The 1990s were a decade of profound turmoil for Serbia, marked by the bloody disintegration of Yugoslavia, international pariah status, and economic collapse. Yet, paradoxically, Serbian cinema during this period proved to be strangely vibrant and resilient, producing raw, urgent works that grappled directly with the nation’s dark soul. The subsequent decades, ostensibly a time of normalisation and recovery, have yielded a more perplexing cinematic landscape, often characterised by creative timidity and a failure to capitalise on that earlier energy. An illuminating, if frustrating, example of this paradox can be found in Labyrinth (Serbian: Lavirint), the 2002 supernatural thriller directed by Miroslav Lekić. Notably, this film served as the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia’s final submission for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, a distinction that underscores its contemporary ambition, yet the final product feels like promise unfulfilled.
The film centres on Petar Aksentijević, nicknamed “Pop” (the Preacher), portrayed with characteristic worn-in charisma by Dragan Nikolić. A professional gambler returning to Belgrade after two decades abroad, Pop is adrift, recently ruined financially and spiritually, having contemplated suicide. His reunions with his brother, an archaeology professor Milan (Branislav Lečić), and old friend Laki (Josif Tatić), represent a fragile chance at a new beginning. A sceptic by nature—ironically, the son of an Orthodox priest—Pop is amused when Laki, who dabbles in astrology, takes him to a medium (Sonja Vukićević). On a whim, he inquires about Zoran Radosavljević (Ivan Zarić), a friend who committed suicide shortly after Pop’s departure two decades ago. The medium’s chilling revelation that Zoran was, in fact, murdered, and her cryptic hints about the perpetrator, set the convoluted plot in motion.
Pop’s investigation, using these esoteric clues, leads him to the enigmatic Suzana Leutes (Maja Sabljić). She is a descendant of German engineers hired by the Austrians during the 18th-century wars against the Turks to construct secret tunnels beneath Belgrade’s Kalemegdan Fortress. Pop becomes fascinated by Suzana and her peculiar, guarded relationship with the mysterious Tomas (Svetozar Cvetković). Complicating matters further, he finds himself the object of desire for Suzana’s beautiful, rebellious daughter Tamara (Katarina Radivojević). The narrative thickens as Pop begins to receive anonymous letters leading to mystery involving 4th-century Arian heresies, secret societies, and the legend of a vast, labyrinthine structure deep beneath Kalemegdan, purported to be a site for occult rituals.
On paper, Labyrinth represents a refreshing departure. By the early 2000s, Serbian cinema was largely dominated by grim reflections on the 20th century’s tragedies or the bleak socio-economic realities of transition. The script, co-written by Lekić and Igor Bojović, daringly shifts gear, drawing inspiration from a lesser-known period of Belgrade’s history under brief Austrian rule and the very real, tantalising mystery of the extensive underground networks beneath Kalemegdan, which remain a subject of archaeological inquires. It aspires to be a sophisticated fusion of melodrama and thriller, peppered with supernatural elements, consciously evoking the atmospheric puzzle-box style of Polanski’s The Ninth Gate. Notably, aside from a few glancing references to generational conflict and a single, fleeting shot of a Belgrade skyscraper scarred by the 1999 NATO bombings, the film pointedly avoids the recent past, aiming instead for a timeless, mythic quality.
This ambition was backed by a budget uncharacteristically large for Serbian cinema at the time, a fact most visible in the film’s climactic sequence. Here, Pop must navigate the titular, flooding maze—a set-piece that clearly demanded significant technical resources. The cast, too, is a major asset. Dragan Nikolić, a national icon beloved for his role as Prle in Otpisani, carries the film effortlessly as the world-weary, morally ambiguous protagonist. Katarina Radivojević, then a rising star, brings a compelling vitality and nuance to Tamara. Unfortunately, Maja Sabljić, as the pivotal Suzana, strikes a jarring note, delivering a performance that leans into grand, theatrical gestures that feel out of step with the film’s intended naturalism, tipping into overacting.
However, the film’s core failures lie elsewhere, chiefly in its execution. Miroslav Lekić’s direction is often clumsy and confusing. The narrative is bombarded with poorly integrated and repetitively edited flashbacks, which serve not to illuminate but to obfuscate. Scenes and background information are replayed without new insight, creating a frustrating, circular rhythm that bloats the runtime and tests the audience’s patience. The editing lacks precision, leaving the plot feeling simultaneously over-explained in its redundancies and undercooked in its logic.
Ultimately, the most damning flaw is the anti-climactic and baffling ending. Despite the spectacle of the flooded-labyrinth escape, the resolution feels hollow and rushed. The much-vaunted labyrinth itself, realised through early-2000s CGI, feels less like a terrifying, ancient marvel and more like a technical demo, proving merely that Serbian films could now deploy digital effects. The various threads concerning heresies, secret societies, and murders are tied up with a startling lack of consequence or catharsis. The overriding impression is of a production that simply ran out of money, ideas, or both, leaving the film feeling fundamentally unfinished.
RATING: 3/10 (+)
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