Safe Place (2022)

Everything being discussed here feels like a completely misguided way to look at this.
Even if everything people are saying is true—if the director hadn't used the doctor’s actual name and all those other specific details—this movie would still be terrible. That doesn't change the reality of the work.

I honestly can't tell if there's some kind of inner circle here where everyone talks in circles, or if they are genuinely analyzing minor details and calling that a discussion about the film.
The point is, you simply CANNOT make a movie like this and expect it to be anything more than mediocre, let alone great.
It's like if some guy I don't know starts telling me about some tragic thing that happened to him while we're just waiting for a train together. I might listen out of basic politeness, but for it to actually touch me or shake me? That requires something more: either the person needs to find a way to connect with me through some sort of existential moment, or the story itself has to be exceptionally compelling.

That is the level this film operates on: the story of someone the audience doesn't know, a stranger who shares no meaningful connection with the viewer.
As a report on a tragic event, the story possesses nothing more than that general courtesy an audience might extend to it. That’s how I see it.

As a piece of cinema, however, this story offers nothing else. And that is the fundamental issue. It’s not about names or any of that. If one truly wants to recount their own case, it must possess an exceptional quality that draws others into that experience, or whatever the actor deems significant.

Though, if you ask me, such intimate matters shouldn't really be shared with others, especially strangers. Doing so feels like a profanation, and frankly, a sign of poor taste.

In my view,
a film of this type can only be approached intellectually. The focus shouldn't be on the process of what occurred, but rather on an existential meditation on death—think Heidegger or Kierkegaard. I don't see any other way to make it communicable to anyone else. Of course, to pull off a cerebral film like that, you need a master. It's difficult work.

Otherwise, you simply don't take on such a theme and you just make a movie the way God intended: a Western or something along those lines.

But to make a film about what happened and remain stuck at the level of the process—almost like a mere report—that might matter to relatives or friends, but not to anyone else. That's just how it is, unfortunately. In this world, it isn't enough for me to know that people are dying (because that is a certainty we live with without much shock); I either have to be in a relationship with the people involved, or their fates have to be elevated to the status of a philosophical reflection on the phenomenon. I can watch Bergman, and he manages to elevate those reflections to some degree. But I can't watch S. Place, because it’s just too tedious. I saw that with the few people who watched it with me. In fact, this was the first American film where I actually considered walking out of the theater, because after fifteen minutes, it was already obvious where it was heading, and it was truly, deeply tedious.

Man, what a killer opening. Honestly, one of the best starts I can remember. That scene was top-tier. Absolute perfection. But then everything just goes straight to hell the second the lead actor gets a close-up and starts "acting." Or rather, he tries to act, and he’s just terrible at it. Such a waste. It would've been way better if they'd cast a real actor instead of some stuntman who's only good for walking, running, and kicking down doors. ☕

It was a decent enough movie. I wasn't exactly blown away, but it's definitely worth a watch.

Maybe I’m just being biased, though—a guy I work with actually knows the director and his late brother.

I don't really get the hate directed at Lerotić's acting. Being from California, I could easily picture someone like that "worried brother" type; the way he talks and carries himself is spot on.

So, I managed to catch one of those last screenings down in Washington, D.C., and honestly, I’ve been sitting here just letting my thoughts drift around the implications of it all...

Breaking the fourth wall is such a fascinating, albeit dangerous, gamble, especially when you're dealing with a film that’s this brutally realistic. Honestly, after that hospital sequence, I found myself struggling to trust the movie for a while. Specifically, when the brother showed up at the apartment, I spent the next five minutes sitting there thinking, "Wait, is this just another fabricated moment?" I couldn't shake the feeling that the writer was just pulling a fast one on us—trying to manufacture some sort of redemption arc for the brother within the script just to smooth things over. I don't know if I'm the only one who felt that skepticism creeping in. Look, if you break the fourth wall at the very end of a movie, sure, maybe it works. But doing it early on, while the audience is still trying to wrap their heads around the established rules of the world, feels suspicious to me—even if the scene itself ended up being one of the best moments in the entire film.

