Kontinental ’25: How to Evict Your Conscience (and Other Romanian Pastimes)

 Kontinental ’25: 

How to Evict Your Conscience 

(and Other Romanian Pastimes)

Ownership. That quiet, innocent word that just wants to know whose turn it is to ruin the planet next. 

It’s the unspoken buzzword of Kontinental ’25, Radu Jude’s latest cinematic séance, in which Romania’s eternal identity crisis meets late capitalism in a head-on collision — and capitalism wins, naturally, because it brought lawyers.

Our heroine, Orsolya (Eszter Tompa, saint of the slightly overworked), is a bailiff in Cluj — which, depending on who you ask, is either Transylvania or a state of mind. 

She’s a Hungarian minority in a country that’s still unsure if it’s finished being a country. 

Her day job? Helping real estate developers “reallocate” people’s dreams into investment opportunities. 

Unfortunately, one of those dreams jumps out the window before the paperwork clears.

Cue guilt. 

Infinite, renewable, performative guilt: the cleanest energy source known to modern Europe.

Orsolya spirals into a moral breakdown that would make Dostoevsky say, “Okay, tone it down.” 

She tells her husband she’s considered suicide, but alas, she’s too busy apologizing to the media to go through with it. Everyone around her tells her she did nothing wrong. The police even compare her to Oskar Schindler, because in Romania, absolution now comes with a historical upgrade.

Like all Jude heroines, Orsolya is a tragicomic avatar of modern virtue: she wants to feel bad, but not so bad that it becomes inconvenient. 

Each encounter she has — with a racist mother who loves her prime minister, a friend who wishes her local homeless man were “just gone already,” and a priest who treats confession like a customer loyalty program — only deepens the farce. 

Every conversation ends the same way: “You’re legally fine.” Which, in the 21st century, is practically sainthood.

Jude, the prankster philosopher, populates Cluj with animatronic dinosaurs and robot dogs, because what better metaphor for gentrification than prehistoric capitalism coming back to life and barking at you? 

His Romania looks like a socialist IKEA built on an ancient burial ground: you can buy a conscience in the “Values” section, but it’s sold out until next fiscal quarter.

Formally, Jude continues his tradition of shooting the apocalypse as an HR training video. 

The dialogue feels improvised by people who’ve read too many Facebook debates about empathy, and the pacing suggests a Kafka story directed by Ken Loach.

The title, Kontinental ’25, nods to Rossellini’s Europa ’51, though here sainthood has been replaced by good PR. 

Orsolya doesn’t redeem herself — she refreshes her image. 

The world moves on, developers bulldoze, and everyone congratulates themselves for feeling slightly bad. 

It’s guilt as performance art: postmodern, post-ethical, and fully monetized.

By the end, Orsolya’s breakdown feels less like spiritual reckoning and more like influencer burnout. She’s not confessing her sins. She's testing them.

And Jude, bless him, knows this. 

His satire isn’t just aimed at Romania, but at the global middle class performing contrition between brunch and Netflix. 

Kontinental ’25 isn’t a film so much as a mirror that apologizes for reflecting you.

Paris, October 12th

Giulia Dobre

The Tragedy of Captain Pity: How Not to Be a Hero in 10 Easy Steps

               Wheelchairs, Wounds, and Wannabe Heroes

Ungeduld des Herzens

Out of the ten brilliant films I had the honor of selecting for the 30th German Film Festival in Paris 2025, Ungeduld des Herzens is my personal favorite—because nothing says “cinematic excellence” like a soldier in a muscle shirt trying to cure heartbreak with stem cells and sheer emotional confusion.

Ah, "Ungeduld des Herzens" is the kind of film that should come with a warning: If you have any lingering hope for humanity, do not watch this. 

Let’s start with Isaac. Ah, Isaac. This is the guy who is about as self-aware as a brick, but with the ambition of a motivational speaker who’s had one too many "just go for it" coffees. 

His life is like the slow-motion train wreck of a reality show where everyone competes to be the most misguided. 

And Isaac? Well, he’s winning.

Isaac Nasic (played with such a desperate charm by Giulio Brizzi that you almost want to hug him and slap him at the same time) is a Bundeswehr soldier who seems to have confused his military training for a series of bad decisions wrapped in a muscle shirt and an excessive number of tattoos.

