Before Sunrise (1995) - review

There are films that tell stories, and then there are films that breathe, existing not to move from point A to B, but to linger in the in-between. Before Sunrise is the latter. Richard Linklater’s quiet masterpiece unfolds like a dream you can’t quite remember when you wake up, but whose warmth follows you for the rest of the day.

The entire film takes place over the course of one night, yet it feels timeless. There’s this pace to it — soft, unhurried — where time doesn’t seem to move, only stretch. It’s the same texture as dreams: moments that feel infinite but are gone before you realize. Linklater captures that dreamlike rhythm through long takes, natural pauses, and dialogue that meanders the way real conversations do. Nothing is rushed, nothing is forced. The beauty lies in the drift.

We meet Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Céline (Julie Delpy) on a train. They’re strangers who decide, almost impulsively, to spend a night wandering Vienna together. There’s no plot, no external conflict. What holds the film is connection , that invisible current between two people who know that what’s happening won’t last, and precisely because of that, every moment matters.

The cinematography mirrors that emotional transience. Vienna isn’t filmed as a postcard-perfect backdrop but as something alive: dusky streets, flickering lights, reflections in glass. Each frame feels like it could dissolve at any second, like a dream fading at dawn. We see Jesse push a button to stop the train, a small, unnecessary moment, yet Linklater keeps it. That’s what makes Before Sunrise so remarkable: its commitment to showing the ordinary. The mundane gestures, a button pressed, a laugh caught mid-sentence, are what make the film feel so human.

There’s also the subtlety of the language barrier. Céline’s French accent, Jesse’s American rhythm — they speak from different worlds, but their connection exists between words, in pauses and glances. The occasional miscommunication only deepens their understanding, as if language itself is both bridge and boundary. Linklater and his co-writer Kim Krizan use dialogue not as exposition but as a form of intimacy, philosophy as flirtation, reflection as romance.

The writing captures something deeply modern yet timeless: the yearning to be known, to be seen beyond the noise of everyday life. When Jesse and Céline talk about death, love, or reincarnation, it never feels pretentious. It feels like what two people would say at 2 a.m., when the city sleeps and you suddenly feel like you’ve figured out life — even if you forget it by morning.

Before Sunrise is about that one night you never stop thinking about, that person who briefly made the world seem clearer. It’s not about love in a traditional sense, there’s no promise of forever, but about the beauty of temporary eternity. It reminds us that the most transformative connections don’t always come with permanence.

In the end, the dream fades. Morning comes. But the feeling remains, like a line from a poem you can’t quote, only remember how it made you feel. Linklater’s film is a love letter to conversation, to being young and curious and lonely and hopeful all at once. It’s about what happens when you stop watching life pass by, and start noticing the button being pushed, the silence being shared, the dream unfolding in real time.