I stumbled upon this review that flat-out denies the movie is actually a critique of our institutions. It reminded me of something Jergović wrote once—something along those same lines: Look, calling "S. Place" some kind of critique of the healthcare system—or any other institutional structure for that matter—is just wrong. To suggest that would be an insult to what this movie actually is, or if you really think that, it’s a clear sign you completely missed the point. It’s like looking at "Anna Karenina" and claiming it was written as a scathing indictment of the safety protocols on the Russian imperial railway system. You're missing the forest for the trees. If you actually take a second to look at what’s happening on screen, who is even responsible for the mess? It feels like the movie spends an eternity dwelling on these snapshots of pure laziness, arrogance, and the sheer inhumanity of our institutions, yet it never really offers even a shred of a systemic critique. Instead, it just shows us individuals trying to navigate that broken machine while attempting to be decent human beings. It sounds trivial when you say it out loud, I know, but in a film this relentlessly bleak, that one small, warm gesture from the local cop in Split toward that family... man, it hits you differently. I honestly don't even know where to start with this one, but let's just dive straight into the mess that is Marendu. It’s funny how certain things just stick in your mind, isn't it? I was sitting there the other day, thinking about how much everything changes, yet some things stay stubbornly, frustratingly the same. It reminds me of those long, winding drives through the outskirts of Chicago where you feel like you're stuck in a loop, just circling the same old ideas without ever actually getting anywhere. Anyway, back to the point—Marendu. There's something about the way people talk about it, or rather, the way they *don't* talk about it, that feels off. It's like we're all collectively pretending that the nuances aren't there, which is just lazy, if you ask me. I remember telling an old friend of mine—actually, he's more of an acquaintance now, lives out in Seattle—that if you can't look at something directly, you aren't really seeing it. You're just looking at a shadow. And that's exactly what this feels like. We're squinting at a shadow and calling it reality. It's blunt, it's messy, and frankly, it's exhausting to keep up with the pretense. If we're going to have a conversation about this, let's at least be honest about how ridiculous the whole situation is. No sense in dancing around it. While they’re busy drowning in all that mindless paperwork.
Look, if we’re being honest about where everything fell apart, there are really only two massive, systemic failures that stand out to me. First, they completely botched my brother's diagnosis, and second, the hospital staff was so incredibly negligent that they actually let him wander right out the door. Everything else people want to nitpick—the slow, rude clerks at the front desk, some open window in his room—that's just noise. Those are trivialities, little coincidences that don't change the big picture. And honestly, regarding that misdiagnosis? We might not even be able to prove it was wrong yet. They were barely even halfway through the evaluation process; it was his literal first day on the ward, and he had hardly spoken a word to anyone.

By the way, I was just sitting there recently, catching up on some Nolin. Every single time we drift apart, I find myself spiraling back into these same old patterns, staring at the ceiling and wondering how we always end up right back here. It’s like this recurring loop that I can't seem to break, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that things have actually changed. You know, it reminds me of that one summer I spent stuck in Chicago, just waiting for something—anything—to shift, feeling that same heavy sense of inevitability hanging over my head. We go through these cycles where everything feels fine for a while, and then suddenly, the distance starts creeping in again, quiet and persistent, until we're basically strangers sharing the same space. It’s exhausting, honestly. I sit here thinking about all the arguments we've had and all the silences that followed, and it just feels like we're walking in circles, chasing a version of us that doesn't even exist anymore. Every time we part ways, there's this lingering question of whether we're actually moving forward or if we're just stalling for time before the next inevitable crash. Even back in 1994, we were already seeing this casual, almost incidental critique of how our institutions fail the people they’re supposed to protect. Here’s the gist of it: you have this single father who fought early on in the war, but because he wasn't properly logged in the official records, the system basically forgets his sacrifice. So, when he shows up in Washington, D.C., with his young daughter, the bureaucracy treats him like he’s still just a draft eligible recruit. They try to drag him back to the front lines while his little girl is left to fend for herself in the city. What's frustrating is that the movie doesn't even bother to address the fallout of that later on. I keep looking for these patterns because this theme—this systemic negligence—has been baked into the DNA of independent American cinema since the very beginning, yet the depth of the analysis hasn't actually moved an inch forward. It feels stuck. Unless, of course, I’ve somehow missed a film that actually manages to tackle the weight of this problem with any real substance.

It feels like the blame is shifting, isn't it? We used to point fingers at the institutions, but lately, it seems like the weight of responsibility is falling squarely on the family unit instead. It’s a heavy thing to wrap your head around. In this case, they knew exactly what they were dealing with—they knew his skepticism was completely irrational, bordering on the delusional—but instead of standing their ground, they just folded. They swallowed his paranoia about psychiatrists and medical diagnoses whole, letting his fears dictate their actions. And then, because they chose to believe him over the professionals, they deliberately bypassed legal protocols just to haul him off somewhere else. It was a conscious choice to break the law, and in doing so, they basically handed him back the opportunity to attempt suicide all over again. It’s a tragic cycle when the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones who enable the very thing that's destroying you.
You know, that specific brand of blatant indifference you see from the receptionists in these movies? It’s not just a cinematic trope; it actually bleeds into the way the author and his mother behave. I remember reading about them waiting for a psychiatrist out in Washington, D.C., sitting there chatting with this woman who had been waiting an entire week just to be seen. Then, when the doctor finally shows up, Lerotić and his mother just cut right to the front of the line, completely bypassing the woman who had been stuck in that waiting room for seven days straight. At first glance, you might find the audacity a little funny, but if you sit with it for a second... it gets a bit darker.
I can't say I'm actually blaming them, honestly. When you're suffocating under that kind of pure panic and desperation—and you haven't even had a second to catch your breath or step back to look at the big picture—it’s hard to wonder why people act the way they do. It doesn't surprise me one bit. At the end of the day, it’s just this intense, probably short-sighted, desperate need to protect a brother or a son. And if there's any silver lining to be found here, that's probably it: the core issue isn't some failure of our institutions, but rather just raw, unfiltered care and love. (Though, God help me, I might actually be agreeing with Jergović on that point.)

