Bulgarian cinema isn’t a huge fan of remakes, and yet, here is one, a contemporary adaptation of “Shibil,” originally a story by Bulgarian author Yordan Yovkov. The movie’s director, Nikola Bozadzhiev, started the project when he was only 18. We should note that there’s a 1967 film version, a cult classic, about the “scary hajduk who the Ottoman authorities searched for far and wide,” who one day descended from the mountain to surrender. The older version’s stellar team features director Zahari Zhandov, screenwriters Gencho Stoyev and Magda Petkanova, editing by Ivaylo Trenchev, music by Vassil Kazandzhiev, actors Petar Slabakov, already a star already at that point, and Dorotea Toncheva’s debut.

In Yovkov’s short story, as well as his entire body of work, the beauty of the world and the harmony of nature compete with the impulses of the human soul. These impulses can be immensely beautiful or absolutely pathetic. In his writing, real heroes transgress, but not for their own sake. All nations and peoples have heard, in one form or another, that the world’s injustice has a single purpose—to solidify our spirits and our ability to love. Maybe this is the exact way for art to catalyse and create beauty. But is this where the sparkle of Yovkov’s characters lies? An insidious yet secret beauty shines from his works about guilt, crime, love, and freedom.

The new version takes over the screen with confidence, showcasing impressive views of the forest, mountains, and the four seasons. These elements give context to the characters’ souls and the events in the story. We can parallel this approach to the faltering visual background of “Vazvishenie” (“Heights”), another movie adapted from a literary work that’s set before the liberation of Bulgaria from Ottoman rule. In “Shibil,” each character carries a certain season within them; they protect it and make it part of their secret beauty or sorrow. For as long as the forest has been blooming, shivering, and coming into leaf, people have been searching for their place in the world. It wouldn’t be so bad if life were decoded as an attempt for each of the characters—the virgins, the chorbaji, the brigands and the thieves, the oppressors and the lovers—to distance themselves from their own perceptions. The movie’s directed with exceptional vision and style. If you feel it looks like an ad, you’re not alone. It is a pleasant surprise that “Shibil” doesn’t concern itself with domesticity or fall into the trap of a false ethnographic ardour.

The female characters in the movie receive special attention given the recurring theme: the love we dream of is impossible, and the love we have is doomed. In the first frames of the movie, a little girl is running through the cornfields just before the hajduks attack the young girls. For a second, we consider this child will be narrating the enticing yet naive story about love’s power and fragility. However, we only see the girl one more time—wiping away a tear before a bloody ballad drifts across the streets of the doomed village. A young woman, not exactly of sound mind, also appears at the beginning but soon vanishes into the act. When Shibil is first introduced, he almost goes unnoticed, even though he’s surrounded by three hajduks. He hides his face and mumbles quietly. Gradually, steadily, we recognize him as he takes over the action with a scarred face and the doom he carries within. However, he’s only truly seen when a woman makes him stand out and then fail. This woman is Rada. She legitimizes him as a hero and as a person, and he does the same for her. Their timid attempt at love makes them rise above everything and everyone. The characters’ list also includes two mothers who are eloquent, powerful, and fiercely loyal. They offer bits of wisdom about the way the world works, honest truths about family life, and stand tall like statues among all the chaos.

The male characters are a bit more unconventional, some of them—surprisingly so. Shibil’s father sticks out his chest, proud and in love, although not with his own wife. He sacrifices himself for love because “the one who’s loved can also love.” This phrase echoes until the end of the movie. The surrounding characters—some traders, family members, a Turkish bey, and Rada’s father—position the main characters as legendary. We also have a Turkmen who’s eager for Rada to join his harem. Seeing the plot from this perspective makes it easier to understand why Veliko kehaya, Rada’s father, sends his daughter as bait for an outlaw (in the face of Shibil) instead of waiting for the infidels to take her—it’s a bit more patriotic. In the middle of the movie, the act drops the chronological approach and tries to find suspense—alas, through an outdated device. We follow a chaotic alternating between the inciting action and the resolution as a cut-off head travels from one point to another. We can only understand what’s going on if we keep a keen eye on the seasons, the visions, and the behaviour of the main characters. Another head, now of a lamb, appears as a symbol of a sacrificial animal and seems ready to take on human form any minute now…

The movie is selflessly modulated as a paraphrase of a treasured legend. The dialogue is rhymed in the style of an old or a bad translation of Shakespeare’s rhymes. Archaic vocabulary cohabits with new and slang words; the word order is reversed with gigantic effort. There’s nothing wrong with experimenting with the Bulgarian language on screen, even if the experiments are unsuccessful. Still, why does a nagging voice, as if from a folk song, persist that we’re witnessing a story of a love that can’t last? Both the writer of the original story, Yovkov, and the director of the 1967 version, Zhandov, seem to believe that love is, in fact, possible—if only for a fleeting moment, against the world and its logic. Which, to me, feels more lively, exciting, and contagious.

And that’s where the real conflict lies. The belief in a possible love serves to support the main characters in their fearlessness to fight. The new “Shibil,” however, prefers that the characters’ fate is predestined. In the end, the narrating voice, accompanied by visual hints throughout the film, firmly defines itself as the inner voice of the protagonist. We finally discover its source. It’s not the little girl we saw in the beginning, not the wilful, albeit mentally ill, young woman, not the sorrowful mothers, nor the raped virgins who witness yet another fraud and drama of life. The voice belongs to Shibil’s horse.

“Shibil” is the first project by the 1st Clapper Foundation. The organization promises to take more young talents under its wing to help them realize their ideas with the help of experts, not censors. The earnings and the donations for each project will be redirected to the next young talent. And while these good intentions make us dream of a new golden age for Bulgarian cinema, the project’s PR strategy looks a bit sketchy. The movie’s team has already claimed 140 awards from a wide variety of festivals, some with questionable criteria. We hope “Shibil” doesn’t exhaust the entire supply of trophies in the cinema world.

Материалът е изготвен
с финансовата подкрепа
на Националния фонд „Култура”.