 You know, the kind of guy who would’ve had a brief, tragic career as a bad guy in an action movie... if he were in an action movie. 

Instead, he’s stuck in The Sad Life of Isaac, starring as the world’s least qualified hero. 

His bright idea? To rescue Edith, a paralyzed woman with more grit than Isaac will ever muster, from the horrific curse of – wait for it – needing help. 

Ah, yes. He’s here to show her pity, cure her (and himself, apparently), and all the while, he’s utterly convinced that he’s going to do the world a favor. "Look at me, world! I’m a hero!"

That’s the core of the film, isn’t it?

 Isaac’s grandiose quest to prove that he can be the knight in shining armor by making everything worse. 

And what does he do? He takes pity on Edith. 

Oh, and spoiler alert, folks: it’s the worst kind of pity. The kind that looks down on you while whispering sweet nothings about how everything is going to be just fine, even though it’s completely not. 

Edith (Ladina von Frisching, who is so good she might have been cast in a different movie by accident) is dealing with her own immense challenges – paralyzed after a motorcycle accident, dealing with a controlling family, and trying to make sense of a world that suddenly sees her as the disabled girl – and Isaac strolls in like, "Hey, let me fix you with my manly, I’m-not-sure-what-I’m-doing charm."

His approach? To be as cringingly un-self-aware as possible.

 You know how in movies when the protagonist tries to sweep someone off their feet and it’s all cinematic and beautiful?

Yeah, Isaac does that, except instead of magic, it’s all horrible awkwardness and a sense of impending doom. He knocks Edith out of her wheelchair at one point – at a bowling alley, no less, which is probably where all life-altering decisions should be made, right? 

If there's one thing I took away from this film, it’s that bowling alleys are a perfect microcosm for human failure.

And then there’s the sexual tension – or, in Isaac’s case, the sexual confusion. 

He sees Edith as both his "little sister" and an opportunity to prove to her father that he’s not a failure. 

It's like he’s trying to play matchmaker for someone else’s family, while forgetting to, you know, understand the woman he’s supposedly interested in. 

And don't even get me started on the sex scene. 

It’s like watching a deer trying to walk on ice for the first time, except you’re the deer, and also the ice, and maybe even the one with the lumbering instinct to run.

With Impatience of the Heart, Lauro Cress delivers a strong, ambitious feature debut that fearlessly drags Stefan Zweig’s 1939 novel into the 21st century — where guilt still hurts, but at least it’s beautifully lit. 

Shot as his graduation film at the German Film and Television Academy Berlin and co-produced by Schiwago Film, Cress proves that “student film” can mean “existential crisis with impeccable production values.” 

The film had its world premiere at the Max Ophüls Preis Film Festival, where it swept the board: Giulio Brizzi (Race for Glory: Audi vs. Lancia) and Ladina von Frisching (The Theory of Everything) both won the acting prizes, and the film itself took home the 2025 Best Movie Award — 

- not bad for a class project.

Let’s talk about the film’s aesthetic. 

It’s artful, folks. 

The cinematography feels like it was made by someone who wanted you to feel uncomfortable just by looking at the screen. 

The lighting – neon blues and harsh whites – echoes Isaac’s emotional coldness. It’s like the filmmaker is saying, "You want to root for this guy? Too bad. Look at his face. Look at that tattoo. Now feel guilty for liking him." 

And it works! 

The slow-moving camera feels like it’s staring at Isaac the way you would stare at an antelope caught in the headlights. It’s like the lens is waiting for him to realize, "Oh, wait, I shouldn’t have tried to solve everything with my patronizing smile."

But here’s the kicker: I felt for Isaac. 

By the end of the film, I found myself half-hoping he’d get his redemption, while the other half was furiously shaking my head at his total obliviousness. 

He’s the tragic hero who thinks he’s the good guy – and that’s the kind of irony that Stefan Zweig would have loved. The more Isaac tries to "fix" Edith, the more it feels like he’s trying to paper over cracks in his own fractured sense of self-worth. 

It’s like watching a car crash happen in slow motion, but you can’t help but stare.

In summary, this movie is a delightful, gut-wrenching descent into a modern version of Zweig’s Beware of Pity. 