In the end, maybe there wasn't anything that could have been done at all. There’s this crushing sense of helplessness woven through the whole film. It feels like it was built around that old-school, ritualistic obsession with the number three—you know, the kind of stuff you see in everything from *The Three Little Pigs* to the structure of the *Divine Comedy*, or even that old saying about how God helps on the third attempt. The movie functions like this rigid, predetermined framework where we just watch the protagonist cycle through three suicide attempts until the third one finally sticks. It’s like fate has already made up its mind, and the characters are just helplessly running in circles until they hit that inevitable finish line.
I guess I’m kind of on the same page as Justin Richardson7. I totally get why the plot itself hit people so hard, but when you lean that heavily into the biographical stuff—that constant sense of emotional emptiness and feeling completely helpless at every single turn—S. Place just isn't enough of a movie for me to treat it like a standalone piece of cinema. If we actually sat down to pick it apart, looking at the technical execution, the emotional beats, or the core ideas minute by minute without constantly leaning on the real-life backstory, the whole thing would just collapse into this incredibly bloated mess of "misery porn." I respect the gesture behind making it, I really do, but beyond that... I don't know. To me, mental illness and suicide are just ugly, senseless, and exhausting things that don't offer much in the way of meaningful commentary. Maybe if the film reflects that exact hollowness, then it’s a success?

Steven White7 said:So, I managed to catch one of those last screenings down in Washington, D.C., and honestly, I’ve been sitting here just letting my thoughts drift around the implications of it all...

Breaking the fourth wall is such a fascinating, albeit dangerous, gamble, especially when you're dealing with a film that’s this brutally realistic. Honestly, after that hospital sequence, I found myself struggling to trust the movie for a while. Specifically, when the brother showed up at the apartment, I spent the next five minutes sitting there thinking, "Wait, is this just another fabricated moment?" I couldn't shake the feeling that the writer was just pulling a fast one on us—trying to manufacture some sort of redemption arc for the brother within the script just to smooth things over. I don't know if I'm the only one who felt that skepticism creeping in. Look, if you break the fourth wall at the very end of a movie, sure, maybe it works. But doing it early on, while the audience is still trying to wrap their heads around the established rules of the world, feels suspicious to me—even if the scene itself ended up being one of the best moments in the entire film.

I stumbled upon this review that flat-out denies the movie is actually a critique of our institutions. It reminded me of something Jergović wrote once—something along those same lines: Look, calling "S. Place" some kind of critique of the healthcare system—or any other institutional structure for that matter—is just wrong. To suggest that would be an insult to what this movie actually is, or if you really think that, it’s a clear sign you completely missed the point. It’s like looking at "Anna Karenina" and claiming it was written as a scathing indictment of the safety protocols on the Russian imperial railway system. You're missing the forest for the trees. If you actually take a second to look at what’s happening on screen, who is even responsible for the mess? It feels like the movie spends an eternity dwelling on these snapshots of pure laziness, arrogance, and the sheer inhumanity of our institutions, yet it never really offers even a shred of a systemic critique. Instead, it just shows us individuals trying to navigate that broken machine while attempting to be decent human beings. It sounds trivial when you say it out loud, I know, but in a film this relentlessly bleak, that one small, warm gesture from the local cop in Split toward that family... man, it hits you differently. I honestly don't even know where to start with this one, but let's just dive straight into the mess that is Marendu. It’s funny how certain things just stick in your mind, isn't it? I was sitting there the other day, thinking about how much everything changes, yet some things stay stubbornly, frustratingly the same. It reminds me of those long, winding drives through the outskirts of Chicago where you feel like you're stuck in a loop, just circling the same old ideas without ever actually getting anywhere. Anyway, back to the point—Marendu. There's something about the way people talk about it, or rather, the way they *don't* talk about it, that feels off. It's like we're all collectively pretending that the nuances aren't there, which is just lazy, if you ask me. I remember telling an old friend of mine—actually, he's more of an acquaintance now, lives out in Seattle—that if you can't look at something directly, you aren't really seeing it. You're just looking at a shadow. And that's exactly what this feels like. We're squinting at a shadow and calling it reality. It's blunt, it's messy, and frankly, it's exhausting to keep up with the pretense. If we're going to have a conversation about this, let's at least be honest about how ridiculous the whole situation is. No sense in dancing around it. While they’re busy drowning in all that mindless paperwork.
Look, if we’re being honest about where everything fell apart, there are really only two massive, systemic failures that stand out to me. First, they completely botched my brother's diagnosis, and second, the hospital staff was so incredibly negligent that they actually let him wander right out the door. Everything else people want to nitpick—the slow, rude clerks at the front desk, some open window in his room—that's just noise. Those are trivialities, little coincidences that don't change the big picture. And honestly, regarding that misdiagnosis? We might not even be able to prove it was wrong yet. They were barely even halfway through the evaluation process; it was his literal first day on the ward, and he had hardly spoken a word to anyone.

