Starting life as a tiny fish in the belly of a libidinous Russian woman, only to be released by the sperm of a drunken sailor, doesn’t sound like the beginning of a simple existence for anyone. So for the scrawny, awkwardly endearing Alisa (think a Black Sea-dwelling girl version of Solomon from Gummo), it’s no great surprise to go unnoticed and unappreciated by those around her. With Mama too busy hungering after men to get to ballerina school registration in time, Alisa makes the decision to stop talking altogether – for about a decade. As a result, she meanders furthers into societal peripheries, but perhaps not all to her detriment, for with this self-imposed silence comes a heightened new perspective from which to view the world.

Convinced she can conjure up many a thing through telekinesis, Alisa uses her power for the good (and on occasion the not so good) of herself and her acquaintances. But when Mama moves them to big city Moscow, Alisa falls in love and soon realises not everything can be controlled by thoughts alone. This forces her out of her shell and into the world of the truly living – with varying degrees of success, and troubled consequences that culminate in an eek-inspiring dramatic ending.

The follow up to her celebrated debut, Mars (EIFF 2005), writer/director Anna Melikian’s Mermaid encompasses a wonderfully oddball sensibility, happily lost in reverie, faultlessly embodied by an outstanding mîse-en-scene, and of course by the luminous Mariya Shalayeva as the older Alisa. Certainly a level of tenable comparison can – and has to – be made to Amélie (EIFF 2001); however, make no mistake: here Melikian carves a darker tale of whimsy, rippled by a distinct undercurrent of melancholy not seen in its French counterpart. The results are beautiful and resonant in every way.