Director: Igor Drljaca
Screenplay: Igor Drljaca
Starring: Goran Slavkovic, Jasmin Geljo, Edis Livnjak, Minela Jasar, Jelena Mijatovic and Petar Mijatovic
Runtime: 70 minutes
TIFF 2012 Programme: Discovery
We are all exposed to war at some point in our life, via television, film, literature or even through actual experience. The media dictates how most of us view it, and there are as many films that embellish war – be it a macho-fueled invasion, daring rescue mission or period piece – as there are those that admonish it. Yet, very few highlight the sense of loss experienced by those displaced by strife; men, women and children alike that have to leave their homes with little more than the clothes they wear, and seek asylum as refugees in a foreign land, where they may not always be accepted with open arms. Even fewer films pair this feeling of alienation with that of the trauma felt by someone who returns home in search of closure. These under-represented elements are brought to the forefront by Director Igor Drliaca in his feature debut at TIFF 2012: Krivina; one man’s surreal journey through his homeland as he deals with the trauma and alienation that accompanies war-torn diaspora.
This short film revolves around Miro (Goran Slavković), an immigrant from the former Yugoslavia living in Toronto, and his search for Dado, a missing friend wanted for war crimes. The camera follows Miro as he hitchhikes through the Bosnian countryside, meeting with friends and acquaintances, and attempts to piece together the whereabouts of his friend. Yet, his pursuit of Dado is not the focal point of this story; that focus is occupied by Miro himself, in the wooden manner in which he interacts with others, in his gait weighted by tragedy and oft hollow eyes as he trudges towards answers that might not even exist.
This sense of loss is made tangible by Roland Echavarria’s beautiful cinematography, which includes scenic country panoramas and cityscape vistas, that captures the beauty of Miro’s home and paints it in contrast to the starkness of his foreign refuge. However, there are times the viewer would find it challenging to distinguish between the roads of Toronto and the roads of Bosnia, with only a line of dialogue or a distant landmark to differentiate the two. This inability to identify locale contributes to the feeling that Miro is tied to the past and unable to move on to the future.
Bojan Bodruzić’s overbearing music acts as a fitting complement to the film’s visuals and fills in the gaps between conversations. Indeed, dialogue is sparse in Krivina, and often relates to the past and memories rather than the present. Much of it is in voiceovers as the camera pans over a scene, as if the very land is the narrator and the people merely vessels for its voice. It’s challenging not to see Bosnia and Miro as one and the same; on the surface they are intact, and at times striking, but beneath they are rooted in the aftermath of war.
Igor Drljaca showcases that the turmoil of war cannot be fairly represented by only casualties and destruction. He successfully captures the emigrant mindset and leaden atmosphere of a nation and people in recovery. The pace of the film makes it feel a lot longer than its run-time and some viewers might feel uncomfortable with the ambiguity that accompanies the script. But, for those interested in diaspora or identify as such, this film will echo deeply and finally give a struggle faced by millions of people deserving exposure.