By the way, I was just sitting there recently, catching up on some Nolin. Every single time we drift apart, I find myself spiraling back into these same old patterns, staring at the ceiling and wondering how we always end up right back here. It’s like this recurring loop that I can't seem to break, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that things have actually changed. You know, it reminds me of that one summer I spent stuck in Chicago, just waiting for something—anything—to shift, feeling that same heavy sense of inevitability hanging over my head. We go through these cycles where everything feels fine for a while, and then suddenly, the distance starts creeping in again, quiet and persistent, until we're basically strangers sharing the same space. It’s exhausting, honestly. I sit here thinking about all the arguments we've had and all the silences that followed, and it just feels like we're walking in circles, chasing a version of us that doesn't even exist anymore. Every time we part ways, there's this lingering question of whether we're actually moving forward or if we're just stalling for time before the next inevitable crash. Even back in 1994, we were already seeing this casual, almost incidental critique of how our institutions fail the people they’re supposed to protect. Here’s the gist of it: you have this single father who fought early on in the war, but because he wasn't properly logged in the official records, the system basically forgets his sacrifice. So, when he shows up in Washington, D.C., with his young daughter, the bureaucracy treats him like he’s still just a draft eligible recruit. They try to drag him back to the front lines while his little girl is left to fend for herself in the city. What's frustrating is that the movie doesn't even bother to address the fallout of that later on. I keep looking for these patterns because this theme—this systemic negligence—has been baked into the DNA of independent American cinema since the very beginning, yet the depth of the analysis hasn't actually moved an inch forward. It feels stuck. Unless, of course, I’ve somehow missed a film that actually manages to tackle the weight of this problem with any real substance.

It feels like the blame is shifting, isn't it? We used to point fingers at the institutions, but lately, it seems like the weight of responsibility is falling squarely on the family unit instead. It’s a heavy thing to wrap your head around. In this case, they knew exactly what they were dealing with—they knew his skepticism was completely irrational, bordering on the delusional—but instead of standing their ground, they just folded. They swallowed his paranoia about psychiatrists and medical diagnoses whole, letting his fears dictate their actions. And then, because they chose to believe him over the professionals, they deliberately bypassed legal protocols just to haul him off somewhere else. It was a conscious choice to break the law, and in doing so, they basically handed him back the opportunity to attempt suicide all over again. It’s a tragic cycle when the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones who enable the very thing that's destroying you.
You know, that specific brand of blatant indifference you see from the receptionists in these movies? It’s not just a cinematic trope; it actually bleeds into the way the author and his mother behave. I remember reading about them waiting for a psychiatrist out in Washington, D.C., sitting there chatting with this woman who had been waiting an entire week just to be seen. Then, when the doctor finally shows up, Lerotić and his mother just cut right to the front of the line, completely bypassing the woman who had been stuck in that waiting room for seven days straight. At first glance, you might find the audacity a little funny, but if you sit with it for a second... it gets a bit darker.
I can't say I'm actually blaming them, honestly. When you're suffocating under that kind of pure panic and desperation—and you haven't even had a second to catch your breath or step back to look at the big picture—it’s hard to wonder why people act the way they do. It doesn't surprise me one bit. At the end of the day, it’s just this intense, probably short-sighted, desperate need to protect a brother or a son. And if there's any silver lining to be found here, that's probably it: the core issue isn't some failure of our institutions, but rather just raw, unfiltered care and love. (Though, God help me, I might actually be agreeing with Jergović on that point.)

In the end, maybe there wasn't anything that could have been done at all. There’s this crushing sense of helplessness woven through the whole film. It feels like it was built around that old-school, ritualistic obsession with the number three—you know, the kind of stuff you see in everything from *The Three Little Pigs* to the structure of the *Divine Comedy*, or even that old saying about how God helps on the third attempt. The movie functions like this rigid, predetermined framework where we just watch the protagonist cycle through three suicide attempts until the third one finally sticks. It’s like fate has already made up its mind, and the characters are just helplessly running in circles until they hit that inevitable finish line.
I guess I’m kind of on the same page as Justin Richardson7. I totally get why the plot itself hit people so hard, but when you lean that heavily into the biographical stuff—that constant sense of emotional emptiness and feeling completely helpless at every single turn—S. Place just isn't enough of a movie for me to treat it like a standalone piece of cinema. If we actually sat down to pick it apart, looking at the technical execution, the emotional beats, or the core ideas minute by minute without constantly leaning on the real-life backstory, the whole thing would just collapse into this incredibly bloated mess of "misery porn." I respect the gesture behind making it, I really do, but beyond that... I don't know. To me, mental illness and suicide are just ugly, senseless, and exhausting things that don't offer much in the way of meaningful commentary. Maybe if the film reflects that exact hollowness, then it’s a success?

The placement of the scene doesn't bother me—it’s fine—but what I can't get past is how they tell us (and we assume it's true, since why else mention it?) that the family sued the hospital for malpractice, yet the director keeps the doctors' actual names in the script. Without that detail, I could let it slide to avoid dragging institutions through the mud, but with it? Not happening. 🤷

If nothing could be done about it long-term, then that's indisputable.

northerncrane4 said:The placement of the scene doesn't bother me—it’s fine—but what I can't get past is how they tell us (and we assume it's true, since why else mention it?) that the family sued the hospital for malpractice, yet the director keeps the doctors' actual names in the script. Without that detail, I could let it slide to avoid dragging institutions through the mud, but with it? Not happening. 🤷

If nothing could be done about it long-term, then that's indisputable.

