Contemporary Bulgarian cinema often features protagonists who end up breaking the law not because they are necessarily “evil”, but because the corrupt milieus they inhabit leave them little choice but to fight for their dignity (and sometimes for their very survival) outside the bounds of the established social order. Such ambivalent characters, forced to take up action “beyond good and evil,” stand at the center of films such as The Lesson (2014), Godless (2016) and Blaga’s Lessons (2023). Notably, these figures are most often women. If there’s any real problem with such protagonists, it’s not that they are wholly implausible, but that, at least from an existential standpoint, they’re nauseatingly one-dimensional, because they’re represented as nothing more than mere products of their material conditions. In other words, films like the ones mentioned above, whether knowingly or not, reduce human beings to powerless (and therefore hopeless) victims of circumstance.

Even if we grant, with stoic detachment, that such a bleak vision of human nature corresponds to some profound truth about our existence, this still wouldn’t change the fact that artworks unquestionably promoting any one worldview are, quite simply, dull. Good art presupposes the productive presence of contrasting elements — of disparate, often irreconcilable perspectives and ways of living. That’s precisely why great social cinema sustains the tension between the individual and his or her environment (in this regard Italian neorealism is an exemplary case). No matter how frail and destitute the individual is, there remains something inviolable in them, something the surrounding world can’t wholly absorb or subjugate. In lieu of this remainder, there is no conflict therefore no basis for a compelling story.

That’s why Nadejda Koseva’s films stand out — they keep showing that “the humiliated and the insulted” possess qualities and virtues which cannot be accounted for by their place in the social order. Even though Koseva’s previous film, the excessively somber Irina (2018), once again features a female protagonist prepared to break the law in order to survive, the plot also reaches a point where, if only for a brief moment (at the very end, when the baby of the eponymous heroine is born) a glimmer of hope appears.

In Koseva’s latest release, The Trap, this moment of (re)birth appears once again, albeit in a more metaphorical guise, as a sign of change and the possibility of a new, brighter future. In the closing shots, we see the fallen world of man from the vantage point of a stork flying above the shores of the Danube where the story unfolds. This conceptual gesture elegantly expresses the film’s attitude toward nature, presenting it as a wellspring of vital energy that continually throws into relief the stillborn vacuity of social existence. At the same time, underlying Koseva’s ecological critique of society, there’s also a subtle metaphysical motif, most easily discerned when one takes into account the fact that the story (written by the eminent screenwriter Boyan Papazov) is set on the eve of Easter, when all of creation “is raised from the dead” with the resurrected “Son of Man”. This theological idea is reflected in the very name of the main character, Bozheka (God’s beggar) — a retired miner who has devoted the final years of his life to nature and to the many creatures that dwell within it. This reserved man, played by Aleksandar Trifonov in the vein of Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino, wanders through the wooded areas along the Danube, picking up what he calls “the municipality’s trash,” while also tending a small zoo in his yard, where he looks after ducks, crows, and even a real-life wolf. In this way, by caring tirelessly for the preservation of the environment, Bozheka becomes the true “crown of creation”—a man humbly living in harmony with the world God has entrusted to him.

Unfortunately, Bozheka's private Eden is constantly threatened by the forces of evil, which in this case happen to be the people who hold the most power in the nameless riverside town. Chief among them are the mayor, the head of police, and the local mafioso, Mr. Gluhov, who, eager to enlarge his fortune, is attempting to persuade an influential French businessman with a fondness for hunting to build a radioactive-waste facility in the area. To that end, the unscrupulous mobster convinces the town’s authorities to stage a hunting trip on one of the islands down the river, so that he can win over the corrupt foreigner with a prized target — a wild boar so massive that it has to be flown in by helicopter for the Frenchman’s visit to Bulgaria. The animal, however, proves too big and dangerous for the local hunters, who start complaining that they’ll need more help. The only problem is there's no one to call for assistance, because the hunt will take place illegally, outside the official hunting season. On Holy Saturday, to be precise. So naturally, those involved in the scheme are wary of drawing in outsiders, lest news of what they’re planning begin to spread. And so, when push comes to shove, it turns out that only Bozheka’s seasoned hunting dog can make sure that the whole event will go over smoothly. Bozheka, however, being the principled man that he is, has long since put such “blood sports” behind him. Moreover, his love of animals, together with his incorruptible sense of justice, will compel him to stand up to the lawless whims of Gluhov and his associates.

However doubtful the premise may seem (given that the hunt could probably proceed without Bozheka’s German pointer) it allows the film to foreground the irresolvable conflict between nature, which man and God ceaselessly co-create, and the social realm, which is perpetually torn apart by the “will to power” of society’s most shameless opportunists. The result is undoubtedly engaging (after all, there is a clear conflict driving the plot), but also extremely dualistic, that is, devoid of genuine three-dimensionality and depth. By reducing reality to a struggle between good (the divine nature of creation) and evil (the human thirst for power), the film presents us with a conflict that, although brutal, is already decided in favor of the “righteous” (especially when read through a theological lens).

Therefore, although Bozheka is a charismatic protagonist who stands out in contemporary Bulgarian cinema (not least because he is resourceful, moral, and wise) he is also tediously one-dimensional, since he appears entirely devoid of any evident weaknesses or imperfections. He is an idealized version of an ordinary “man of the people” — someone who’s not only infinitely patient, empathetic, and fearless, but who also knows what to say and what to do in every situation. On top of that, Bozheka is presented as some kind of spiritually enlightened eco-saint, effortlessly communicating with “wild beasts” like St. Francis of Assisi or St. Seraphim of Sarov. The only issue is that people like Bozheka don’t exist. Even hagiographic literature never fails to point out that saints, even the most righteous ones, constantly struggle with their passions and shortcomings. In that sense, Bozheka is more of a didactic ideal than a real person. On the one hand, this makes him profoundly unrealistic, while on the other, it prevents the viewer from fully empathizing with him. We’re probably meant to admire him, but in that case the film risks becoming a pedagogic exercise.

The Trap is not without other, fortunately more minor flaws — the acting is a bit stiff, the dialogue is at times awkward, and the story contains a couple of plot holes. In one scene, for instance, we are shown a pair of prized wild boar tusks which are supposed to go to the Frenchman if something goes wrong with the hunt. After that they disappear from the film completely, even though they are what allows Koseva to point out that boar hunting has always been closely tied to the political climate in Bulgaria. As the story underscores, earlier record holders include Hermann Göring and Todor Zhivkov, so in a sense, by joining their ranks, Gluhov’s French businessman stands to become a symbol of the passage from socialism (and fascism before it) to capitalism. This makes the scene with the tusks quite ironic and witty (in a remarkably subtle way), which is why it’s all the more disappointing that the trophy simply vanishes from the plot like a clever afterthought.

Of course, The Trap has many strengths as well, not least in its treatment of Elena, the film’s female lead, who never turns into a desperate victim willing to abandon her principles, despite the immense pressure she’s under. Most impressive of all, however, is the fact that the film is deeply conceptual without ever becoming needlessly pretentious or repulsively hermetic. Koseva and Papazov have found a powerful way to express their ideas about a whole set of metaphysical, existential, and political questions without weighing the viewer down. And in the end, however idealized, Bozheka at least represents an attempt to move beyond the uncritical miserabilist pathos that’s typical of so much contemporary Bulgarian cinema. At the same time, we shouldn’t be fooled into thinking that there’s necessarily a light at the end of the tunnel. Life’s not binary. There’s always a third term, something hidden which escapes our grasp. That elusive third element is exactly what great art seeks to evoke. It’s what one might call the ineffable.