Jan Komasa, the Polish filmmaker revered for insightful dramas like “Corpus Christi,” surfaces in American cinema with “Anniversary,” a feature that is sparking debate not only for its bleak vision but also for its refusal to play to easy ideological binaries.
Set across five years in a prosperous Virginia suburb, the film takes us inside the Taylor household, where the appearance of stability unravels under a series of family reunions, most notably their 25th anniversary celebration.
The Taylors, comprised of a university professor mother, a career-focused chef father, and four distinct adult children, stand in as a microcosm of the American upper-middle class in flux.
At the heart of the film lies the arrival of Elizabeth Nettles (Phoebe Dynevor), a former student of matriarch Ellen Taylor (Diane Lane). Nettles is now the author of “The Change,” a book central to the rise of a regressive, anti-democratic movement that seduces a nation with empty language about unity and renewal.
Her relationship with Josh Taylor, Ellen’s son, isn’t just a romantic development; it is a strategic wedge driven right through the family’s sense of self and belonging.
Komasa’s style borrows from both domestic drama and psychological horror, drawing inspiration from American classics while avoiding direct allegory or exposition. He presents the tumult not through news headlines or policy debates, but in the ways shared meals become fraught and trust between relatives turns brittle.
In one scene, neighbors are suddenly pressed to prove their loyalty to the cause, while at the dinner table, even birthdays and holidays take on the air of interrogations. The eeriness deepens as the film persistently sidesteps clear party lines or policy details; viewers are left to chase implications rather than parse speeches.
This intentional ambiguity serves to unsettle, much in the way modern anxieties rarely offer a clear villain or turning point.
The Ballad of Denial: Privilege, Ideology, and Emotional Control
“Anniversary” grows ever more discomforting as it becomes clear that the Taylors’ greatest vulnerability isn’t external threat but their own devotion to comfort and avoidance of conflict.
Komasa exposes the modern tendency to wish away polarization, assuming that refusing to take sides is somehow a shield against creeping extremism.
Paul Taylor, the family’s patriarch, attempts to keep peace at any cost, focusing on cooking, celebration, and nostalgia, while refusing to acknowledge that the ground beneath them is shifting.
His wife, Ellen, the academic, clings to the idea that rational debate and good intentions can halt forces that are fundamentally irrational and contemptuous of dialogue.
The emotional violence is subtle yet devastating. Rather than physical intimidation, “Anniversary” weaponizes guilt, affection, and the need for acceptance. This mirrors trends described in recent film criticism, which note a surge in movies that transpose political disputes onto family spaces.
Anniversary (Credit: Metropolitan Films)
Komasa, informed by an outsider’s perspective on American society, stages all the film’s big ideological clashes around kitchen islands and backyard lawns, leveraging the tension to critique how easily people retreat from public action when the cost is familial harmony.
Resourceful reviewers have compared this approach to recent trendsetters like “Get Out” and “The Zone of Interest,” in which the terror stems not primarily from outside threats but from how private spaces become breeding grounds for public catastrophe.
Like those films, “Anniversary” unnerves by showing how privilege and willful ignorance do nothing to halt disaster; if anything, they enable it. Komasa’s version of fascism isn’t a military coup but a gradual, collective surrender within the walls of ostensibly loving homes.
Reading Between Lines: Absence as Activism, and the Panic of Ambiguity
Perhaps the most contentious aspect of “Anniversary” is its conscious rejection of narrative clarity. Critics and audience members alike have been split over whether the film’s refusal to specify the nature of “The Change” is a profound artistic gambit or an evasion.
Komasa’s screenplay refrains from aligning its pseudo-movement with any established political extremism, instead building unease through omission. The result is that the Taylor family’s plight works as both a fable and a Rorschach test; viewers can project their own anxieties onto a story void of slogans but heavy with dread.
In interviews, Komasa has described this creative choice as intentional, motivated by a desire to reflect how real-world horrors often occur without clear signposts or closed captions for the audience.
He cites the pandemic-era realization that radical change can arrive with little warning and often under the guise of ordinary ritual. By skipping across anniversaries and celebrations, the film invokes the sensation of waking up from one reality and finding yourself in another, unable to say when the turn happened.
The audience is never told exactly why neighbors begin to turn on each other, or when the government in the film slips into outright authoritarianism, only that it has, and the ground rules are now different.
Despite some criticism of its “apolitical” stance, “Anniversary” invites serious reflection on the banality of modern extremism.