I don't actually recall them filing a lawsuit; I just remember him using the real names.
On some level, I wouldn't even argue that the intention was there, because Lerotić himself said: My mother views this film as a form of civic engagement, a way to channel several important issues that usually go unaddressed. I didn't make this film solely out of that impulse, and I tried to avoid the pitfalls of that kind of approach. However, I didn't want to remain completely apolitical either. The film, among other things, reflects the flaws in the system.
But look, there is a massive gap between what an author claims they are doing and whether the film actually achieves it, or if it even articulates a real problem in any meaningful way. This supposed "reflection" of institutional failures is so narrow-minded and obvious that it’s easy to see why some people would want to skip over the whole topic entirely; they just don't see any substance in looking at a film through that lens.
Look, I don't want to feel like I paid for a ticket and spent ninety minutes watching someone vent their grievances just because some hospital failed to do its job properly.

northerncrane4 said:The placement of the scene doesn't bother me—it’s fine—but what I can't get past is how they tell us (and we assume it's true, since why else mention it?) that the family sued the hospital for malpractice, yet the director keeps the doctors' actual names in the script. Without that detail, I could let it slide to avoid dragging institutions through the mud, but with it? Not happening. 🤷

If nothing could be done about it long-term, then that's indisputable.

Speaking of which, back when this was still fresh in my mind—right after I finished the movie—I did exactly what I did with those street names (remember my rant above about how pointless it is to obsess over street names in NYC?)... I started Googling the doctor. And nope, there wasn't any psychiatrist in Washington, D.C. with that name. (If anyone has the movie on some streaming service, feel free to look up the doctor's name, then we can all go down the rabbit hole again).

And honestly? It just felt kind of... meh to me.

Steven White7 said:So, I managed to catch one of those last screenings down in Washington, D.C., and honestly, I’ve been sitting here just letting my thoughts drift around the implications of it all...

Breaking the fourth wall is such a fascinating, albeit dangerous, gamble, especially when you're dealing with a film that’s this brutally realistic. Honestly, after that hospital sequence, I found myself struggling to trust the movie for a while. Specifically, when the brother showed up at the apartment, I spent the next five minutes sitting there thinking, "Wait, is this just another fabricated moment?" I couldn't shake the feeling that the writer was just pulling a fast one on us—trying to manufacture some sort of redemption arc for the brother within the script just to smooth things over. I don't know if I'm the only one who felt that skepticism creeping in. Look, if you break the fourth wall at the very end of a movie, sure, maybe it works. But doing it early on, while the audience is still trying to wrap their heads around the established rules of the world, feels suspicious to me—even if the scene itself ended up being one of the best moments in the entire film.

I stumbled upon this review that flat-out denies the movie is actually a critique of our institutions. It reminded me of something Jergović wrote once—something along those same lines: Look, calling "S. Place" some kind of critique of the healthcare system—or any other institutional structure for that matter—is just wrong. To suggest that would be an insult to what this movie actually is, or if you really think that, it’s a clear sign you completely missed the point. It’s like looking at "Anna Karenina" and claiming it was written as a scathing indictment of the safety protocols on the Russian imperial railway system. You're missing the forest for the trees. If you actually take a second to look at what’s happening on screen, who is even responsible for the mess? It feels like the movie spends an eternity dwelling on these snapshots of pure laziness, arrogance, and the sheer inhumanity of our institutions, yet it never really offers even a shred of a systemic critique. Instead, it just shows us individuals trying to navigate that broken machine while attempting to be decent human beings. It sounds trivial when you say it out loud, I know, but in a film this relentlessly bleak, that one small, warm gesture from the local cop in Split toward that family... man, it hits you differently. I honestly don't even know where to start with this one, but let's just dive straight into the mess that is Marendu. It’s funny how certain things just stick in your mind, isn't it? I was sitting there the other day, thinking about how much everything changes, yet some things stay stubbornly, frustratingly the same. It reminds me of those long, winding drives through the outskirts of Chicago where you feel like you're stuck in a loop, just circling the same old ideas without ever actually getting anywhere. Anyway, back to the point—Marendu. There's something about the way people talk about it, or rather, the way they *don't* talk about it, that feels off. It's like we're all collectively pretending that the nuances aren't there, which is just lazy, if you ask me. I remember telling an old friend of mine—actually, he's more of an acquaintance now, lives out in Seattle—that if you can't look at something directly, you aren't really seeing it. You're just looking at a shadow. And that's exactly what this feels like. We're squinting at a shadow and calling it reality. It's blunt, it's messy, and frankly, it's exhausting to keep up with the pretense. If we're going to have a conversation about this, let's at least be honest about how ridiculous the whole situation is. No sense in dancing around it. While they’re busy drowning in all that mindless paperwork.
Look, if we’re being honest about where everything fell apart, there are really only two massive, systemic failures that stand out to me. First, they completely botched my brother's diagnosis, and second, the hospital staff was so incredibly negligent that they actually let him wander right out the door. Everything else people want to nitpick—the slow, rude clerks at the front desk, some open window in his room—that's just noise. Those are trivialities, little coincidences that don't change the big picture. And honestly, regarding that misdiagnosis? We might not even be able to prove it was wrong yet. They were barely even halfway through the evaluation process; it was his literal first day on the ward, and he had hardly spoken a word to anyone.

