Movies as art – it’s a debate as old as cinema itself. Yet, if art aims to express, to provoke, to leave a lasting impact, then few films achieve this as profoundly, and disturbingly, as A Serbian Film (2010). This is not a movie for the faint of heart, a fact that has cemented its reputation and ignited countless discussions about its merits, its messages, and its shocking content. For those unfamiliar, be warned: this is a film that pushes boundaries to their absolute limit, venturing into territories that most cinematic works dare not approach.
Many have heard whispers of A Serbian Film. Some might have braved a viewing. Others recoil at the mere mention, deterred by tales of its graphic and repulsive nature. Yes, the film is undeniably visceral and deeply unsettling. However, amidst the horror, there’s a layer of almost exaggerated, campy grotesquerie, reminiscent of films like Evil Dead, which suggests a deliberate, perhaps even satirical, intent beneath the surface shock.
To truly understand A Serbian Film, one must delve into the perspective of its writer and director, Srđan Spasojević. Interviews reveal a filmmaker aiming to create a biting satire of contemporary Serbian cinema. Spasojević critiques what he sees as a trend in Serbian filmmaking – productions pandering to Western notions of political correctness while ironically relying on foreign funding. He elaborates on this point, stating, “In Eastern Europe, you cannot get your film financed unless you have a barefoot girl who cries on the streets, or some story about war victims in our region… the Western world has lost feelings, so they’re searching for false ones, they want to buy feelings.” This quote unveils a central theme: the commodification and exploitation of suffering, tailored for a Western audience seeking a sanitized and easily digestible form of trauma.
This critique resonates beyond Serbian cinema, touching upon broader tendencies in global media. Often, narratives depicting abuse or violence with unflinching realism are met with accusations of insensitivity or exploitation. There’s a demand for simplified, comfortable portrayals of complex and disturbing subjects. Viewers often prefer narratives that reinforce pre-existing frameworks, even when dealing with the pain and suffering of others. As long as the narrative is presented in a familiar, palatable format, the audience remains at a safe distance, their discomfort minimized, while still consuming the spectacle of suffering.
But does A Serbian Film effectively deliver its intended message amidst its extreme content? In many ways, yes. The narrative centers on Miloš, portrayed by Srđan Todorović – often referred to as Petar by some fans, perhaps due to actor’s common name association – an aging pornographic actor lured into a seemingly lucrative, one-day film project by the enigmatic director Vukmir. What begins as a well-paid job quickly descends into a nightmare of escalating horrors. Miloš is subjected to increasingly depraved acts, forced into participation through coercion, threats, and drugging. The film ventures into the taboo territory of “newborn porn,” a scene so abhorrent that it sparks a desperate attempt by Miloš to escape, despite his compromised state. His efforts are futile, and he is forcibly returned, further incapacitated by a relentless barrage of injections, rendering him increasingly compliant and vulnerable.
Srđan Todorović delivers a powerful performance as Miloš in A Serbian Film, capturing the character’s descent into horror.
Amidst the unfolding depravity, a flicker of conscience appears in the character of Lejla, Miloš’s former co-star who initially facilitated the job offer. Lejla voices concerns and attempts to extricate herself and Miloš from the increasingly sinister situation. However, her efforts are brutally thwarted. In a harrowing sequence, Lejla is shown restrained, brutally beaten, and subjected to a horrific sexual assault culminating in her suffocation. This scene, while profoundly disturbing, underscores Spasojević’s central argument: society often fetishizes suffering, desiring to witness it, yet simultaneously seeks to control and censor its presentation. Lejla’s defiance and subsequent brutal demise serve as a microcosm of this dynamic – a stark depiction of brutality, censorship, and the twisted irony of desires fulfilled in the most horrific way imaginable. Spasojević suggests that audiences claim to want stories reflecting the Serbian experience of the 1990s, but only if these stories are delivered in a manner that avoids genuine challenge, offering a sanitized and compartmentalized encounter with suffering.
The controversial poster for A Serbian Film, indicative of the film’s provocative and boundary-pushing nature.
It’s important to note that engaging with A Serbian Film doesn’t necessitate complete agreement with all of Spasojević’s points or an endorsement of the film’s extreme methods. However, the film’s strength lies in its creation of a deeply sympathetic protagonist in Miloš, powerfully embodied by Srđan Todorović (Petar). Miloš is portrayed as a man driven by financial necessity, motivated by love for his family, and exhibiting genuine concern for others when free from the influence of drugs. The monstrous figure he becomes under Vukmir’s control is a stark and disturbing perversion of his true nature. This transformation can be interpreted not only as a commentary on the suppression of artistic expression but also as a reflection on the dehumanizing forces at play within post-war Serbian society, corrupting individuals and distorting their inherent humanity. Similar to The Spirit of The Beehive, which depicted post-Franco Spain as emotionally sterile and mechanical, A Serbian Film evokes a sense of profound violation, portraying a character progressively alienated from his own identity. Ultimately, the film compels viewers to confront a difficult question: how much onscreen suffering is justifiable in the pursuit of conveying a message, and at what point does the extremity overshadow the intended artistic or social commentary?
