There are certain films that one should not watch on an empty stomach. This is a sentiment I can personally attest to, having first encountered Rajko Grlić’s 1984 Yugoslav romantic comedy In the Jaws of Life under precisely such conditions. As a high school student , I was part of a group brought to a local cinema for what was meant to be a cultural excursion. The class had run late, and by the time we arrived at the theatre, we missed our regular lunch. The venue, conveniently located just a short walk from our school, offered little in the way of refreshments. What followed was a viewing experience punctuated by hunger pangs and increasingly tantalising scenes of characters tucking into hearty meals.
Yet, even amidst this discomfort, something about the film began to take hold. At the time, I couldn’t have articulated why, but looking back now, I understand that In the Jaws of Life is more than just a romantic comedy—it is a sharply observed reflection of its era, a film that has aged remarkably well and continues to offer insight into the shifting cultural landscape of late socialist Yugoslavia. Over the years, it has revealed itself as not only well-crafted but also perceptive in its commentary, managing to balance satire with sincerity in a way that few films of its kind achieve.
Based on Dubravka Ugrešić’s 1981 novel Štefica Cvek u kandžama života, the film adaptation was co-written by Ugrešić herself and director Rajko Grlić. Ugrešić, a Croatian writer who would later become internationally renowned—and tragically infamous—for her denunciation in the infamous “Witches of Rio” article published during the Yugoslav wars, was, at the time of the novel’s release, celebrated within the Yugoslav literary scene. Her work was lauded for its feminist undertones and metafictional structure, which interwove the central romance plot with reflections on the author’s own creative process. It was this very structure that Grlić and Ugrešić chose to preserve when adapting the story for the screen, resulting in a dual narrative that gives the film much of its thematic richness.
The primary storyline follows Štefica Cvek (Vitomira Lončar), a 25-year-old office worker living in Zagreb with her aunt (Semka Sokolović-Bertok). Dissatisfied with her life and particularly with her lack of romantic prospects, Štefica attributes her misfortunes to her weight, stemming from a persistent sweet tooth. Her best friend Marijana (Mira Furlan) tries repeatedly to set her up with various men, each encounter ending in disaster. Eventually, Štefica decides to enrol in an English course, where she meets Frndić (Enes Kišević), a somewhat effete acquaintance who surprises her—and perhaps himself—with the ease of their connection.
Running parallel to Štefica’s story is the behind-the-scenes drama of the television series that dramatises her life. The show is directed by Dunja (Gorica Popović), a filmmaker whose personal life mirrors the chaos of the fictional narrative she is constructing. Living in a stylish penthouse apartment, Dunja navigates a failing affair with Sale (Miodrag Krivokapić), a Communist Party cultural bureaucrat whose on-air commentaries reflect the official ideological stance of the regime. Tired of his intellectual shallowness and alcoholism, she ends the relationship and turns instead to her old friend Pipo (Bogdan Diklić), a charismatic womaniser whose bravado hides a deeper insecurity. When Dunja finally makes a move, she discovers that Pipo is, beneath his macho exterior, a sexually impotent mama’s boy—a revelation that underscores the film’s recurring theme of unmet expectations and the dissonance between image and reality.
What makes In the Jaws of Life so compelling is how it subtly embeds the socio-political anxieties of the era within its comedic framework. Released in 1984, the film arrived during a period of economic stagnation in Yugoslavia, a crisis that would ultimately contribute to the country’s violent dissolution a decade later. This context is not ignored; rather, it is acknowledged through conversations among the production staff about whether the series should end on a happy or sad note, given the hardships faced by viewers. The gradual erosion of the Communist Party’s ideological grip is also evident, most notably in references to taboo subjects such as Goli Otok, the notorious prison camp used to detain Stalinists during the Tito-Stalin split. In the film, Sale criticises the title of the fictional novel—with the title as an obvious allusion to Goli Otok—but admits he hasn’t actually read it, a satirical jab at the performative censorship and ignorance prevalent among party officials.
