Recently, a John Malkovich-directed play caused an uproar amidst some social fractions in Bulgaria. Discontent over Bernard Shaw’s play, Arms and the Man, which supposedly ridicules Bulgarian soldiers, led to protests held in front of the National Theatre. Supporters of the far-right political movements in Bulgaria demanded that Malkovich be expelled from the country and the play be banned. They confronted attendees of the play, subjecting them to aggressive behaviour and swearing. These altercations gave grounds to discussions on the lack of a real conversation about art and the overall fraying of the social fabric in Bulgaria. To our disappointment, although not to our surprise, the conversation was eventually reduced to monologues in empty rooms.

The situation strategically revved up two radical social groups against one another. The first one are the patriots who see restricting the rights of others as a patriotic act. The second group are the liberals, who think it’s liberal to deny the patriots’ right of opinion. Each group reduces the other solely to its radical image representing an ideological enemy. This mechanism serves its purpose: each participant’s consciousness is clear, people are united in their ranks, no one seems to notice the crippling dehumanization born out of the lack of care for the opposing view.

Following the scandal in front of the National Theatre, tensions were already high. For many, opening the Kinomania festival with “Tarika” (the Bulgarian title is Stadoto, literally The Herd) reinforced their ideological prejudice. The movie’s plot presents a “herd” of unkempt patriots who lynch the different and halt progress. Ironically, a film that aims to serve a free-spirited ideology borders on propaganda. There’s also a big communication problem regarding the target audience. The main character, Tarika, has a unique illness that causes her to develop butterfly wings. But those who would identify with her hardly need the moral lesson the movie tries to deliver. Then there are those who would likely identify with “the herd” and declare they’re watching a “woke” movie, if only to fulfil the societal role they’ve been assigned. So, who is this film really for?

“Tarika” turns out to be a movie targeted at no one in particular, because its characters seem too unrealistic. Yes, special beings like Tarika (played by Vesela Valcheva), born as if to bridge our world and a world beyond, have always existed. And attentive fathers like Ali (played by Zachary Baharov) will always be around to protect them. Lifeless looks and contemplations won’t make them feel special, though. On the contrary, they’d make them feel like a genetic anomaly. These children don’t deliver metaphors about birds with a stone-cold expression while struggling with the lack of electricity in the village. Nor do they stoically endure pointless humiliations. That is, unless we accept that fairytale characters are a breed entirely different to humans. We wonder what fairy tale combines the EU flag, a policeman in a Soviet uniform, and a state border guarded more strictly than the one between North and South Korea. The intentional insertions of social context are obvious and annoying when we could be enjoying the self-contained life in Tarika and Ali’s home instead.

Characters who would hate a child so fervently on the grounds of a superstition don’t seem believable. The cliché of the evil and close-minded Bulgarians rings false here. The village people prototypes aren’t “morons” or “freaks” that a civilized person could have nothing in common with, even though Zachary Baharov referred to them that way in an interview. Naturally, people readily echoed these words in a manner of herd-mentality. The villagers are in fact normal people who represent the silent majority whose fears seem less and less conspirative these days. This majority grows in numbers and becomes angrier, apparent from the scandal with Shaw’s play. The increasing anger of a group of people is directly proportionate to their point-blank stigmatization. In November 2024, marking his first year in office, Sofia mayor Vassil Terziev opened a conference by quoting a popular pop folk refrain, “We make mistakes but we’re authentic.” The movie includes a similar moment, planned as an obvious satire of a bad xenophobe ruler, but with all its sarcasm, it sounds more believable than the rest of the dialogue.

“Tarika” is beautifully made, and we could write poems about Kaloyan Bozhilov’s mastery. However, in the case of “Tarika,” beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, as Rilke put it. The epic nature frames as well as the close-ups of Tarika oppose their innocence and wisdom to “the herd.” The movie claims that what is beautiful is also good and true. Bringing the cinematographer’s skills forward is usually compensation for a flaw in the plot. Why would anyone mention the cinematographer’s work if they like the movie? 

“Tarika” is not the only film falling into the trap of the so-called “art cinema” (a slang in the Bulgarian movie scene). Art cinema abuses certain mechanisms and tricks in an extremely clichéd way, the way the most commercial and predictable movies do. The same old aestheticization of silence, the familiar deliberate slowing down of scenes, and the cherry on top—an open ending, so that there’s something to talk about once we leave the movie theatre. When nothing balances its presence, silence feels heavy; the long frames that go in no certain direction are oppressive, and the ambiguities in the ending disguise the playwright’s laziness to put a full stop to their work. 

One question remains—when will the Bulgarian village be absolved of the symbolism it’s burdened with by contemporary Bulgarian cinema? When will we just see it for what it is, a simple Bulgarian village? It’s true that magic realism flourishes better outside a big city. But the magical part comes from depicting the unknown, not from being out of touch with reality.

After the London premiere of the movie some viewers noted, with a mix of surprise and admiration, that director Milko Lazarov admitted he prioritised the invisible at the expense of the visible. This self-reflection is laudable but sadly, it cannot salvage “Tarika.” The movie shows a lot of things but so chaotically, it resembles sketches of a non-existing world. That makes it feel like yet another outpour of banal conflicts and contradictions. The director of “Otchuzhdenie” (Alienation) and “Ága,” a master of cinema language, deserves his work to start a meaningful conversation on beauty and the special gifts we carry inside us, instead of concerning itself with the daily grind.

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