is a film about that distance, centered on the relationship between Angela (played by Miriam Garlo, the director’s real-life sister), a woman with profound hearing loss, and Héctor, a hearing man. Their bond is warm, marked by mutual understanding, and seems to flow with remarkable ease—until they learn they’re expecting a child. Angela’s parents, both hearing, are not entirely comfortable with the idea of her having a baby. Their fears are evident, even if they try to hide them. Meanwhile, Angela and Héctor (Álvaro Cervantes) are faced with a question that feels both logical and inevitable: will the baby be born with hearing loss or not?

There are no definitive answers—just a “50/50,” something that will only be known after the birth. That uncertainty becomes the film’s point of departure. What follows deals with childbirth—rendered in a scene of unusual intensity—and, more importantly, with what comes after: the arrival of their daughter and the differences that begin to surface within the couple as they navigate parenthood. It’s as if, beneath the surface, they’re quietly contesting which “universe” the child belongs to: the world of the deaf (whether she is or isn’t, that’s almost secondary) or the world of the hearing. Mutual discomfort, unspoken tensions, and subtle distances start to emerge—not only between them, but also in their interactions with others. They have separate circles of friends, deaf and hearing alike, and even well-meaning people can unsettle Angela with their questions and assumptions.

Eva Libertad handles the material with remarkable subtlety, seeking to understand every character’s perspective and refusing to turn the story into a simplistic tale of heroes and villains. One can grasp Angela’s fears and desires—her sense that she might “lose” her daughter if she cannot bring her into her own way of seeing and hearing the world—as well as Héctor’s position: kind and attentive, yet at times, almost inadvertently, capable of a certain quiet cruelty. Libertad works with glances, silences, and, in a key sequence, sound design from Angela’s point of view, shifting the audience’s own sensory alignment with the story and deepening our connection to her experience.

Some scenes are unforgettable in a more classical dramatic sense, directly staging the tensions within the couple. Others express that separation through mise-en-scène. Angela can read lips, but she needs to see people clearly and have them speak one at a time—a fragile structure that collapses when the child, or several children, enter the frame. By contrast, when she is with her deaf friends—many of whom have deaf children themselves—there’s a sense of comfort that envelops her. Yet Angela moves between both worlds, and the camera follows, capturing the duality that shapes her experience of motherhood. In her quiet moments alone with her daughter, her eyes convey everything.

Awarded at several festivals, Deaf (Sorda) is, above all, a lucid, intelligent, and generous film. It closely observes everyday situations that become complex for someone like Angela: meetings with teachers, gatherings with other parents, doctor visits, even the birth itself, where she depends on her husband to relay the medical team’s instructions. At the same time, Angela inhabits that world—and, especially with Héctor, has managed to bridge that divide. The baby’s arrival, however, introduces an unexpected tug-of-war, almost a form of jealousy. Which world does the child belong to? Does belonging to one necessarily mean leaving the other behind?

With emotion but without underlining or excess, Libertad resolves—or begins to resolve—that tension in the best possible way. It’s a small gesture, perhaps a minimal one, but it changes everything.