The family’s gradual passivity is chilling precisely because it’s so plausible: real change often advances not through televised spectacles, but stepwise compromises in the interest of peace, practicality, or simple fatigue.
This thematic subtlety is both the film’s greatest risk and its sharpest success; it compels viewers to grapple with their longing for certainty versus their dread of recognizing uncomfortable truths.
By sidestepping clear-cut allegiances or bombastic spectacle, Jan Komasa’s “Anniversary” carves out a singularly disturbing place in recent cinema: it functions not as a warning from history or a mirror to easy narratives, but as a study in how everyday love and denial can usher in collective nightmares.
Its most damning insight is that, in today’s America, the real battleground might be the family table, where keeping the peace can be the deadliest form of surrender.
Nadav Lapid’s latest film, Yes, bursts onto the screen as a sharp, almost violent satire targeting the upper echelons of Israeli society in the wake of the October 7 Hamas attacks. It opens with a wild, drug-fueled party filled with affluent guests, exploding in excess and decadence amid pulsing techno beats.
Set primarily in Tel Aviv, Yes paints a vivid picture of a societal stratum seemingly detached from the brewing conflict, indulging obliviously while chaos looms nearby.
The film’s references to historical criticism of nationalism, such as George Grosz’s 1926 painting The Pillars of Society, frame this hedonism as a modern parallel to the Weimar Republic’s descent into fascism, but with a uniquely Israeli inflection.
Lapid’s protagonist, Y (played by Ariel Bronz), is a musician caught in this whirlwind of excess and political turmoil. Y’s reluctant journey toward composing a nationalist anthem funded by a wealthy oligarch highlights the tensions between artistic integrity and nationalist conformity.
Throughout, Lapid exposes the performative nationalism and underlying complicity of privileged classes, forcing viewers to confront how everyday Israeli life is intertwined with violence and state propaganda.
These elements are endlessly reinforced visually, such as the omnipresent Israeli flags staged in nearly every scene, signaling the inescapable political climate surrounding the characters.
Ethical Crisis: Neutrality Is No Longer an Option
The narrative deepens in its exploration of the moral battles faced by individuals living in a country embroiled in conflict. The film’s second act portrays Y stepping away from the party scene into the desert’s harsh reality, nearing the Palestinian border marked by war’s grim shadows.
Yes (Credit: Les Films du Losange)
Here, Y’s interactions include heated exchanges with his wife, Yasmine, and reflections on his deceased mother’s voice, symbolizing the internal and external pressures pulling him in conflicting directions.
Lapid’s “yes” conveys a clear message: neutrality amidst such a conflict is neither ethical nor possible. The film boldly acknowledges the horrors wrought on Gaza and implies that silence or refusal to take a stand only abets ongoing destruction.
This urgency is heightened by moments where actual propaganda lyrics from anti-Palestinian groups are astonishingly sung by digitally altered children, a chilling reminder of the war of narratives shaping hearts and minds.
Lapid refuses subtlety here, exposing the “Israeli disease” of nationalism and denial that, according to him, festers beneath the surface of otherwise normal urban life.
A Controversial Reception Amid Political Backlash
Yes, it has ignited fierce debate both within and beyond Israel. Its highly political content, combined with Lapid’s in-your-face artistic style, has led to notable government backlash.
The film was criticized by figures in the Netanyahu administration, and it faced calls for exclusion from major Israeli film festivals. Despite this, it garnered multiple nominations at the Ophir Awards, Israel’s version of the Oscars, underlining its significance within the country’s cultural conversation.
The lead actor, Ariel Bronz, also became embroiled in controversy when he was detained over a politically charged poem he posted online, raising concerns about artistic freedom and censorship in today’s Israel.
Lapid himself, who lives in France by choice but returned to Israel for the film, describes Yes as a work about resisting submission to authority and challenging the boundaries of what can be spoken or depicted.
The film’s acquisition for North American release by Kino Lorber signals its growing international profile and the global interest in Israel’s internal divisions as seen through this provocative lens.
Nadav Lapid’s Yes demands engagement; it is a blistering indictment of nationalism’s excesses and a painful reminder of the costs of silence in the face of violence. Its style and content make it daunting for some, but its fierce honesty cannot be ignored.
The film stands as a contentious, complex piece of cinema, both a call to conscience and a document of an unsettled moment in Israeli history.
