The modern film landscape has seen no shortage of over-the-hill comedies, from Last Vegas to Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar—films that tend towards goofier, more tongue-in-cheek approaches to late life crises—but rarely do these films feel as restrained and as sincere as Israeli filmmaker Moshe Rosenthal’s Karaoke.

The set up is familiar: a husband (Sasson Gabai as Meir) and wife (Rita Skukrun as Tova) are in their 60’s, feeling listless and unsatisfied with their lives, disconnected from each other, but eager to recapture their youthful vitality. When a freewheeling, affluent playboy moves into the penthouse suite on the top floor of the couples’ Tel Aviv apartment building, the two see an opportunity to move up the social ladder, reintroduce themselves to the world, and reignite their zeal for life. But what follows isn’t a series of bungled attempts to “look young” and “look cool,” played for laughs; rather, it is an earnest coming of age tale of humble but imperfect individuals navigating a new/old avenue towards self affirmation.

Though the synopsis may sound played-out, there is much in Karaoke that is unexpected. For example, the character of Itzik, (Lior Ashkenazi) who comes to lord over the top of the couples’ high-rise, is not young and svelte, but a grey-hair like Meir and Tova—a charming and hedonistic one at that, but still someone over-the-hill himself. Despite his age, Itzik has a refreshingly optimistic outlook on life, as well as an infectious enthusiasm and a penchant for a good party. He is also somewhat of an aesthete, and he encourages Meir to renew his passion for acting, Tova her passion for dancing. In this sense, the karaoke nights that he invites the couple to become something of a catalyst for their self-discovery.

Rosenthal has stated that Meir and Tova have bits of his own parents in them, and that some of their story was inspired by his own experiences in high school, and this is why Karaoke feels far more like a personal coming of age film than an astutely observed portrait of aging. The humour we get flows naturally from situations that feel intimately observed, as close care and attention has clearly gone into the character writing. The story is breezy and low-stakes, but there are enough moments of questionable decision-making by characters, enough moments of awkwardness or tension, to keep you concerned, invested, and conscious of your own choices as a human. Karaoke is a more universal story than you might think.

The desire and the yearning to be more, to do more, and to be seen and accepted by more people is a condition that affects all us social beings, and Karaoke reminds us that just because we get older, this desire doesn’t leave us. Rosenthal’s small group of characters helps give this idea weight; his actors give his characters dignity and nuance. At the same time, the story progresses gradually and in few ways that feel forced or over-written. Even when situations inevitably get sour, this happens in a way that feels natural, earned, and ultimately relatable.

I would hesitate to call Karaoke the most riveting or dynamic piece of filmmaking I have seen recently, but like Milica Tomović’s recent film, Celts, it succeeds because it does such loving service to its characters, and it is always played close to the heart. Its story would work in the short film format, or as an episode of an hour-long drama series, but this shouldn’t make us any less fortunate for its presentation here. Though quaint and unassuming, Karaoke is my biggest highlight of Tribeca 2022 so far.