Another bold thematic element addressed by the film is the growing ethnic tensions that would eventually tear Yugoslavia apart. Director Rajko Grlić, himself of mixed heritage, approached this issue with both sensitivity and humour. He wove ethnic stereotypes into the fabric of the comedy without succumbing to malice, drawing on established cultural quips to highlight absurdities rather than deepen divisions. Inspiration is taken from the famous quote by Miroslav Krleža, a towering figure in Croatian literature: “God protect us from Serb heroism and Croat culture.” This juxtaposition captures the ironic tone Grlić employs throughout the film.
A standout moment involving ethnic identity comes in a scene featuring Rade Šerbedžija, one of the most respected actors of the era and ethnically Serbian. Playing a character based on his real-life persona, Šerbedžija appears as a haughty Croatian intellectual attempting to seduce Štefica. His failure, due to his excessive drinking, becomes a humorous inversion of the stereotype often associated with him. Earlier in the film, a nurse (Cynthia Ashperger) asks Sale whether it's true that Šerbedžija drinks heavily and is ethnic Serb, framing the question in a way that implies both facts are scandalous. These moments exemplify the film’s ability to critique nationalist sentiments while maintaining a light-hearted tone.
Equally iconic is the performance of Velimir “Bata” Živojinović, a Serbian actor famed for his roles in Partisan war films as the epitome of rugged masculinity. Here, he plays Trokrilni, one of Štefica’s ill-fated suitors, who boasts endlessly about his sexual prowess and Serb pride. The contrast between his bombastic claims and the pitiful outcome of his encounter with Štefica is played for maximum comic effect. Yet, despite—or perhaps because of—this failure, the dialogue from this scene became some of the most quoted lines in Yugoslav cinematic history, immortalised in popular culture.
Grlić, a member of the so-called “Prague Film School” generation of Yugoslav filmmakers, eschews overt stylistic experimentation in favour of sharp writing and authentic settings. While others might have opted for flashy visuals or narrative fragmentation, Grlić grounds the film in the streets of Zagreb, giving it a sense of place that feels genuine and lived-in. Both narrative threads—the romantic comedy and the behind-the-scenes soap opera—are tightly held together, mirroring each other in subtle ways, including shared motifs like attempted suicide. Yet, these darker elements never overwhelm the film’s overall buoyancy, and the decision to conclude with a happy ending feels less like a capitulation than a defiant act of optimism in uncertain times.
Indeed, the final choice made by Dunja to give the TV series a happy ending serves a dual purpose: it satisfies the fictional audience within the film and speaks directly to the real-world viewers of the 1980s, many of whom were beginning to feel the tremors of political and economic instability. For them, In the Jaws of Life was not merely entertainment—it was a mirror reflecting their own lives, struggles, and aspirations. Its popularity during this period was no accident, and its enduring cult status is a testament to its emotional resonance and clever construction.
That said, the film’s relative obscurity outside of former Yugoslav territories is understandable. Much of its impact is rooted in specific historical, linguistic, and cultural contexts that may be inaccessible to international audiences unfamiliar with the region’s past. References to German-dubbed aerobic videos, for instance, evoke a particular moment in Eastern European pop culture that might seem obscure to outsiders. Similarly, jokes relying on ethnic wordplay or historical allusions may lose their potency without prior knowledge of the Balkans’ complex social dynamics.
Yet, for those willing to engage with it, In the Jaws of Life offers a richly layered experience—one that combines romantic farce with biting social critique, all while maintaining a surprisingly modern sensibility. It is a film that defies easy categorisation, blending metafictional storytelling with heartfelt character development, and offering a rare glimpse into a world that no longer exists. Its survival as a cult classic is not just a matter of nostalgia, but a recognition of its enduring relevance and artistic merit.
RATING: 8/10 (+++)
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