Nebojša Slijepcevic’s The Man Who Could Not Remain Silent masterfully portrays a historical act of heroism, drawing the viewer into a suspenseful, human-centered narrative that questions our own responses to injustice.
Paying tribute to a hero from History while making the situation that led to his act a universal one is exactly what Nebojša Slijepcevic achieves in just 14 minutes with a film that is both understated, surgical, and powerful. The majority French-Croatian production revisits an incident that occurred in February 1993 in Strpci, Bosnia-Herzegovina. The Man Who Could Not Remain Silent just received its world premiere at the 77th Cannes Film Festival, where it is competing for the Short Film Palme d’Or.
In a quasi-claustrophobic setting aboard a passenger train, the camera slowly unveils the stakes of the situation presented to us. The train is forced to stop by a paramilitary group of dubious legitimacy but undeniable authority, seeking to flush out potential traitors or deserters. From the opening of the film, the camera lingers on an unremarkable face, that of a man whose sleep is abruptly interrupted by the train’s halt. This man, whom we imagine to be the eponymous hero of the film—the man who could not remain silent—captures the camera’s attention, which then slowly moves from one face to another within the train car, until the characters grasp the gravity of their situation.
Remaining very close to the faces, creating a true collection of portraits, the film builds an evident suspense while focusing on the human element. The characters, all carefully filmed in close-up, become players in a strategic game into which the viewer is also drawn. As the forces in play are revealed, the viewer wonders who will play their hand, and when and how they will do so.
The main character, or at least the one presented as such by the camera, exchanges a few words with the passenger sitting opposite him, who confesses that he has no identification to present to the militia officers who have boarded the train. From that moment, his fate seems sealed, with the sword of Damocles poised to fall. A militiaman, performing his inspection with a near-nonchalance that belies his unquestioned authority, arrives at the train car we are in and demands identification from each passenger. Played by the always impeccable Alexis Manenti, noted for his roles in Les Misérables (Ladj Ly, 2017) and Dalva (Emmanuelle Nicot, 2022), the paramilitary soldier discovers the man without papers and instructs him to stand and follow him off the train. Throughout this interaction, the camera remains captivated by the faces within the train car as the blade inches closer. When will our main character intervene and oppose the arbitrary arrest of this innocent man? A subtle panoramic camera movement reveals that it is ultimately another passenger (Dragan Micanovic) who consents to sacrifice himself in place of the man slated for arrest.
An introductory card at the end credits informs us that this man truly existed, named Tomo Buzov (1940-1993), and that this film is dedicated to him. In a nearly cold, minimalist, and profoundly restrained gesture, the film by Nebojša Slijepcevic powerfully fulfills its ambition. By shifting the perspective away from this heroic man and adopting the viewpoint of another man who ultimately lacks the strength and courage to intervene, the film manages to make the viewer question their own stance in such an unjust situation. Paradoxically, this makes the film’s tribute to the almost off-screen man, who gave his life to save an innocent one, even more poignant and moving. This man, Tomo Buzov, who had the immense courage to choose death over compromise and betrayal of his values. Reminiscent of the moral dilemma and integrity of Franz Jägerstätter in A Hidden Life (Terrence Malick, 2019), The Man Who Could Not Remain Silent poignantly celebrates a resounding act of bravery.
In summary, Nebojša Slijepcevic’s film masterfully intertwines the intimacy of a suddenly occurring life scene, a tribute to an unsung and forgotten hero of History, and the power of a universal experience in which everyone can see themselves. At some point in our lives, we all encounter injustice unfolding before our eyes: how do we react? What will we do? Suddenly, without warning, life will demand a choice from us. Once that moment passes, it will be too late, and each of us will live with the weight of our courage or cowardice on our conscience. The train of life will inevitably move forward, as indicated by the soundscape covering the end credits of Slijepcevic’s film, signaling that the train has resumed its journey. Even though nothing will ever be the same again.
The film won the Short Film Palme d’Or 2024.
Our reporters are on the ground in Cannes, France, to bring you exclusive content from the 77th Cannes Film Festival—explore our coverage here.
