My initial instinct was to head to San Sebastián and stay close to the film, letting the team shine on their own. Yet it became clear that my presence could distract from their reception. Ulrich Seidl announced his decision to skip the festival amid ongoing charges related to misconduct during the production of his latest feature. His absence from the event, one of the competing films for the Golden Shell this year, speaks volumes about the moment. For someone who loves a rigorous argument, it’s nearly impossible to watch the film without weighing the controversy. If not for that dispute, Sparta would likely be recognized as one of the director’s strongest works in a general and uncompromising sense.
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His protagonist is an adult who feels an unsettling attraction to minors. Seidl does not definitively establish whether the attraction exists before the events of the film, but the core theme remains clear: a brutal struggle with dangerous impulses. From the opening moments, the audience witnesses a character who teeters on the edge of crossing lines that threaten to destroy everything. The narrative continually tests the boundaries between impulses and consequences, as the protagonist faces a fallout that could erase their own sense of self.
The plot then shifts from Austria to Romania, under the pretext of tending to a father who once supported nationalist ideals and is now housed in a mental institution. A dilapidated school becomes the stage for an unsettling presence where free judo lessons are offered, yet the underlying actions reveal a much darker fixation. Rather than guiding or protecting, the character photographs children, observes them in intimate moments, and envisions acts that blur the line between care and coercion. The weight of this obsessive gaze lingers long after the scenes fade.
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Seidl faces accusations of concealing the realities of the child performers and their families, particularly around the themes of nakedness and violence. He denies the charges, insisting that his intention was clear from the start. The film’s content offers no easy conclusions. Some will frame the director as immoral, while others argue the opposite—that the work exposes humanity in its most unguarded forms. It is a disturbing, tragic, and challenging achievement that tests the boundaries of artistic maturity and courage. Critics may claim the filmmaker mocks vulnerable targets, yet the truth remains that monsters are often rooted in human frailty, which makes the portrayal disturbingly poignant. If the allegations hold true, the response from audiences will be swift and unrelenting.
ways to cry
Exploring how people confront grief is one of cinema’s enduring quests, and this theme appears repeatedly in award conversations because it invites solemnity and melodrama that often defines winners. A Danish director, Frelle Petersen, brings a family story to the screen: a father, a mother, a daughter, and a son. The son’s death sets off a chain of coping mechanisms, with each character processing loss in distinct, morally complex ways. The film embraces emotional honesty without restraint, suggesting that conventional responses to bereavement are often tempered by personal pride and protective instincts.
Another contender, a biopic centered on the Czech composer Josef Mysliveček, explores art as healing and refuge. The film aims to celebrate the power of creativity through a life marked by struggle, yet it risks feeling traditional and heavy-handed in its approach. Still, its noble objective underscores the role of art as a therapeutic force, inviting viewers to consider how music and memory can shape resilience in the face of adversity.