By the way, I was just sitting there recently, catching up on some Nolin. Every single time we drift apart, I find myself spiraling back into these same old patterns, staring at the ceiling and wondering how we always end up right back here. It’s like this recurring loop that I can't seem to break, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that things have actually changed. You know, it reminds me of that one summer I spent stuck in Chicago, just waiting for something—anything—to shift, feeling that same heavy sense of inevitability hanging over my head. We go through these cycles where everything feels fine for a while, and then suddenly, the distance starts creeping in again, quiet and persistent, until we're basically strangers sharing the same space. It’s exhausting, honestly. I sit here thinking about all the arguments we've had and all the silences that followed, and it just feels like we're walking in circles, chasing a version of us that doesn't even exist anymore. Every time we part ways, there's this lingering question of whether we're actually moving forward or if we're just stalling for time before the next inevitable crash. Even back in 1994, we were already seeing this casual, almost incidental critique of how our institutions fail the people they’re supposed to protect. Here’s the gist of it: you have this single father who fought early on in the war, but because he wasn't properly logged in the official records, the system basically forgets his sacrifice. So, when he shows up in Washington, D.C., with his young daughter, the bureaucracy treats him like he’s still just a draft eligible recruit. They try to drag him back to the front lines while his little girl is left to fend for herself in the city. What's frustrating is that the movie doesn't even bother to address the fallout of that later on. I keep looking for these patterns because this theme—this systemic negligence—has been baked into the DNA of independent American cinema since the very beginning, yet the depth of the analysis hasn't actually moved an inch forward. It feels stuck. Unless, of course, I’ve somehow missed a film that actually manages to tackle the weight of this problem with any real substance.

It feels like the blame is shifting, isn't it? We used to point fingers at the institutions, but lately, it seems like the weight of responsibility is falling squarely on the family unit instead. It’s a heavy thing to wrap your head around. In this case, they knew exactly what they were dealing with—they knew his skepticism was completely irrational, bordering on the delusional—but instead of standing their ground, they just folded. They swallowed his paranoia about psychiatrists and medical diagnoses whole, letting his fears dictate their actions. And then, because they chose to believe him over the professionals, they deliberately bypassed legal protocols just to haul him off somewhere else. It was a conscious choice to break the law, and in doing so, they basically handed him back the opportunity to attempt suicide all over again. It’s a tragic cycle when the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones who enable the very thing that's destroying you.
You know, that specific brand of blatant indifference you see from the receptionists in these movies? It’s not just a cinematic trope; it actually bleeds into the way the author and his mother behave. I remember reading about them waiting for a psychiatrist out in Washington, D.C., sitting there chatting with this woman who had been waiting an entire week just to be seen. Then, when the doctor finally shows up, Lerotić and his mother just cut right to the front of the line, completely bypassing the woman who had been stuck in that waiting room for seven days straight. At first glance, you might find the audacity a little funny, but if you sit with it for a second... it gets a bit darker.
I can't say I'm actually blaming them, honestly. When you're suffocating under that kind of pure panic and desperation—and you haven't even had a second to catch your breath or step back to look at the big picture—it’s hard to wonder why people act the way they do. It doesn't surprise me one bit. At the end of the day, it’s just this intense, probably short-sighted, desperate need to protect a brother or a son. And if there's any silver lining to be found here, that's probably it: the core issue isn't some failure of our institutions, but rather just raw, unfiltered care and love. (Though, God help me, I might actually be agreeing with Jergović on that point.)

In the end, maybe there wasn't anything that could have been done at all. There’s this crushing sense of helplessness woven through the whole film. It feels like it was built around that old-school, ritualistic obsession with the number three—you know, the kind of stuff you see in everything from *The Three Little Pigs* to the structure of the *Divine Comedy*, or even that old saying about how God helps on the third attempt. The movie functions like this rigid, predetermined framework where we just watch the protagonist cycle through three suicide attempts until the third one finally sticks. It’s like fate has already made up its mind, and the characters are just helplessly running in circles until they hit that inevitable finish line.
I guess I’m kind of on the same page as Justin Richardson7. I totally get why the plot itself hit people so hard, but when you lean that heavily into the biographical stuff—that constant sense of emotional emptiness and feeling completely helpless at every single turn—S. Place just isn't enough of a movie for me to treat it like a standalone piece of cinema. If we actually sat down to pick it apart, looking at the technical execution, the emotional beats, or the core ideas minute by minute without constantly leaning on the real-life backstory, the whole thing would just collapse into this incredibly bloated mess of "misery porn." I respect the gesture behind making it, I really do, but beyond that... I don't know. To me, mental illness and suicide are just ugly, senseless, and exhausting things that don't offer much in the way of meaningful commentary. Maybe if the film reflects that exact hollowness, then it’s a success?

That’s a pretty dubious take—without those themes, we wouldn't have "Glow," "Under the Influence," or even "The Deer Hunter" if you want to get serious.

It's better to write in the singular here; don't go shifting the blame onto the subject matter just because the movie failed to meet your expectations.

northerncrane4 said:BTW, I found myself counting up to 20 just to stay engaged—which, by my standards, is painfully slow. A dog ran into the frame right at 20. If I’d kept counting, the protagonist probably wouldn't have appeared until 33. My internal metronome clearly isn't synced with the director's.😁

Same here. 😁 Maybe I should have counted using Mississippi time: one Mississippi, two Mississippi...

northerncrane4 said:Well—"rightly so." To him, in the heat of the moment, the police badgering him about who was bleeding might seem stupid or misplaced. But eventually, our author should realize that those questions aren't "stupid"—they’re standard procedure for officers dealing with situations they see far more often than he does. For Lerotić, this tragedy is a once-in-a-lifetime nightmare; for those cops and paramedics, it’s just damn routine. And even within that routine, I still don't see why he feels the need to quietly—yet legally—accuse them of being incompetent.

