Predrag Antonijević's historical drama Dara of Jasenovac, Serbia's official selection for the Oscars, has been receiving scathing reviews abroad. But the international reception of the feature film has little to do with the work as such and everything to do with western narratives about eastern Europe. The critique to date has mostly sought to contextualize the World War II film in the context of the 1990 Balkan wars and contemporary national tensions, instead of treating it as a historical drama—hence the accusations that the film serves Serbian nationalist propaganda and is anti-Croatian. The reception brings up important questions about historical fiction as well as crucial issues relating to Holocaust memory.
Incredibly, Dara is the first film of this caliber made about Jasenovac, the concentration camp operated by fascist forces in Croatia. The Ustaša operated the Independent State of Croatia for four years and rivaled the Nazis in brutality, but Jasenovac—the only death camp of WWII not run by Germans—is little known outside the Balkans. Indeed, the story of the Holocaust in Yugoslavia is largely omitted from wider Holocaust discourse because it does not sit comfortably in commonly upheld master narratives (not least narratives about post-Cold War political relations). But surely these historical events cannot be purged from the record, regardless of political inconvenience: indeed, reviews that treat the film as propaganda ironically themselves run the risk of historical revisionism.
Dara could instead offer a chance for western and Balkan audiences alike to attempt more honest conversations about memory politics. There is a pivotal need for Croatian public discourse to engage openly with Croatia's fascist past. Currently, discourse surrounding the Ustaša is obfuscated by Croatian politicians and is dominantly subject to historical revisionism—as compared to the plethora of memory studies initiatives taken by Germany (any walk through Berlin easily turns into a memorial exhibition). The unease that arises from any discussion of east European victims of WWII can be explained by the fact that the dominant discourse is most often manned by western institutions. In the case of Croatia, which, unlike many other former Yugoslav nations, is now part of the EU, WWII memory politics become even more uncomfortable for important external actors. We see such silencing of stories and victims alike continue when we miss the opportunity for broader reflection on anti-genocidal studies.
In many ways, as an aesthetic production, Dara of Jasenovac is a missed opportunity as well. The film falls short of transcending the historical account to rise to the status of cinematic art. Historical fiction at its best highlights past experience to inspire us to long for a different future. Dara does not quite arrive there, falling short on narrative form in favor of more content: it never rises to the level of Roberto Benigni's La Vita e Bella (1997) or Roman Polanski's The Pianist (2002), for example. Such canonical WWII features focus on life rather than death, closely following character development to construct compelling narrative arcs amid the atrocity. Dara never successfully allows insight into the lives of its characters: Who are these people? Where are they? Why? Even the child's perspective offered by the eponymous Dara falls flat as a narrative tool, and we are left knowing virtually nothing about her or the other inmates. Such failures pave the way for the predictably negative reviews—which, however, glide far too quickly from flat character to questionable motive.
Imperfect as it may be, Dara of Jasenovac marks a precedent and raises topics that complicate simplistic narratives about Yugoslavia and its history. In an era of rising rightwing populisms, we cannot afford to ignore uncomfortable aspects of the past.
