Valdone Rudenkiene/Tie2.lt
Whether intentionally or not, Cannes seemed to turn away from Hollywood this year, and its attempt to move closer to Old European cinema—cinema as an art form rather than an industry—appears to have paid off. The festival felt calmer, perhaps even somewhat uneventful to some, but filmmakers like Paweł Pawlikowski likely felt right at home. And not only because of the award. Although it was not the festival’s highest honor, the Palme d’Or.
The Polish director’s film Fatherland (the title used internationally; author’s note), which won the Best Director Award at the Cannes Film Festival, marks Pawlikowski’s second directing prize at Cannes, following his 2018 award for Cold War. Once again, the filmmaker returns to themes that have defined his earlier work: historical trauma, the search for identity, and the individual’s relationship with moments of political upheaval. This time, these themes are explored through a portrait of the writer Thomas Mann during one of the most challenging periods for European intellectuals—the postwar era. The film follows Mann and his daughter Erika Mann on their 1949 journey through postwar Germany, a country divided between the Eastern and Western blocs.
As in Cold War, Pawlikowski chooses black-and-white cinematography and an understated narrative style. The visual approach is more than a purely aesthetic decision; it underscores the moral ambiguity of the period and highlights the connections between guilt and memory. Critics have praised the cinematography and the film’s ability to create a dense, multilayered narrative in just 82 minutes. Personally, I found myself wishing to spend more time in this world. Yet it may be that the director deliberately chooses brevity and restraint when addressing sensitive and painful subjects.
It is easy to agree with critics who argue that the film’s greatest strength lies in its performances. Sandra Hüller delivers a nuanced portrayal of Erika Mann, whose character becomes the emotional center of the film, standing in contrast to her father’s reserved and intellectual demeanor. The tension between them allows the film to explore not only family relationships but also different ways of coming to terms with the tragedies of the past. The film also raises broader questions: Did postwar Germany truly leave its past behind? What kind of future were East and West building? And what place did the individual occupy within these competing visions? Pawlikowski avoids straightforward answers, instead constructing an intellectual, at times even philosophical, dialogue about guilt, responsibility, and the very notion of “fatherland.”
Nevertheless, Fatherland is not an easy film. Its emotional impact often depends on the viewer’s knowledge of German history and the Mann family. Ultimately, it also relies on an understanding of Europe’s broader historical context. As a result, some viewers may find the narrative overly restrained, even cold. At times it can feel difficult to follow, occasionally moving somewhat abruptly from one episode to another. Yet, as always, Pawlikowski does not attempt to provide definitive answers. He speaks about what raises questions, leaving the audience to reflect and respond for themselves. Even if no clear answers emerge, that hardly seems to be the director’s goal. What, then, is he striving for? Perhaps to tell, through the language of cinema, a story in which personal drama merges with the wider historical experience of Europe. The film leaves us with more questions than answers—and perhaps that is precisely the point.