The World Is Funny 2012

In the public library of Tiberias, an adult creative writing workshop brings together a colorful group of people who are looking for a pencil-stroke of meaning in their lives. The sessions are led by Yehezkel Lazarov as Roni, a man whose home water supply is constantly being cut off by the city, forcing him to rely on his across-the-hall neighbor for a shower when the pipes fail. The dynamic between Roni and the apartment next door becomes a subtle thread that runs through the film, grounding the stories of everyone else in the building in a shared, almost ritual routine of everyday resilience. Across the hall, Assi Levy embodies Yardena, a woman who is both a recently divorced survivor of loss and a mother who discovers she is pregnant after years without intimacy. Yardena’s presence anchors the neighborhood’s calmer, steadier heartbeat, even as her own past weighs heavily on her present.

Yardena is the eldest of three siblings who were orphaned when she was eight. The second, her brother Meiron, is portrayed as bitter and hard-edged, a man who has become a stern, sometimes cruel, parent to his children. He is the father of Chilik, a seventeen-year-old, and Nesi, a nineteen-year-old who has just woken from a nine-year coma caused by the same car accident that claimed his mother. While Meiron’s intentions are sometimes suspect, the film does not demonize him; it uses his rough edges to illuminate the fragility that can live inside a person who has carried heavy burdens for years. Chilik, a son navigating adolescence in the shadow of trauma, and Nesi, newly returned to the world and still seeking his mother in memory, form a delicate counterpoint to Yardena’s vulnerability and the household’s quieter loyalties. Chilik is portrayed by Or Ben-Melech, whose presence adds a layer of tension and complexity to the family’s already complicated dynamics, while Nesi is brought to life by Moshe Ashkenazi, whose return from dormancy offers its own quiet revelations.

Golan, the younger brother of Yardena and Meiron, is in love with Natasha, a person undergoing cancer treatments who experiences mood swings that reflect the emotional turbulence inside the apartment building. Eli Finish portrays Golan with a mix of tenderness and stubbornness, seeking a noble gesture—getting his hero Shaike Levi to give a tribute performance for Natasha, a long-time devotee who embodies hope amidst illness. Natasha herself remains a source of both tenderness and frustration within the family circle, and her relationship with Golan becomes a quiet test of whether estranged siblings can find common ground again after years of silence. The story around Natasha’s illness and Golan’s devotion unfolds with a patient, observant lens that refuses melodrama even as it treats serious subjects with respect.

Interwoven through the personal melodrama is the figure of Tsafi, a young woman who cleans the houses of the others even though she comes from wealth and has no obvious material need to do so. Tsafi’s presence acts as a link between the affluent and the working-class corners of these intertwined lives, highlighting themes of duty, dignity, and the surprising ways people choose to contribute to one another’s daily existence. In the background, the characters continually quote lines from Shaike Levi’s 1960s cult-status comedy troupe haGashásh haChivèr, a recurring motif that binds the group’s sense of humor to memory and cultural identity. This shared prompt—haGashash haChivèr’s routines, broadcast by a town deejay on Golan’s morning radio show—gives the film a living soundtrack that gives texture to conversations about loss, longing, and the small acts of care that sustain a community.

Throughout the film, the workshop’s creative exercises become mirrors for the characters’ real-world struggles. Roni’s shaky access to water becomes a recurring metaphor for dependence and renewal; Yardena’s pregnancy reframes her grief as potential new beginnings; Meiron’s protective harshness, Chilik’s coming-of-age, and Nesi’s long-awaited return from dormancy all intertwine into a single, patient fabric of family ties that refuse to unravel even when spoken bonds feel strained. The interplay among these adults is drawn with a neutral, observant tone that values each voice, even when their opinions clash or their resentments flare briefly before easing into reconciliation or a renewed sense of closeness.

What emerges is a portrait of a close-knit neighborhood that refuses to be defined by tragedy alone. Instead, it presents resilience as a mosaic formed from ordinary rituals—the sharing of space, the exchange of favors, the attempt to re-open conversation after years apart, and the quiet hope of a tribute performance that could become a symbol of healing. The film’s warmth comes from its patience with its characters, allowing moments of humor to soften painful truths and inviting viewers to witness, without judgment, how people grow when they choose to lean on one another. The result is a thoughtful, humane exploration of family, connection, and the stubborn, enduring belief that life can be rebuilt—even when the wells stay dry and the past hems you in—through care, community, and small, deliberate acts of kindness.