© Mima Simić , 2011
Although films have been made in the territory of Croatia for nearly a century now (the first Croatian feature film, Brcko in Zagreb, dates back to 1917), the period since 1991 frames an independent national film industry that, despite its cultural roots still protruding from the fragmented Yugoslav soil, can nevertheless be analyzed as an organism, or rather (to stick to the metaphor)—an artistic and ideological celluloid body. As all bodies, it had to go through various stages of development to reach “voting age,” when it can finally be held fully responsible for all the political decisions it does—or, indeed, does not—make today.
In my analysis of contemporary Croatian film and its treatment/reflection of what is popularly known as “gender issues,” I focus mostly on mainstream feature films, in particular those that had unusually high budgets, attracted large (inter)national audiences, won awards at film festivals and/or have been distributed worldwide with government endorsement. My selection is informed not only by lack of space, but also by the fact that these films, in light of their production, distribution, and government support (being sponsored by the Croatian Ministry of Culture and its institutions, Croatian National Television and/or international production companies), are representative of Croatian official politics, that is, the dominant ideology regarding the question of gender; i.e. gender roles and identities.
The (Re)Birth of a National Cinema
Observing the process of the Croatian film industry’s metaphorical coming of age, we should (despite the embarrassment it may cause) stop to consider the “birth pains” of new Croatian film during the War of Independence (1991-1995), with emphasis on the celluloid construction of gender in this ideologically charged period. Indeed, in order to express and underscore its autonomy and independence from Yugoslavia the new Croatian state needed to formulate the image of the new Croat man and the new Croat woman—the specific Croatian masculinity and femininity—which can be read in the films produced during the war and immediately following it.
In Women Nation State (1989) Nira Yuval Davis and Floya Anthias analyze the relation of the nation state to the woman, the function of the woman within the nation state, and the “ways in which women have tended to participate in ethnic and national processes and in relation to state practices” (1989: 7). The woman produces members of the ethnic community and is the central figure of the ideological reproduction of the community. In perpetuating its culture she is the marker of ethnic and national differences, and a symbol in the ideological discourse used in the construction, reproduction, and transformation of ethno-national categories (8-10). Cynthia Enloe, too, highlights how “[w]omen are relegated to minor, often symbolic roles in nationalist movements and conflicts […] as icons of nationhood, to be elevated and defended.” The woman’s body as “a booty or spoils of war, to be denigrated and disgraced” becomes “the sign through which men communicate with each other” (Das 1995: 212). Furthermore, Robert M. Hayden observes that women’s bodies exposed to violence are “constructed [...] as ethnic territories themselves” where rape marks, defiles, and excludes the female body from the geographical territory (2000: 32). All these theoretical findings clearly show the “sexual division of labor” in warfare, where the woman is typically a symbol, a sign and a means for the transfer of power, rather than a powerful and active subject. As if based on these ethnographic studies the two most expensive cultural products of the Croatian war era, Oja Kodar’s A Time For... (Vrijeme za, 1993) and Jakov Sedlar’s Our Lady (Gospa, 1994), reflected this gender division and dynamic to the minutest detail.
Although of questionable artistic value (as is any pamphlet or propaganda), Kodar’s and Sedlar’s films were estimated to be of the greatest symbolic importance at the time, due to their ideological function, judging by the exceptionally high budgets they managed to raise in a period of serious political and financial crisis. These films, as I will show in more detail, are textbook examples of the gender-prescriptive, restrictive, and regulatory function culture plays in a time of war, being, like war, a continuation of (here: patriarchal/nationalist) politics by other means. And as nationalism and religion were the foundation stones of the new nation state, their common denominator, patriarchy, needed to be (re)affirmed through clearly delineated gender boundaries/roles, best exemplified through crude (gender, ethnic, religious) stereotypes. And naturally, as One is defined in relation to an/the Other, this relation with the (then) ultimate Other (Serb/Yugoslav) needed to be depicted in a strongly monochromatic and simplistic manner.