Isaac’s tragic flaw is that he wants to save someone – but doesn’t have the emotional maturity to see how much harm he’s causing in the process. 

If you’re into watching a guy ruin his life and a woman’s life, all while trying to be the hero, this film’s got your name written all over it.

And if you haven’t read the novel yet... well, good luck. You’ll likely walk away feeling too much sympathy for Isaac, while also questioning the very notion of pity itself. 

Maybe that’s the genius of it. 

Maybe the world needs more self-deprecating soldiers in muscle shirts, trying to fix the world by fumbling through it. 

At least they’re trying, right?

But seriously. 

Don’t try to fix people. 

It’s way too much work.

CREDITS: Country/Year: Germany 2025 · 

Running time: 104 minutes · 

Screenplay: Lauro Cress, Florian Plumeyer · 

Director: Lauro Cress · 

Cast: Giulio Brizzi, Ladina von Frisching, Livia Matthes, Thomas Loibl, Jan Fassbender, Ludwig Blochberger.

By Giulia Dobre

Paris, October 12th, 2025.

YES — The film that says yes to everything, except sobriety

                           ...Or how Nadav Lapid started yet another world war with a lateral tracking shot)

A film by Nadav Lapid.

Starring people who scream, dance, bleed, and occasionally breathe.
And Pierre, the director with experimental diction— a man whose stutter has become a visual style.

“Uh… do we… do we just… let it roll?”
— Pierre, during the Cannes screening (before he vomited in his tote bag).

---

Synopsis (or the long version of a collective misunderstanding)

Y., a broke, masochistic musician, 

and Jasmine, a luminous yet exhausted dancer (except when it comes to humiliation), 

decide to turn their art into a chic public service of submission. 

Between two cocktails dripping with decadence, they symbolically lick the boots of power until death, boredom, or accolades come knocking.

And then, miracle of miracles! 

They’re asked to compose the new national anthem.
Kind of like asking Patrick Bruel to rewrite “La Marseillaise.”

Result: a baroque opera of sweat, ego, and pseudo-political rants.
Yes, Lapid does Lapid, 

but this time, he cranked the delirium up to 11.

---

Review: A slap in the face, but with a washcloth.

From the very first scene, it’s clear: Lapid is not here to tell a story. He’s here to exorcise.

The camera shakes, the music screams, the actors roll in sangria like it’s the blood of their illusions, while Pierre, our hero in the background, watches it all, dumbfounded, and mutters:

“Uh… it’s… it’s conceptual, right?”

Yes, Pierre. It’s even too conceptual.
Each shot is a metaphor that thinks it’s smarter than the audience.
Each line feels like a coded message from God.
And each scream seems to yell: “LOOK HOW CINEMATICALLY TORTURED I AM.”

Halfway between performance art and a filmed panic attack, YES tosses the viewer between ecstasy and nervous laughter.

It’s pure Lapid: an aesthetic slap that first caresses your cheek, then bites your jugular.

And Pierre, what about him?

Ah, Pierre.
The stammering director, apostle of the “uh” and prophet of the failed shot.

We find him, lost in the wings, repeating his lines like a scratched record:

“Yes… no… well… yes… no but… yes.”

He embodies the entire philosophy of the film.
The articulated chaos.
The doubt incarnate.
The “yes” said with the intonation of a “save me.”

Some say Lapid wanted a tragic sidekick.
Others think Pierre just forgot his lines.
But who cares? His hesitation has become the soul of the film.

---

Act Two: Desert, Dust, and Symbolism Overdose.

Lapid moves all these characters to a biblical desert because, apparently, filming human degradation indoors was too easy.

The sand flies, the camera spins, the actors scream at God, capitalism, and the weather.

And Pierre, in a corner, still tries to adjust his shot:

“Uh… the hill… should we take it from the side, right? Or… uh… head-on?”

A silence.
Then Lapid screams:

“Head-on, Pierre! It’s a metaphor for national guilt, damn it!”

It’s theatre, it’s cinema, it’s vaudeville on amphetamines.

Finale: A Cosmic "Yes"

The film ends as it began: in sublime, absurd chaos.

Everyone’s crying, everyone’s screaming, everyone’s making love to the concept of the “wounded nation.”

Pierre, in the post-credits, concludes:

“Uh… I… I think we’re done, right?”

