BERLIN -- "Svjedoci" (Witnesses) is a masterful piece of storytelling that looks at events surrounding a murder and the possible execution of its only witness through various points of view. Croatian director Vinko Bresan, whose first two films were political satires, abandons irony here for an honest and emotional account of how war and ethnic hatred corrupt moral behavior. With top-notch production values, especially fluid and sharp-focused cinematography by Zivko Zalar, this Berlinale competition film makes an excellent candidate for art houses everywhere.
Bresan follows a recent filmmaking trend that eschews linear narration in favor of a fractured story wherein the same events are recounted from different viewpoints, letting motivations and back story gradually fill in a picture that is only completely clear in the film's final moments.
Bresan is being anything but trendy, however, as the multiple retellings underscore the movie's theme -- that everybody has reasons for behaving as he or she does. Episodes over a couple of days -- retold with subplots, digressions and seemingly minor characters along with flashbacks to a war raging nearby -- reveal a web of deceit that stems from desperation and despair.
Based on Jurica Pavicic's novel "Alabaster Sheep", which evidently did tell its story in a traditional narrative, the script by the novelist, director and cinematographer traces a murder and police investigation in a small town in Croatia near the front line of the civil war more than a decade ago. Fueled by alcohol, three Croatian soldiers try to plant a bomb at the home of a Serb alleged to be a smuggler and black marketer. Startled to find him home -- he is supposed to be away -- they are forced to shoot him. Then they discover a witness whom they capture and hide in a garage belonging to the mother of one soldier.
The mother (Mirjana Karanovic), who the next day must bury a husband who was killed at the front, enlists a political uncle to cover up the crime. An honest cop (Drazen Kuhn) and a female journalist (Alma Prica) launch separate investigations. Then a crippled soldier (Leon Lucev), the boyfriend of the journalist and the mother's elder son, returns home, and more secrets and lies spill out.
The different viewpoints reveal the interconnections of nearly everyone in the small town, a microcosm for what happened in Croatia, where terrible things occurred during the war and everyone, in a sense, bore witness to these crimes against humanity.
Bresan's superb cast plays these roles with arresting intensity. Life, once measured in months and years, during civil carnage now boils down to a matter of moments. Everything gets speeded up and frantic, yet by fracturing the narrative, Bresan succeeds in slowing things back down so we can appreciate the moral vacuum created by war.
The mother, the movie's initial focal point, struggles to hold her family together. But as the movie continues to shift viewpoints, the dilemma of the three soldiers comes into view. Then the film explores the inquiry by the police officer, whose wife lies dying from a bullet wound in the hospital, and finally the older brother and his journalist girlfriend, so worried about the fate of the witness, who is a little girl.
Few films could handle so many shifts in protagonists, but with this cast under the guidance of a director in full command of the language of cinema and the art of storytelling, these shifts come off with startling ease.
Bresan follows a recent filmmaking trend that eschews linear narration in favor of a fractured story wherein the same events are recounted from different viewpoints, letting motivations and back story gradually fill in a picture that is only completely clear in the film's final moments.
Bresan is being anything but trendy, however, as the multiple retellings underscore the movie's theme -- that everybody has reasons for behaving as he or she does. Episodes over a couple of days -- retold with subplots, digressions and seemingly minor characters along with flashbacks to a war raging nearby -- reveal a web of deceit that stems from desperation and despair.
Based on Jurica Pavicic's novel "Alabaster Sheep", which evidently did tell its story in a traditional narrative, the script by the novelist, director and cinematographer traces a murder and police investigation in a small town in Croatia near the front line of the civil war more than a decade ago. Fueled by alcohol, three Croatian soldiers try to plant a bomb at the home of a Serb alleged to be a smuggler and black marketer. Startled to find him home -- he is supposed to be away -- they are forced to shoot him. Then they discover a witness whom they capture and hide in a garage belonging to the mother of one soldier.
The mother (Mirjana Karanovic), who the next day must bury a husband who was killed at the front, enlists a political uncle to cover up the crime. An honest cop (Drazen Kuhn) and a female journalist (Alma Prica) launch separate investigations. Then a crippled soldier (Leon Lucev), the boyfriend of the journalist and the mother's elder son, returns home, and more secrets and lies spill out.
The different viewpoints reveal the interconnections of nearly everyone in the small town, a microcosm for what happened in Croatia, where terrible things occurred during the war and everyone, in a sense, bore witness to these crimes against humanity.
Bresan's superb cast plays these roles with arresting intensity. Life, once measured in months and years, during civil carnage now boils down to a matter of moments. Everything gets speeded up and frantic, yet by fracturing the narrative, Bresan succeeds in slowing things back down so we can appreciate the moral vacuum created by war.
The mother, the movie's initial focal point, struggles to hold her family together. But as the movie continues to shift viewpoints, the dilemma of the three soldiers comes into view. Then the film explores the inquiry by the police officer, whose wife lies dying from a bullet wound in the hospital, and finally the older brother and his journalist girlfriend, so worried about the fate of the witness, who is a little girl.
Few films could handle so many shifts in protagonists, but with this cast under the guidance of a director in full command of the language of cinema and the art of storytelling, these shifts come off with startling ease.
