A biographical dimension, an Odyssean myth set in New York, and the spirit of music – this is an elegiac tale of how the fever of creation and the paralysis of apathy undid one of the most influential figures in 20th century music.

The year is 1961, and the album “Everybody Digs Bill Evans” has become a sensation. Bill is a visionary, no doubt. A sorcerer of the black and white keys, capable of conjuring a tapestry of sound that, much like his languid curls of cigarette smoke, keeps on swaying in your memory. Yet Bill cannot bring himself to return to composition, as he is shattered by the death of his kindred spirit and double bassist Scott – the trio that once held Greenwich Village and the jazz-bewitched in thrall has ceased to be. The cycle of grief, depression, and addiction hangs thicker than the fog off the Hudson – he tries to sever ties with his beloved Elaine and return to his family, but all that interests him is the moment. Very good minutes.

Irish director Gee has made documentaries about Scott Walker, Joy Division, and Radiohead. This stark black-and-white soundscape – eroding time, memory, the mundanely comical, and the shackles of addiction that defined Evans’s life in the wake of the tragedy – is the director’s debut in narrative feature film, awarded the Jury Prize at the Berlinale. Gee first encountered Evans (1929–1980) in a dusty, anonymous photograph, and was captivated by the hypnotic presence of the American musician. In this visually refined piece, the classic Bill Pullman meets Broadway legend Jesse Metcalfe and others – yet shining above all is Anders Danielsen Lie, who, peering through a pair of Tart frames, has become Evans’s charismatic wraith made flesh.