An elderly Uzbek couple live as they have always done: shearing their sheep, milking their goats, growing watermelons, weaving carpets. The old woman never lets anyone leave the house without a gift and gently attends to her curmudgeonly husband. His habitually simmering ill humour reaches boiling point when their two adult sons – one who lives nearby, one far away – start replacing their household goods with new-fangled ones they can’t operate. Their next plan is to pull down and replace the family home, whatever their parents say. This story of generational division and hurt unfolds with the slow rhythm of the changing seasons. Shot entirely within their home, with the steppes only occasionally seen in the distance, it has the concentrated force of a poem.