Srđan Sandić - Telegram.hr
Despite facing numerous challenges during its production due to its LGBTQ+ themes, Beautiful Evening, Beautiful Day emerges as a fierce contender for Croatia’s Oscar submission.
It’s not often, especially in domestic cinema, that a film of tectonic, disruptive power comes along—a work that fully embodies art's mandate to challenge and unsettle the illusory "peace" of daily life. After watching Ivona Juka’s Beautiful Evening, Beautiful Day, one is left wondering how to express due respect for the emotional earthquake her team has delivered.
Juka’s debut, You Carry Me, back in 2015, was similarly enthralling, despite some (mostly technical and editing) critiques often directed at a director’s first feature. It told the story of father-daughter relationships, focusing on three daughters seeking acceptance, redemption, and new chances. The film achieved critical acclaim, winning numerous awards and even being Montenegro's Oscar submission that year.
It took nearly a decade for this daring actress-turned-director to craft a new, even stronger, "realer," and more politically relevant film. Beautiful Evening, Beautiful Day, this time Croatia's Oscar candidate for Best International Feature Film, explores the lives of gay partisans in the former Yugoslavia. Despite occasional romanticization of leftist politics, these individuals often suffered—whether physically or emotionally, as citizens permanently denied their rights and humanity.
An Autobiographical Homage to All Victims
Set in 1957 Yugoslavia, the story begins prosaically yet clearly—even for politically uninformed viewers (no spoilers here, as this is a must-watch film!). After a group of young men records a scene questioning the Communist regime, the Propaganda Office appoints Emir Servar (played by Emir Hadžihafizbegović) as head of the studio, tasked with directing artists' work toward pure propaganda while sabotaging four protagonists suspected of being gay.
This black-and-white film follows four friends—Lovro (Dado Ćosić), Nenad (Đorđe Galić), Stevan (Slaven Došlo), and Ivan (Elmir Krivalić)—former partisan comrades who have become esteemed filmmakers in post-war Yugoslavia. The film is described by Juka as “a love letter to a close family member and his entire generation.” It is, therefore, an autobiographically inspired homage to past, present, and seemingly future victims of despotic regimes, whether fascist or recently ascendant.
The story delivers everything a great tale of love meeting tragic politics should: intense passion, unleashed eros, betrayal, resolution, guilt, doubt, fear—and for some, freedom. In socialist Yugoslavia, homosexuality was considered "bourgeois and perverse," a product of insatiable capitalism. Moral and ideological gatekeepers claimed it was limited to "decadent intellectuals," the bourgeois class, clergy, and the idle—people perceived as "corruptors of the healthy working youth."
The Historical Stigma of 'Unnatural Acts'
Consequently, homosexuality was a criminal offense in Yugoslavia, punishable by up to two years in prison—even in the privacy of one’s home and with mutual consent. Public trials were held in major cities, and men accused of "unnatural acts" faced public shaming in squares and streets. By 1950, police archives listed 602 men as homosexual offenders, with 220 in Zagreb, 88 in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and others spread across the republics. From 1951 to 1977, close to 520 men were convicted in Yugoslavia, a stark contrast to Austria’s 12,000 during the same period.
Although the Communist Party eventually ordered the decriminalization of homosexuality in 1976, progress was slow and inconsistent. Some Yugoslav republics fully decriminalized it only after the wars of the 1990s. The system’s insistence on building a "new, healthy man" excluded all forms of non-heterosexual life, reflecting deeply entrenched patriarchal attitudes.
A Struggle for Freedom Amid Systematic Oppression
The fictional characters in Juka’s film—young, attractive, and artistically inclined—are classic victims of toxic patriarchy. Hatred, as psychoanalysis suggests, often contains elements of what it despises. One chilling scene involves a purportedly heterosexual man (Andrej Dojkić) punishing a gay man by engaging in a violent sexual act.
Prejudices stem from ignorance, as one of the main characters discovers. Initially complicit in exposing the young gay men, he undergoes a transformation, challenging his own assumptions. Love prevails, albeit fleetingly, defying condemnation and following its own path—a message that resonates throughout the film.
Dado Ćosić and Đorđe Galić deliver performances that challenge dominant social paradigms about World War II partisans, presumed heterosexuality, and the awareness of sexual fluidity in mid-20th century Yugoslavia—a society still grappling with the notion of fundamental human rights.
Production Challenges Reflect Societal Resistance
The making of Beautiful Evening, Beautiful Day was fraught with difficulties. Homophobic scenes led some potential financiers to withdraw, and filming locations were canceled when word spread about the film’s LGBTQ+ themes. Producer Anita Juka faced last-minute rejections from regional film funds, and Croatia's HAVC approved just €69,500 for the Oscar campaign—nearly half of last year’s budget for similar efforts. What does this reveal about societal and institutional attitudes toward these themes? The answer is painfully clear.
Beautiful Evening, Beautiful Day will reach Croatian cinemas next spring, likely after the Oscars. Yet, one thing is certain: Ivona Juka has gifted Croatia a powerful international contender—a film that skillfully balances social and personal narratives, exploring marginalized identities within historical contexts while poignantly addressing the traumas that shape human intimacy.
