A chance meeting in Copenhagen shifts into a clandestine romance in a city that mirrors a mood more than a map. Sander, a disengaged young man grappling with the recent death of his father, crosses paths with Ida, an ocean-eyed traveler running from her own family in a search for faith, footing, or escape. Their first kiss happens on a street after a late-night screening, and the spark swiftly hardens into a vow to hide their bond from the world around them.
Helplessly swept up in their secrecy, they retreat into the quiet of their apartments, choosing to measure days in each other’s presence rather than in the world’s expectations. But the fragile sanctuary cracks when Ida disappears. Sander is drawn into a tense cat-and-mouse moment when Ida’s father and brother locate her, turning her into collateral in a different kind of power play. Ida’s guardian forces Sander to speak, placing a camera in front of him as a judge and jury, pressing him to reveal everything about Ida. Refusal to speak means confinement; speaking means the chance to walk free. What follows is a strange odyssey through memories where reality and dream blur, and the line between truth and illusion becomes dangerously thin.
“No Copenhagen” marks a fresh script by Eskil Vogt, the writer best known for his work on intimate, family-driven mysteries. The film gathered attention on the festival circuit and earned an Oscar nomination, buoying the international profile of its leading performer. Vogt has a track record with studies of family dynamics and eerie, almost mystical thrillers, and in this project he blends those facets with a sharper, more detective sensibility.
The disappearance of Ida becomes the entry point for a broader inquiry. The lens through which Sander sees Ida gradually turns into a question about identity, memory, and the stories people tell themselves. Everyone assumes they know the truth about Ida and about Sander, yet the deeper truth remains stubbornly elusive. Ida, in an effort to anchor herself in memory, strives to leave behind a precise image rather than a life, a choice that complicates every subsequent revelation.
Stories about disappearances that uncover hidden secrets have long fascinated audiences. The narrative echoes classic suspense where a missing person acts as a catalyst for uncovering the past. The tension thickens when the supposed certainty of one character’s memory collides with the possibility that another, perhaps more crucial, truth has been overlooked or repressed. The film nods to Hitchcock by shaping suspense through perception, while crafting a modern, mosaic structure that reshapes itself with each truth uncovered. The result is a narrative that can feel like stepping into a dream where every fragment hints at another layer of story awaiting discovery.
Vogt’s sensibilities align with the Danish cinema tradition of weaving poetry with mystery. The work resonates with echoes of a certain classic, yet advances a contemporary language of inference and emotion. The director’s approach invites comparisons to a celebrated Danish filmmaker who once explored how a single night’s connection might unravel a person’s world. The film also draws on a modern, poetic sensibility that emphasizes texture and mood, turning the city into a character and the memory into a map that misleads as often as it guides.
Viewed as a cinematic transformer, Copenhagen Does Not Exist presents a mosaic of memory fragments and a dollhouse-like architecture of events. Each new turn awakens another mystery, and every answer reveals another question. The structure can be disorienting, and at times the layering of past and present makes the overall story feel like a carefully staged illusion. This layering heightens the drama but also complicates the viewer’s grasp of the relationships at its center. The emotional core—whether the romance is genuine or performative, whether love can survive in hiding—remains a probing, unsettled space.
Among the film’s challenges is its tonal shift between melodrama and cerebral puzzle. Some moments involving Ida and Sander come across as earnest and speculative, occasionally feeling like imperfect rehearsals rather than fully lived intimacy. Yet the film’s ambition extends beyond the romance to examine the fragility of memory and the way fear can shape our self-portrait. The mood is intentionally somber, and the city’s visual palette reinforces the emotional weather: muted lights, rain-slick streets, and interiors that feel both intimate and oppressive. The color and atmosphere contribute to a sense of cold detachment, underscoring the characters’ isolation and their desperate need to belong to someone else’s narrative.
Ultimately, the film offers a singular experience: a story that lingers, inviting viewers to revisit the fragments and reconsider what they know about Sander, Ida, and the truth they chase. It may not satisfy every appetite for clear resolution, but it rewards patient viewing with a texture-rich meditation on memory, identity, and the human impulse to hold on to love even when the world insists on letting go.