Away from Afghanistan, where music is banned. “Balcanica” and denied freedoms

A father and son are walking through a grey landscape beneath a leaden sky. The man is a conductor, the boy plays the tuba, and their only luggage consists of their instruments, which they guard as if they were treasures. A concert awaits them in Italy; to get there, they are travelling up through the Balkans along the route that remains the only way out of an Afghanistan where the Taliban have banned music along with every other freedom. “Balcanica”, Nicola Sorcinelli’s debut feature, co-written with Andrea Brusa, was the only Italian film in competition at the Venice Days section and is now hitting cinemas (from tomorrow) with two awards to its name: the Audience Award and the Carlo Lizzani Award, presented by a jury of cinema operators. The film follows Nazar (Babak Karimi) and Jalil (Ivar Wafaei) on the final leg of their journey, as they approach the borders of the European Union. The cold worsens the father’s condition, and it is then that Greta (Matilda De Angelis), a young Italian doctor on her first humanitarian mission, enters the scene.

“I’ve always felt a connection to stories of denied freedoms,” Sorcinelli tells Il Foglio. “In 2021, with the return of the Taliban to Afghanistan, amongst the countless freedoms that were suppressed was the freedom to make music – and with it, artistic freedom, which was perhaps the last remaining lifeline. We witnessed a small exodus of artists leaving the country, and I thought it would be lovely to be able to tell that story.”

“Balcanica” is a film featuring long moments of silence, which seems almost paradoxical for a story about musicians. “At first, I wanted the film to be completely devoid of music,” continues the director, “to convey the frustration brought about by the ban in an even more stark way. In the end, we only pursued that idea halfway, but a clear trace of it remains.”

The story unfolds through the glances exchanged between the three protagonists, the pauses beneath the grey sky, and the desolation of the landscapes. It is a delicate work (the screenplay by Sorcinelli and Brusa is excellent) in which Damjan Radovanović’s cinematography plays a decisive role and determines its rare expressive subtlety. “I also wanted to convey a sense of cold,” adds Sorcinelli. We filmed in Serbia and really let ourselves be carried away by nature, by what it offered us day after day: it gave us those colours and we kept them.” Sorcinelli lets the small gestures and the dialogue – almost always spoken in a whisper – speak for themselves, and gives space to the viewer’s emotions. Even the two tubes that father and son carry with them remain silent for a long time; they are the most cumbersome luggage one could imagine for those who need to go unnoticed.

“First and foremost, I wanted two beautiful instruments: the tuba really fascinates me; I find it elegant and romantic. I liked the idea that the two of them carried their art with them, and that it was a grand art, cumbersome in the most beautiful sense of the word. They carry their music in enormous cases, and it struck me as a way of comparing it to their bodies: the only means they have for their journey, a body that has been mistreated, tossed about here and there.”

Throughout the journey the viewer undertakes alongside the protagonists, there is never a moment of rhetoric, nor a scene contrived to elicit cheap emotions. “Rhetoric was my greatest fear. I sought to adopt a perspective that was as respectful and observational as possible, without dwelling too much on the pain or the most romanticised drama, whilst also maintaining a visual balance. I may be getting a bit technical here, but we shot the entire film with a single wide-angle lens and we always maintained that perspective, without overemphasising the drama, for better or for worse. If you tell me we’ve succeeded, that’s a great compliment.”