The common thread that unites much of the most austere European arthouse cinema, between past and present, religion, regardless of the spectator's beliefs, is the immobile engine of reflections on oneself and on the world. Like the Bressons, like Dreyer, like Bergman, like Pawlikowski's first effort, which with Ida seems like the direct son of the three great Masters.
Like As in a Mirror or the Diary of a Country Priest , God is silent in this film. He shows himself by hiding himself, both from the public eye and from the heart of the protagonist. If it is true that identity is, if not entirely, then largely defined by the context in which one develops, Ida is both provided with and devoid of identity: raised, orphaned, in an orphanage and close to graduating nun, the meeting with her unknown aunt, a libertine judge and lover of earthly and carnal pleasure, creates a rift in Ida, who discovers she is of Jewish origins. From the moment the two meet, the presence of God, whether celebrated by Christian or Jewish rites, becomes more and more transparent, until it vanishes. Ida tries to cling to Him, to herself, a vain attempt not to betray a fragile identity. You cannot catch smoke with your bare hands, just as you cannot affirm an identity that no longer exists and, perhaps, has never really existed.