BERLIN -- "Svjedoci" (Witnesses) is a masterful piece of storytelling that looks at events surrounding a murder and the possible execution of its only witness through various points of view. Croatian director Vinko Bresan, whose first two films were political satires, abandons irony here for an honest and emotional account of how war and ethnic hatred corrupt moral behavior. With top-notch production values, especially fluid and sharp-focused cinematography by Zivko Zalar, this Berlinale competition film makes an excellent candidate for art houses everywhere.
Bresan follows a recent filmmaking trend that eschews linear narration in favor of a fractured story wherein the same events are recounted from different viewpoints, letting motivations and back story gradually fill in a picture that is only completely clear in the film's final moments.
Bresan is being anything but trendy, however, as the multiple retellings underscore the movie's theme -- that everybody has reasons for behaving as he or she does. Episodes over a couple of days -- retold with subplots, digressions and seemingly minor characters along with flashbacks to a war raging nearby -- reveal a web of deceit that stems from desperation and despair.
Based on Jurica Pavicic's novel "Alabaster Sheep", which evidently did tell its story in a traditional narrative, the script by the novelist, director and cinematographer traces a murder and police investigation in a small town in Croatia near the front line of the civil war more than a decade ago. Fueled by alcohol, three Croatian soldiers try to plant a bomb at the home of a Serb alleged to be a smuggler and black marketer. Startled to find him home -- he is supposed to be away -- they are forced to shoot him. Then they discover a witness whom they capture and hide in a garage belonging to the mother of one soldier.
The mother (Mirjana Karanovic), who the next day must bury a husband who was killed at the front, enlists a political uncle to cover up the crime. An honest cop (Drazen Kuhn) and a female journalist (Alma Prica) launch separate investigations. Then a crippled soldier (Leon Lucev), the boyfriend of the journalist and the mother's elder son, returns home, and more secrets and lies spill out.
The different viewpoints reveal the interconnections of nearly everyone in the small town, a microcosm for what happened in Croatia, where terrible things occurred during the war and everyone, in a sense, bore witness to these crimes against humanity.
Bresan's superb cast plays these roles with arresting intensity. Life, once measured in months and years, during civil carnage now boils down to a matter of moments. Everything gets speeded up and frantic, yet by fracturing the narrative, Bresan succeeds in slowing things back down so we can appreciate the moral vacuum created by war.
The mother, the movie's initial focal point, struggles to hold her family together. But as the movie continues to shift viewpoints, the dilemma of the three soldiers comes into view. Then the film explores the inquiry by the police officer, whose wife lies dying from a bullet wound in the hospital, and finally the older brother and his journalist girlfriend, so worried about the fate of the witness, who is a little girl.
Few films could handle so many shifts in protagonists, but with this cast under the guidance of a director in full command of the language of cinema and the art of storytelling, these shifts come off with startling ease.
Bresan follows a recent filmmaking trend that eschews linear narration in favor of a fractured story wherein the same events are recounted from different viewpoints, letting motivations and back story gradually fill in a picture that is only completely clear in the film's final moments.
Bresan is being anything but trendy, however, as the multiple retellings underscore the movie's theme -- that everybody has reasons for behaving as he or she does. Episodes over a couple of days -- retold with subplots, digressions and seemingly minor characters along with flashbacks to a war raging nearby -- reveal a web of deceit that stems from desperation and despair.
Based on Jurica Pavicic's novel "Alabaster Sheep", which evidently did tell its story in a traditional narrative, the script by the novelist, director and cinematographer traces a murder and police investigation in a small town in Croatia near the front line of the civil war more than a decade ago. Fueled by alcohol, three Croatian soldiers try to plant a bomb at the home of a Serb alleged to be a smuggler and black marketer. Startled to find him home -- he is supposed to be away -- they are forced to shoot him. Then they discover a witness whom they capture and hide in a garage belonging to the mother of one soldier.
The mother (Mirjana Karanovic), who the next day must bury a husband who was killed at the front, enlists a political uncle to cover up the crime. An honest cop (Drazen Kuhn) and a female journalist (Alma Prica) launch separate investigations. Then a crippled soldier (Leon Lucev), the boyfriend of the journalist and the mother's elder son, returns home, and more secrets and lies spill out.
The different viewpoints reveal the interconnections of nearly everyone in the small town, a microcosm for what happened in Croatia, where terrible things occurred during the war and everyone, in a sense, bore witness to these crimes against humanity.
Bresan's superb cast plays these roles with arresting intensity. Life, once measured in months and years, during civil carnage now boils down to a matter of moments. Everything gets speeded up and frantic, yet by fracturing the narrative, Bresan succeeds in slowing things back down so we can appreciate the moral vacuum created by war.
The mother, the movie's initial focal point, struggles to hold her family together. But as the movie continues to shift viewpoints, the dilemma of the three soldiers comes into view. Then the film explores the inquiry by the police officer, whose wife lies dying from a bullet wound in the hospital, and finally the older brother and his journalist girlfriend, so worried about the fate of the witness, who is a little girl.
Few films could handle so many shifts in protagonists, but with this cast under the guidance of a director in full command of the language of cinema and the art of storytelling, these shifts come off with startling ease.
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