A Time For… Our Lady
Interestingly enough, Oja Kodar’s A Time For was one of the few “new” Croatian films both written and directed by a woman and the first film about the Croatian War of Independence. This, unfortunately, made no ethical or aesthetic difference in the execution of the project. Evoking the Bible in the very title, the film denotes the Croatian bond to Christianity (i.e. Roman Catholicism), placing the Croatian nation both in the realm of the spiritual and the anti-communist. All the Serbs (including their religious leaders) are depicted in the worst possible light, physically and ethically alike. Croats, on the other hand, are noble, good-looking, pious, brave, and self-sacrificing. This symbolic representation of the characters in the film signifies not only what the Other is like, but what the One, i.e. “ideal” Croatian (male and female) citizens, (ought to) look/be like. As women function as “boundary markers” between different national, ethnic, and religious groups (Kandiyoti 1991) in times of ethnic conflict they can be expected to play a significant (yet, as “markers,” necessarily passive) role. The Croat woman (a hardworking, self-sacrificing, and virginal mother, who is also a nurse) will be granted a moment of action, incredible and insane courage, only through motherhood. Moreover, the power of her symbolic representation lies exactly in her passivity; in order for the climax of the film to work effectively, she needs to be exposed to the ultimate act of (ethnic) violence, rape. Here she stands not only for all Croatian women but even more so for the Croatian land itself, stripped and ravished by the enemy.
The other key female character is the Son’s girlfriend, poetically nicknamed Cinderella, blonde and beautiful, unspoiled and pure. She and the Son lose their virginity to each other and, having served this designated purpose, she remains out-framed for the rest of the film, waiting for him to return. Drawing on the fairy-tale tradition, which reflects the patriarchal symbolic frame, Kodar neatly fits this younger female character within it as a structural (generational) predecessor to the Mother figure. In contrast to these two epitomes of Croatian womanhood, the Serb nurse-spy is represented as uncomfortably fleshy, vulgar, and promiscuous. To demonize a woman efficiently is thus to portray her as (over)sexualized, and overtly physical. Interestingly enough, both Serb (ugly and evil) and Croat (beautiful and virtuous) women will be granted the same scope of action, limited to either their sexual or asexual (motherly) practices. In this world females are politically insignificant and are recruited in their most traditional roles. It is men who carry the weapons, make the decisions and, if necessary, take lives.
In 1994 Tuđman’s favorite director, Jakov Sedlar, made Our Lady, a film blessed with a high-budget and an incredible cast. Apart from Martin Sheen, Our Lady hosted Michael York, Morgan Fairchild and Paul Guilfoyle. This was a cast that the domestic film industry could not have imagined since the 1970s and Tito’s reign. Despite its title, which suggests contemplation on the question of faith, the film is actually an anti-communist manifesto, and a propaganda tool for upholding Tuđman’s political and territorial interests in Bosnia and Herzegovina. This, to be sure, was no place for women. The one female character of any significance is subservient nun Fabijana Zovko (Morgan Fairchild), who is given a handful of lines and a few more suffering, dramatic looks. All the agents are men, occupying all sorts of powerful positions, whether in Church, government, the army, the secret police, the law and similar. The hypertrophied nationalist imperialist patriarchy that this film stands for in the end, much like A Time for, could perhaps be redeemed only if it were to be read as camp. However, for the elementary school pupils (eight graders) for whom it was compulsory viewing at theatres this kind of a reading was most certainly unavailable and the political climate of the time did not allow for much distance from the “patriotic” and “pious” topic of this film.
