There's a specific kind of misery to being twelve, and Halfaouine: Boy of the Terraces gets right into it. Noura is stuck in that horrible in-between stage — too old for a child's world, too young for anyone to actually listen to him — and the film mines that limbo for all its awkward, itchy discomfort. That isolation sits underneath everything, even in the busiest, most crowded scenes.
The fairy tales his family feed him aren't cosy bedtime fare either. They're meant to explain the world, and mostly they just terrify him further. There's an odd, watchful quality to him throughout — he ends up seeming older than the adults around him while still being hopelessly naive.
I liked the discomfort more than the destination, if I'm honest. Plot takes a back seat to mood, and not every thread quite pays off. Still, the awkwardness at its centre feels honest rather than manufactured — and it's stuck with me more than I expected.