“Few films have captured that sense of unease and nervousness better than this masterful, deeply personal account of the past.”
“It happened in a country that no longer exists, except in books, films and memories”
These powerful words are the first we encounter on the threshold When the phone ranga deeply personal and moving drama in which director Iva Radivojević returns to the country of her birth to tell the story of a young girl coping with the challenges of displacement she and her family (as well as countless others in the region) experienced in the early 1990s during the breakup of Yugoslavia. Situated somewhere between an experimental coming-of-age drama and an autobiographical video essay, the film follows the character Lana over the course of an indeterminate period of time, interrupted only by a series of phone calls, each of which remains in her memory for conveying important information or having some meaning – whether informing her of the disappearance of another family member or allowing her to briefly exchange letters with those she left behind as a result of her efforts to escape the increasing violence, a correspondence that becomes increasingly sporadic as lines of communication become more scarce. A time capsule of a harrowing past, as the director remembers it, captured vividly and in a way that attempts to evoke the time as accurately as possible. When the phone rang is a haunting attempt to revisit that era through a particularly unique lens. Radivojević delivers a highly personal account of the past, crafting a narrative that is largely told in hushed whispers as we are guided through the protagonist’s journey, resulting in a haunting and melodic coming-of-age drama that is as unconventional as it is deeply moving.
At a glance When the phone rang seems like a relatively standard look into the past, especially since many films about exploring history tend to use a younger protagonist to look at past events with supposedly uncorrupted, innocent eyes. Once the film begins, however, it’s immediately clear that it’s going to venture in a number of unexpected narrative and thematic directions, using convention as inspiration for the story rather than rigidly guiding it, and exploring the nature of memory through a history of confusion and uncertainty. The character Lana comes of age in a time where the future is completely uncertain, a daunting process that can be extremely challenging, as was the case for the many young children who grew up much earlier than was appropriate for their time due to the circumstances surrounding their formative years. Seemingly being without a permanent home, and where even something as basic as the safety of extended family cannot be guaranteed, is enough to permanently scar anyone, especially someone who has yet to fully grasp the true scope of the world around them. Radivojević actively explores these themes throughout the film, using Lana as a symbol of an entire generation caught in the crossfire – too young to understand the mechanics of the socio-cultural situation, but old enough to have those indelible memories that stay with them forever and that can only be processed by confronting them directly. A demanding undertaking, rarely pleasant, but sometimes essential to processing the trauma of the past.
Part of Radivojević’s tailor-made vision is to break away from conventions and instead pursue a more unusual narrative approach. Instead of the traditional didactic coming-of-age film in which a young protagonist experiences an era of conflict, When the phone rang takes a bolder form. The director positions herself as an active participant in history, seeking refuge in the dull pain of the past – the events depicted may have taken place over thirty years ago, but the lingering aftershocks are still felt, and her focus is less on elaborating a discursive analysis arguing the harrowing nature of the war, and more on constructing a mosaic of a particular era. The country in which the film is set is not explicitly named, referred to only as ‘X’ (though any knowledge of the director’s background or the history of Yugoslavia’s breakup means the options are fairly limited). The year in which the film is set is also not made entirely clear; both of these suggest that specific details are not relevant. Rather, the film is concerned with capturing the atmosphere of the period at a general point in the past, and makes bold aesthetic choices to evoke the spirit of Yugoslavia at the end of its existence. The use of color, composition, and framing itself is stunning, with the grainy imagery and unconventional approach to the visual style contrasting nicely with some memorable musical interludes that create a moody, dreamlike atmosphere that lingers throughout the film. This serves not only to evoke the time, but also to create a sense of uncomfortable nostalgia, the kind of haunting anguish that can fester in people who have suffered generation-defining trauma.
When the phone rang is set in a country teetering on the brink of either extermination or liberation – and the director captures that sense of paralyzing anxiety and deep fear that comes from not knowing where your life is headed. When you’re on the precipice of the future, it’s hard to tell whether life is going to get better or worse, and few films have captured that sense of unrest and preternatural nervousness better than this masterful, deeply personal depiction of the past. Told in a mostly muted and quite experimental manner, the film glides through the memories of a protagonist who is a hybrid of the director and the countless young people who survived the breakup of Yugoslavia but carry a part of it with them to this day. It presents some deeply unsettling reflections on an analogue past. Recurring motifs, both visual and aural, create a sense of unconventional comfort, suggesting a kind of routine, even in a time of enormous social and political ambiguity. They show the influence of the outside world on the domestic space and how the decisions of powerful individuals affect the lives of even the most impressionable and innocent souls. Staged as a chronicle of an unpleasant chapter of history marked by disappearances, When the phone rang is a hugely important film, even beyond a number of personal reflections by the director – many works produced in or about the region celebrate the liberation that came after the fall of brutal political regimes, but not many mourn the losses in such a deeply personal way. The film is an elegy to the past, crafted with both affection and melancholy, and offers valuable insight into a past that should not be forgotten.