A Happier Childhood
With the economic recovery following the war, and the emergence of a new generation of filmmakers (known as the Young or New Croatian film), things slowly started looking up for the Croatian film industry. As the previous, war years had (understandably?) determined the subjects, the genre, and the shape of gender roles in the handful of films made in this era, the beginning of a happier childhood for the new Croatian film was marked by another film dealing with the war, but in a much lighter mode and genre. Vinko Brešan’s prewar comedy of character and customs How the War Started on My Island (Kako je počeo rat na mom otoku, 1996) was (and remains to this day) the biggest grossing Croatian film. At the time of its making it was also a social signal that the child was finally allowed to go out and play.
However, the postwar world that this celluloid child encountered was perhaps different in genre, but not much different in gender ideology. The benevolent community of a Croatian fictional island that Brešan’s film depicts (much like the one in a later Croatian cinematic hit, What is a Man Without a Moustache by Hrvoje Hribar which I analyze in more detail in another article in this issue) is but a gentler (comic) version of the same patriarchal society with the adherent ideology of the previous era; yet, as the genre demands, less crude and seasoned with a lot of charm, and seductive in its quaint ways. The island community is a palette of picturesque character types, yet what binds this bunch of bizarre individuals is a common ideology. Indeed, much like in the celluloid “tragedies” (in every sense) analyzed earlier, this comedy leaves all the military/political business to men, whereas women perform the familiar kind of auxiliary function. The only two female characters in this ensemble piece are the wife and the mistress of the Yugoslav Army major Aleksa who is about to start the war on the island (and Croatia as symbolized by it). Probably the most quoted line from any contemporary Croatian film, “Aleksa, come home, I’ve made pastasciutta!” is exclaimed by the wife; her cooking skills, symbolically, being her most potent weapon. When the wife fails to get the major to come home, the major’s mistress attempts to do so, with the same result. There is an implication that the major will not leave the post and keeps threatening to blow up the island because he is afraid of his wife’s rage at his having a mistress. This, however, seems more of a mark of the Serb commander’s lunacy and idiocy than the actual power of the wife/woman. The comic co-existence of the wife and the mistress on the same stage, in the same symbolic plane, and with the same (lack of) political relevance/influence implies that the women’s position in the power structure had not changed with the genre. And the celluloid child that is Croatian film has not learned much about the complexities of gender in the process.
Regarding this dual subject (of gender and genre) it is extremely interesting to observe an example of probably the only “chick flick” among contemporary Croatian films (its predecessor can be found in Rajko Grlić’s 1984 hit In the Jaws of Life based on Dubravka Ugrešić’s postmodernist bestseller), made by the only female director who makes feature films on a relatively regular basis (meaning three feature films in six years, 1996-2002, not counting her TV films). The woman in question is Snježana Tribuson and the film is The Three Men of Melita Žganjer (Tri muškarca Melite Žganjer, 1998). This Croatian anticipation of Bridget Jones’s Diary came as a celluloid refreshment and drew comparatively large audiences. The film tells the story of an overweight thirty-something woman, desperately unhappy for the lack of a man in her life, obsessed with a Spanish TV soap and in love with a character from it. Melita is thus both a stereotypical fan of trivial literature and the protagonist of these types of texts. In this way the narrative relies on (gender) stereotypes twice as much, but this indeed is the point of the game, the game being postmodernism. Unlike most of the Croatian film production of the time, operating within the traditional frames of the genre and generally lack self-reflexivity or self-irony, Tribuson plays freely with and ironizes the (“women’s”) genre within which she works: the inserted Spanish TV soap here is an excellent lighthearted narrative maneuver rarely seen in the more “serious” and generally mimetically obsessed Croatian film production of the time. There are indeed many layers to the film’s narrative, this complexity being further proliferated and emphasized by the film’s form. All of this considered, one will wonder if the ideological effect of such a story is not to maintain the existing social relations and (patriarchal) system, as would be suggested by all the stereotypes it plays/builds the narrative on. Yet, the many disruptive elements in the film (at both the diegetic and the structural levels) can in fact be said to be preventing the viewer from escaping into the text as easily as they would into a less self-reflexive work; being constantly made aware of the constructed nature of both film and its “filling,” genre and gender. Three Men of Melita Žganjer proves that form indeed can make all the difference in meaning, and if served with a ton of pink icing on top, stereotypes necessarily become indigestible.