One might think these gripes have nothing to do with the film's quality, but for me, it matters—especially in a movie that asks you to buy into the director's specific perspective. I don't care much about his stylistic choices, provided his core message is clear and his conclusions actually hold water. 🤷

To me, looking for someone to blame within institutions feels like hindsight bias, which seems natural... But I wouldn't assume things aren't becoming clear to him—both as the author and as the brother. Perhaps it only dawned on him later that their questioning—like when they asked about the blood during that second hospital meeting, after he naively asked for a badge number, or after they brushed off his question about whether the psychiatrist cleared the exam by saying "you're too young for this"—was actually a form of intimidation. We know how cops can be; they tend to intimidate when you call them out on being unprofessional. If they were true professionals who knew their business and followed routine procedure, they shouldn't be so sensitive. It seems obvious to me that Lerotić wanted to convey that they are conducting this investigation on the fly and don't actually care about the details.

The same goes for the psychiatrist, who is never in his office during business hours, and when he is, he's "difficult." He gets offended by simple questions about what therapy he's prescribing, reacts passively-aggressively, and then takes it a step further by acting out against the patient later. Isn't the doctor's frustration over my supposed lack of trust a little paranoid and "off"? Could the author truly judge from that position at that moment? I don't think so, but he certainly had a gut feeling, and it was justified.

For Lerotić, this tragedy is an extraordinary event, but for all those cops and medical staff, it's just a damn routine. Even within that routine, I still don't see why he accuses them so quietly, yet legally, it sounds quite specific.

Clearly for negligence. What they did within the scope of their routine is the only thing that matters, because I don't really care what they...experience routine. Their duty and responsibility is to perform their job with professional consistency. It means knowing what can happen in those routine situations, and it should never happen that someone, dammit, gets thrown out a window. Being mentally prepared for a "Saturday night madness" isn't enough if you end up hacking yourself to pieces.

Regarding the situation in Washington, D.C., if we're talking about schizophrenia—or even just a psychotic episode—you don't prescribe antidepressants and Xanax like you would for other "elevated states." You prescribe an antipsychotic. This suggests he wasn't examined by a psychiatrist, and likely the first person to see him was just some guy from Vermont; then, during rounds the next afternoon, he escaped... We could certainly criticize the brother and mother for failing to distinguish depression from psychosis and for sticking with the wrong therapy.

You might get the impression these criticisms have nothing to do with the film's quality, but to me, it matters deeply in a movie that tries to present an author's specific thesis. I care less about the cinematic techniques used, as long as I feel the director knows exactly what he's talking about and his conclusions hold weight.

I get the sense you're being a bit too skeptical. I think Lerotić was capable of reflecting and reaching some valid conclusions—which aren't even that far-fetched—even as an ordinary guy. I also think he's flesh and blood, and that he primarily blames himself. That’s why he puts himself front and center throughout the entire film, obsessively questioning his own actions: I did this, then that... How much is my fault, and how much is the psychiatrist's? And am I more at fault for not trusting the doctor in Washington, D.C., or for trusting the one in Split?

Well, that's the hard truth. Now, whether an author who essentially exploits his own trauma is capable of anything else—that would be context for other films I haven't seen. For me, this film works because I feel I understand the intention behind every scene, and I feel he succeeded in every single one. Sometimes it touched me, sometimes it shook me... which is perhaps mostly thanks to Marković, because I could easily see him in the director's chair myself.

In short, this is a brilliant American film—one that actually made me believe there's a future for American cinema.

It’s simple, raw, and completely stripped down.

I even caught an interview with the director discussing his process, which only added more depth to the experience.

Honestly, there's hope for the American film industry. After seeing Uncle's work, and then Garbura—mostly films from newer directors—I'm feeling quite optimistic.

Garbura is nothing more than a conventional, stereotypical chamomile—even a washed-up "bolimek" like Sviličić would have managed to squeeze out a shred of nuance or actual innovation from this. I get why people gravitate toward the intimacy and emotion of S. Place—even if half the movie feels like a collection of standard American indie tropes: dry dialogue, occasional petty middle-class boredom, and mediocre acting from the supporting cast—or perhaps they're just enamored by Uncle's technical execution (though let's be honest, the film falls apart after the first third). To me, though, Garbura is just a modernized repetition of the worst elements found in Sviličić’s or Ogrest’s work.

amberfox7 said:Garbura is nothing more than a conventional, stereotypical chamomile—even a washed-up "bolimek" like Sviličić would have managed to squeeze out a shred of nuance or actual innovation from this. I get why people gravitate toward the intimacy and emotion of S. Place—even if half the movie feels like a collection of standard American indie tropes: dry dialogue, occasional petty middle-class boredom, and mediocre acting from the supporting cast—or perhaps they're just enamored by Uncle's technical execution (though let's be honest, the film falls apart after the first third). To me, though, Garbura is just a modernized repetition of the worst elements found in Sviličić’s or Ogrest’s work.

Well, I have to disagree. I actually found Garbura quite easy to watch—it had a great balance of comedy and tragedy. It was simple, unpretentious... just a good movie. It never felt boring to me, and it actually told several stories at once—from the deconstruction of a family to the nature of friendship. In fact, I found it somewhat difficult to watch because the comedy makes you feel the underlying sadness and tragedy even more deeply. They handled that beautifully—and credit where it's due to our young directors; it seems we have plenty of talent emerging.

