“You cannot run away from pain,” Bosnian director Srđan Vuletić told us as we spoke about Otter, his film that premiered at the 31st Sarajevo Film Festival and delves into themes of adolescence and grief.
Watching Otter (Vidra) for the first time, the viewer is struck by a visceral wave of discomfort — almost revulsion. This is not the fleeting unease that fades once the lights return, but a deeper, more enduring disquiet. At the heart of Srđan Vuletić’s new film lies rural adolescence, stripped of illusions. A girl’s father dies, yet she does not truly mourn him. Instead, her grief is eclipsed by a hunger for attention, for validation, for love that proves far more dangerous than she imagines.
What unsettles in Otter is the raw truth it exposes — the teenage pursuit of “cool,” of beauty, of male recognition, desires so consuming they overshadow everything else, even death. The film refuses to soften this reality, compelling its audience to confront it head-on. At its core, Otter is a coming-of-age drama about Hana (played by Masha Drashler), a sixteen-year- old whose father’s sudden death collides with her fragile search for love and acceptance.
What begins as infatuation quickly unravels into betrayal and violence, forcing her to face not only grief but also the suffocating expectations placed on young women.
The film had its world premiere at the 31st Sarajevo Film Festival, as one of only nine feature films selected for the main competition. Srđan Vuletić, the Bosnian director now based in Montenegro, has built a reputation for weaving personal and social themes into unsettling yet intimate stories. With Otter, he continues this trajectory, delivering a work of stark honesty that lingers long after the screen fades to black.
Polina Grechanikova: The premiere in Sarajevo drew a visibly eager and restless crowd — there was a sense of urgency in the air. My personal reaction to the film was one of unease, even resistance. It struck me as brutally honest in its portrayal of adolescence as something both fragile and violent. Why did you feel compelled to tell this particular story through Hana’s eyes?
Srđan Vuletić: Honesty was always at the core of our intention. We set the story in Podgorica and around Skadar Lake, so we searched for a symbol connected to that place. The otter lives there, though it is endangered. In Otter, it becomes something else entirely — the embodiment of Hana’s trauma, her sense of betrayal, her suffocating frustration. The otter she imagines is caged, much like she is. I wanted to make it clear: running away does not erase pain. It remains, it waits. And eventually, you must confront it.
Polina Grechanikova: During the press conference, you spoke about self-confidence and said something provocative — that no one will help us except ourselves. For many, especially the young, this sounds unbearably harsh. Did you want your film to be a warning, or a call to courage?
Srđan Vuletić: Life itself is harsh, and I do not want to lie about that. Otter; it is, in fact, a film of encouragement. We wanted the audience — teenagers, but also adults — to
understand that recognizing your problem is the first step to solving it. Denial only extends the suffering. Hana’s final act of strength is a message to everyone watching: you are capable of surviving. Sometimes survival itself is the most radical victory.
Polina Grechanikova: Much of the film’s emotional weight rests on the performance of Masha Draśler as Hana. She radiates both vulnerability and defiance. How did you manage to capture such raw intensity from such a young actress?
Srđan Vuletić: Masha Draśler is a revelation. With most non-professional actors, you adapt— cut lines, simplify dialogue. With her, we did the opposite. Very early on, we understood she could carry the entire film, and she did so with a grace and a ferocity that astonished me. She gave Hana a voice and a soul. Watching her perform, I often thought to myself: she is giving more than we dared to ask for.
Polina Grechanikova: The world of Otter is saturated with silence, shame, and unspoken rules. May I ask you something personal? How did your own adolescence shape the way you approached this film?
Srđan Vuletić: In Eastern European families, including my own, there was a wall of silence around anything related to sex, emotions, vulnerability. You learned from older boys in the park, often through exaggerations, lies, or distortions. Looking back, I see how much depth was lost because of that silence. For boys, it was shameful to admit love, to cry, to confess weakness. So we locked everything inside. It would come out elsewhere — in aggression, in lifting weights, in performance. Today, nothing has changed, except that social media has made the pressure even heavier.
Polina Grechanikova: Do you believe social media has fundamentally worsened the adolescent experience?
Srđan Vuletić: Without question. Social networks are not going away. If parents or schools don’t speak honestly with their children, TikTok will fill the gap — with illusions, distortions, photoshopped ideals. Imagine being sixteen and comparing yourself not to reality but to a manufactured dream. It is devastating. That is why I believe education must transform. Not repression, not censorship — transformation. Schools must speak the language of this generation. Otherwise, we will watch children collapse under pressures they should never have to bear.
We are delighted to be attending the 31st Sarajevo Film Festival in person, taking place August 15–22, 2025.