And the viewer, dazed, gets up, half-fascinated, half-traumatized.

Because yes, YES is a film that grabs you by the throat, slaps you, talks to you about art and politics, then leaves you in your underwear in the desert of your own cynicism.

Lapid has struck again.

And Pierre, stammering and magnificent, has survived to tell the tale.

By Giulia Dobre, Paris.

October 5th, 11h45.

OUI — le film qui dit oui à tout, sauf à la sobriété. (ou comment Nadav Lapid a encore déclenché une guerre mondiale avec un travelling latéral)

OUI — le film qui dit oui à tout, sauf à la sobriété.

(ou comment Nadav Lapid a encore déclenché une guerre mondiale avec un travelling latéral)

Un film de Nadav Lapid.

Avec des gens qui hurlent, dansent, saignent, et accessoirement respirent.

Et Pierre, metteur en scène à la diction expérimentale — un homme dont le bégaiement est devenu un style visuel.

 “Heu… on… on la… la… laisse tourner ?”

— Pierre, pendant la projection à Cannes (avant de vomir dans son tote bag).

---

Synopsis (ou la version longue d’un malentendu collectif)

Y., musicien fauché et masochiste, et Jasmine, danseuse lumineuse mais fatiguée de tout (sauf de l’humiliation), décident de transformer leur art en service public de la soumission chic. Entre deux cocktails dégoulinants de décadence, ils lèchent symboliquement le pouvoir jusqu’à ce que mort, ennui ou honneurs s’ensuivent.

Et puis, miracle ! On leur demande de composer le nouvel hymne national.

Un peu comme si on confiait à Patrick Bruel la réécriture de “La Marseillaise”.

Résultat : un opéra baroque de sueur, d’égo, et de saillies pseudo-politiques.

Oui, Lapid fait du Lapid — mais cette fois, il a tourné le bouton du délire jusqu’à 11.

Critique : une claque, mais avec un gant de toilette.

Dès la première scène, on comprend : Lapid n’est pas là pour raconter, il est là pour exorciser.

La caméra tremble, la musique hurle, les acteurs se roulent dans la sangria comme dans le sang de leurs illusions, pendant que Pierre, notre héros en second plan, regarde tout ça, béat, et lâche :

> “Heu… c’est… c’est conceptuel, hein ?”

Oui, Pierre. C’est même trop conceptuel.

Chaque plan est une métaphore qui se croit plus intelligente que le spectateur.

Chaque phrase sonne comme un message codé de Dieu.

Et chaque cri semble hurler : “REGARDEZ COMME JE SUIS CINÉMATOGRAPHIQUEMENT TORTURÉ.”

À mi-chemin entre performance artistique et crise de panique filmée, “Oui” balance le spectateur entre extase et fou rire nerveux.

C’est du Lapid pur jus : une gifle esthétique qui te caresse d’abord la joue, puis te mord la carotide.

---

Et Pierre, dans tout ça ?

Ah, Pierre.

Ce metteur en scène balbutiant, apôtre du “heu” et prophète du plan raté.

On le retrouve, perdu dans les coulisses, répétant ses répliques comme un disque rayé :

> “Oui… non… enfin… oui… non mais si… oui.”

Il incarne à lui seul toute la philosophie du film.

Le chaos articulé.

Le doute incarné.

Le “oui” dit avec l’intonation d’un “sauvez-moi”.

Certains disent que Lapid voulait un personnage secondaire tragique.

D’autres pensent juste que Pierre a oublié son texte.

Mais qu’importe : son hésitation est devenue l’âme du film.

---

Deuxième acte : désert, poussière et symboles en overdose.

Lapid déplace tout ce petit monde dans un désert biblique, parce que, visiblement, filmer la déchéance humaine en intérieur, c’était trop facile.

Le sable vole, la caméra tourne, les acteurs crient à Dieu, au capitalisme, à la météo.

Et Pierre, lui, dans un coin, tente toujours de recadrer son plan :

 “Heu… la colline… on la prend de profil, non ? Ou… heu… de face ?”

Un silence.

Puis Lapid crie :

 “De face, Pierre ! C’est une métaphore de la culpabilité nationale, bordel !”

C’est du théâtre, c’est du cinéma, c’est du vaudeville sous amphétamines.