Of The Birds and the Lez-Bees
Within two months of Tuđman’s death in 1999 the political life of Croatia changed dramatically. This turn in political outlook had many benefits for filmmakers, one of them being the implementation of a non-governmental board to oversee subsidies, film archives, education, film publishing, and international sales, as opposed to the infamous Minister-dependent film committee of the Tuđman regime. With the fall of the Croatian Democratic Union (the HDZ) the whole system of subtle prohibition began to dissolve. The authors from this era proceeded to break free from the chains of self-censorship and started producing films more complex in form as well as in their political outlook. With Tuđman on his death bed Vinko Brešan’s Marshal Tito’s Spirit came out, another successful, mildly provocative, populist political comedy dealing with the Croatian past and the present, again located on an island among colorful natives, former partisans, and a young policeman investigating an alleged appearance of Tito’s ghost, i.e. the ghost of the Croatian past. It followed the successful formula of the previous hit and relied on lively characters (with mostly male agents) and the spirit of the community—and although its satirical blade turned against politics past and present, the politics of patriarchy was left unscathed.
This was also a period when Croatian movie-going audiences could see two quite interesting, apparently critical studies of Croatian society by Dalibor Matanić, the director who is probably the only one who regularly (and bravely!) places women in the focus of his film narratives. His films The Cashier Wants to go to the Seaside (Blagajnica hoće ići na more, 2000) and Fine Dead Girls (Fine mrtve djevojke, 2002) brought a fresher approach to “women’s questions.” The latter was the first (and so far the only) film in Croatian mainstream cinema to take up the subject of lesbianism, placing a homosexual couple at the center of the narration. According to the director, it took six years and a change of government for this film to be made—it was too shocking for both National Television and the HDZ Ministry of Culture to fund it. In the sensitive, constitutive postwar period, when heterosexuality is not only an ethical (in the context of the religious “revival” which accompanied the establishment of the new state), but also a demographic imperative, and the Woman the symbolic and literal mother of the nation, lesbianism embodies the ultimate threat to the re/construction of a land devastated/liberated by war. This can explain the unwillingness of the (right-wing) government to subsidize a cultural project that “promotes” homosexuality by depicting lesbians in a favorable light. Considering the obstacles this film had to overcome (it was finally made with the help of an independent producer), as well as its theme which suggests the possibility of a different structuring of gender roles and relations, a closer reading is due, in order to ascertain how subversive this film actually is.
The Fine Dead Girls are Iva and Marija, a lesbian couple moving into a sublet apartment in a crumbling Zagreb building, which is a grotesque mirror image of postwar Croatian society inhabited by bizarre characters—a violent nationalist, a crazy old woman, a prostitute, a rapist, a doctor performing illegal abortions, a mentally retarded young man—in this context the lesbians are in fact depicted as the most “normal” of them all. In such a clearly oppressive environment, when their lesbianism is discovered Iva is raped and Marija dies at the hands of tenants who push her down the stairs. Iva returns to her former boyfriend and has a child by him, but as the film title indicates, in the end she, too, is symbolically dead after choosing a false existence.
Despite the fact that it does not judge lesbianism and avoids the well-known and well-worn perspective of pathologizing it, the film associates it with experiences of trauma so intense that it becomes, in fact, an impossibility. As previously suggested, the symbolic meaning and literal function of the (postwar) woman as the (re)producer of the nation and ethnicity cannot be endangered—in the moment of crisis lesbianism becomes something a woman must reject in order to survive; she herself as well as the nation whose procreation her body guarantees. Women’s ultimate emancipation from patriarchy (symbolized by lesbianism) must be put “on hold,” or entirely rejected for the greater goal—the reproduction of the nation/state. This result may be depicted as tragic for individual women, but their sacrifice seems necessary and unavoidable.
