What feels most distinctive about Lapid’s cinema is a form of subjectivity that goes beyond the conventional subjective shot. His films seem to operate with two layers of subjectivity: one that belongs to Lapid himself, and another that belongs to Y, his on-screen alter ego. These two subjective positions constantly shift between alignment and confrontation. Sometimes they merge, sometimes they resist one another, and it is precisely this tension that generates the poetry of Lapid’s films. In Yes, this dynamic becomes even more complex because Lapid splits Y into two figures, intensifying the internal struggle of the film’s gaze. The camera does not simply exert pressure on Y; Y often pushes back against the camera that represents Lapid’s own subjectivity. In the film’s extreme close-ups, this confrontation becomes palpable, as if Lapid is staging an internal conflict with himself, turning the act of looking into a site of self-struggle: that of a middle-class artist who lives off the benefits of an unjust social system he critiques, yet cannot exist outside of.