---

Final : un grand “oui” cosmique

Le film se termine comme il a commencé : dans un chaos sublime et dérisoire.

Tout le monde pleure, tout le monde crie, tout le monde fait l’amour au concept de “nation blessée”.

Pierre, en post-générique, conclut :

 “Heu… je… je crois qu’on a fini, là.”

Et le spectateur, hagard, se lève, mi-fasciné, mi-traumatisé.

Parce que oui, “Oui” est un film qui t’attrape par la gorge, te gifle, te parle d’art et de politique, puis t’abandonne en slip dans le désert de ton propre cynisme.

Lapid a encore frappé.

Et Pierre, balbutiant et magnifique, a survécu pour témoigner.

By Giulia Dobre

Nihilism in the Spotlight: YES by a Dadaist Who Can’t Even Critique Himself

 YES!” — A Murder Cabaret Review in Three Acts and One Final “uh…”

(with the special participation of Pierre, the stammering director, accidental prophet of cinematic chaos)

Here is my “Cabaret Murder” version — the review of YES by Nadav Lapid, turned into a deranged stage performance, halfway between a Dadaist stand-up act, an exorcism ritual, and a film critique read in a smoky cabaret while the curtain catches fire.

Here, Pierre, the stammering director, becomes a full-fledged character — a kind of tragic clown, companion to a Lapid drunk on symbols and artistic self-destruction.

Take a seat — words are about to bleed.

Act I: The Ball of Yes

The room is plunged into darkness.

A sticky jazz tune rises.

On stage, a couple of dancers:

he, a broke musician sweating despair from every pore;

she, a tired but flexible dancer — especially morally.

They writhe in front of sweating bourgeois, like two contestants on Dancing with Shame.

And behind the camera, our dear Pierre trembles and mutters:

“Uh… do we… do we cut now? No?”

No, Pierre. We never cut.

Not in a Lapid film.

Here, we film until it hurts — until nausea becomes art, until discomfort reaches orgasmic metaphor.

Champagne drips, bodies crawl, dignity dies.

An old millionaire asks to be “licked by art.”

The musician obeys.

The audience hesitates between applause and calling the police.

---

Act II: Lapid and the Holy Stammer

Nadav Lapid enters the stage.

He looks possessed by a demon called “European Art-Film Grant.”

He films everything that moves, then everything that doesn’t, while shouting:

“More chaos! More meaning! More political sex!”

And Pierre, behind him, scribbles in an imaginary notebook:

“Uh… meaning, chaos, sex… uh… yes, okay.”

Every shot looks like a visual assault:

emojis appear in the sky,

a man sinks into rubble as if into his own psychoanalysis,

the camera does loopings while reciting Nietzsche.

This is not cinema that speaks to you — it attacks you, rips off your jaw, and then explains why you should thank it.

---

Act III: The Desert of Symbols

Change of scenery:

A desert. Dunes. Wind.

And metaphors collapsing like poorly pitched tents.

There, Y. contemplates the “Hill of Love” (a.k.a. a metaphor as subtle as a poetic jackhammer).

Jasmine screams.

Lapid screams.

The microphone screams.

And Pierre — always true to himself — delivers his greatest moment of direction:

“Uh… should we do another take? I, uh, filmed my finger.”

A silence.

Lapid cries.

The desert trembles.

The universe nods:

“Yes.”

---

Epilogue: Yes, But You Really Shouldn’t Have

End of screening. The room is silent — stunned, trapped somewhere between genius and an artistic hangover.

Someone coughs.

Pierre, emotional, takes the mic and says:

“Uh… I… I would like… to thank the blur.”

Applause.

Spectators faint.

A lady cries out, “Masterpiece!”

Someone else retorts, “He’s kidding, right?!”

Lapid walks out, eyes empty, murmuring:

“The artist is a whore like any other.”

Pierre follows, stumbles, and concludes in a trembling voice:

“Uh… yes.”

---

Moral of the Cabaret:

Saying “yes” is easy.

Saying “no” is political.

Stammering is artistic.

And surviving a Nadav Lapid film — heroic.

---

Standing ovation.

Curtain.

Broken glasses.

Camera on the floor.

Pierre stammering into the dark.

By Giulia Dobre

Paris Oct.5th