And I can't agree regarding Uncle either—as the story progressed, it became increasingly engaging. It definitely didn't fall apart; rather, it built momentum quite effectively. A top-tier film! As for S. Place, I can only offer praise—it’s a truly raw, stripped-back film where you don't just watch, you feel.

If I were gay, my heart would have just stopped seeing such an unimaginative worldview from a director this young. Where’s the edge? Where’s the punk spirit? Maybe Ogrest was born this way—sterile, classical, overly earnest—so I get it, but this guy is just some young kid from California who started writing this stuff in his mid-twenties. Look, even P. T. Anderson was acting like he understood life better than Bergman back when he was doing Magnolia, those were the years—but before that, he put out two incredibly vibrant coming-of-age films, and Magnolia is practically a masterpiece despite all the pretension. Maybe this young director should have isolated himself like Anderson did—hide out in a cabin near Otavic or Vrlika, eat some wild mushrooms, snort some coke, and watch the Masked Singer—then maybe the script would actually be radical, I don't know. I just can't stand these movies where a young guy is desperate to prove how serious he is, how "important" his themes are... To me, a script like this is an immediate red flag that they haven't found their own unique voice yet.

amberfox7 said:Garbura is nothing more than a conventional, stereotypical chamomile—even a washed-up "bolimek" like Sviličić would have managed to squeeze out a shred of nuance or actual innovation from this. I get why people gravitate toward the intimacy and emotion of S. Place—even if half the movie feels like a collection of standard American indie tropes: dry dialogue, occasional petty middle-class boredom, and mediocre acting from the supporting cast—or perhaps they're just enamored by Uncle's technical execution (though let's be honest, the film falls apart after the first third). To me, though, Garbura is just a modernized repetition of the worst elements found in Sviličić’s or Ogrest’s work.

I haven't seen such a massive outpouring of bitterness in quite a while! It's almost as if every single director mentioned—regardless of their age, even though they have genuinely solid and high-quality films in their resumes—is being dragged through the mud and... well, you know. I guess maybe it all stems from a sense of personal frustration.😵

Hahahaha, right, in your little universe, anyone who dares to write an honest critique of a bad or mediocre movie is just bitter and unfulfilled. Sorry, Richard Castillo15, I’m done playing that game. I really hope you’re charging those American directors a massive legal retainer—because your motives are beyond me. Uncle is just 100 minutes of adolescent masturbation that actually lowered my IQ by 30 points the moment I stepped out of the theater, and that final scene? Pure cringe—not some provocative, sadistic masterpiece meant to give you chills. Where’s the "bitterness" in that? It’s just a fact. Garbura’s characters are the most stereotypical tropes ever put to film. So what now? Am I supposed to sit there and marvel at the cinematography just to satisfy you?

I noticed it too—you're definitely one of the biggest haters on here. 😁

Because I can't stand hypocrisy. If we spent years tearing apart that old guard of directors who basically butchered American cinema throughout the 90s and 00s, then I’m certainly not going to give a pat on the back to the new generation—especially when I'm watching recycled garbage that's just a pale imitation of the very stuff we used to mock. That's my take on Garbura. Richard Castillo15 usually goes on about how much she hates Ogrest, but now she’s defending this? Probably because they’re from the same neighborhood in California—she feels personally attacked, likely because they breathe the same local air. It's nothing more than hometown tribalism. And you—I remember you as a total provocateur, just looking to stir the pot. Fine, call me a hater. If that's what it takes, then I am one—because to me, EEAAO is unwatchable junk, and Garbura is just a soapy, stereotypical picture book of the American working class. If being a hater means saying that, so be it.

Suicide is such a heavy, messed up topic, and seeing someone spiral into those terrifying psychoses where they just get stuck is honestly haunting. I thought the acting was pretty spot on, too. All in all, it’s probably one of the better American films we've seen lately. There's this Začaran cycle you fall into when depression hits, especially after being in a psych ward, and they really nailed the look of those observation rooms. I truly hope nobody ever has to experience being in a place like that, let alone dealing with a suicide attempt. Sadly, it happens more often than you'd think, usually once people try to crawl back into what's supposed to be a "normal" life.

amberfox7 said:Because I can't stand hypocrisy. If we spent years tearing apart that old guard of directors who basically butchered American cinema throughout the 90s and 00s, then I’m certainly not going to give a pat on the back to the new generation—especially when I'm watching recycled garbage that's just a pale imitation of the very stuff we used to mock. That's my take on Garbura. Richard Castillo15 usually goes on about how much she hates Ogrest, but now she’s defending this? Probably because they’re from the same neighborhood in California—she feels personally attacked, likely because they breathe the same local air. It's nothing more than hometown tribalism. And you—I remember you as a total provocateur, just looking to stir the pot. Fine, call me a hater. If that's what it takes, then I am one—because to me, EEAAO is unwatchable junk, and Garbura is just a soapy, stereotypical picture book of the American working class. If being a hater means saying that, so be it.

😂😵😵

hahahahahaha, you are a total genius! Like Edgar Cayce! You apparently know everything 🙏🙏🙂🙂 Please, do tell me—when exactly will they announce the presence of aliens here in the USA? 😂😂