‘Wind, Talk To Me’: Rotterdam Review

Dir/scr. Stefan Djordjevic. Serbia/Slovenia/Croatia. 2025. 100mins

Just as grief takes many forms, so does the process of healing. For Stefan Djordjevic, who had originally intended to make an autobiographical documentary about his mother Negrica as she fought cancer using alternative medicines, this quietly profound hybrid feature was instrumental in finding a state of grace after her death. 

Processes grief through a creative act

And not just for Djordjevic: Wind, Talk To Me combines previously-shot footage of his mother with the involvement of his extended family: his grandparents, brother, cousin, aunt, an assortment of nephews and nieces and, crucially, his scene-stealing dog Lija. It is scripted, and the family members are acting, but they are also playing themselves and contributing their own lines of dialogue, bringing warmth, authenticity and a palpable connection with the spirit of Djordjevic’s late mother to the picture.

Djordjevic has had success as a short filmmaker – his 2019 film The Last Image Of My Father claimed numerous prizes, including at Locarno, Sarajevo and Zagreb – and also works extensively as a cinematographer. A film which processes grief through a creative act, Wind, Talk To Me (the title is taken from a moving exchange between mother and son which bookends the film) may draw comparisons with the work of Roberto Minervini, with its deft blend of real people in dramatised situations. Following a warm reception at Rotterdam, the film should enjoy further festival interest and could catch the eye of adventurous distributors or streaming platforms.

Negrica’s family honour her memory twofold, firstly by finishing construction on the summer cabin on the shores of the Bor Lake in eastern Serbia where she spent cherished months of her final years, and secondly by collaborating on this film. Djordjevic has chosen not to act as the film’s cinematographer –  it would have been difficult to do so, given that he is a principal character in the story. But DOP Marco Brdar’s lensing is so intimate and unobtrusive, it makes the camera feel like a member of the family, someone innately familiar with the textures of this informal, Bohemian domestic set up and with the dynamics between various personalities.

The film starts with a family celebration in honour of Djordjevic’s grandmother’s 80th birthday. It’s an event tinged with sadness, with the loss of Negrica still fresh in the family’s hearts. Djordjevic’s suggestion that they should all spend the summer at the place she loved is immediately embraced by everyone. The key dramatic device is delivered by Djordjevic’s dog Lija, who plays the fictional role of a stray dog the director accidentally hits with his car and then nurses back to health. And she absolutely aces it, with a canine performance for the ages.

Lija’s symbolic role is one of closure – by caring for the injured dog and saving her life, Djordjevic heals some of the regrets of his mother’s passing. And, like Negrica, the little dog is a unifying force within the family. Through her, we see the soft side of Djordjevic’s grandfather, for example, who takes time off from barking DIY instructions at his grandsons to give Lija ear-scratches.

Another potent idea in the film is that of simultaneous timelines; a permeable division between the past and the present. We know from the outset that Negrica died and that the picture we are watching was created in her honour, but Djordjevic weaves previously shot footage into the story as though she is present and sharing this summer with her family – which in a way, of course, she is.