Fine Dead Girls proved to be a film that in fact had a little to do with homosexuality and could hardly be said to have challenged any stereotypes. Moreover, by introducing helpless lesbian victimized heroines to Croatian celluloid, it managed to affirm a few more. As a vehicle for critique of the new militaristic, traditionalist, patriarchal, and nationalist discourses and practices, it symbolically sacrificed the woman/lesbian (and paradoxically) served to perpetuate the identical ideology and discourses it aimed to critique, ultimately preventing the establishment of the woman/lesbian subject. In the end, the film did not deal with lesbianism in any way more complex than do mainstream media—using the controversial subject to attract audiences, only to avoid it in the body of the text, transforming it into a metaphor or a means for meditating on, but also (despite his best intentions) of mediating and affirming, a familiar (postwar) ethos.
In 2003, as Croatian cinema was about to hit puberty, the “reformed” and EU-oriented HDZ was again back in power. Fresh, politically and culturally relevant themes were introduced in film—such as dealing with Croatian war crimes (Brešan’s Witnesses/Svjedoci, 2003), and multiculturalism with its endless challenges (of a darkly comic nature in Ognjen Sviličić’s Sorry For Kung Fu/Oprosti za Kung Fu, 2004 and traumatic and tragic in The Melon Route/Put lubenica, 2006, by Branko Schmidt). Yet, how fresh or novel was the approach of these filmmakers to gender roles and relations? Let us briefly discuss each of the lauded and awarded examples.
Brešan’s Witnesses was the first Croatian mainstream feature film that dared raise the controversial issue of Croatian war crimes against Serbian civilians during the Homeland War, a subject long disregarded and/or suppressed by politicians, the media, and the people of Croatia. Its symbolic relevance was acknowledged at the 2004 Berlinale where it received a special Jury’s Peace Prize, and it is still one of the most successful Croatian contemporary films in the international arena.
The (modernist, Rashomon-like structured) narrative depicts the murder of a Serbian civilian by a group of Croatian soldiers, the only witness being his little daughter whose life is now also in danger because of what she has seen. The ultimate evil of the film, however, is not the killers/executors (they are soldiers who got a little too used to war), but the one of the killers’ mothers who cold-bloodedly agrees that the Serb child should be liquidated. As she has already lost her husband to the Serbs and her two sons are all she has and lives for, to save her own child she will willingly sacrifice another’s. This can, of course, be interpreted as a critique of patriarchy that makes monsters out of women when their social role is reduced to motherhood/wifehood, yet very few viewers will arrive at this reading, as the Mother character is already too complex to deal with at the very first (extra-filmic) level, being played by Serbian film superstar Mirjana Karanović.
The other important female character and a rare female protagonist in Croatian cinema who is finally granted some traditionally “masculine” agency, i.e. agency beyond the scope of her sexuality/motherhood, is the character of the journalist who stubbornly investigates the case of the murder of the Serb, even though she is constantly met with censorship and the hostility of her professional and private surroundings. One should be grateful for an emancipated female character propelling the narrative with her inquiry, forcing the male protagonist (a Croatian soldier, brother of one of the murderers and war invalid himself) to search his own conscience and act to save the little girl (thus indicting/sacrificing his own brother). Of course, the female journalist character is not the one who in the end will/can save the little girl; the actual saving is done by the man, a decision-making and active agent of patriarchy; which he remains even when he is actually half a man, symbolically castrated in the war (he loses a leg). The emotionally and visually overdone epilogue of the tragedy is a symbolic restoration of a (now mixed!) Croatian family, as the Croatian man, Croatian woman and Serbian child are riding into an orange sunset.
The clash of cultures, ideologies and ethnicities was handled somewhat differently by Ognjen Sviličić in his Sorry for Kung Fu, a black comedy set in rural, i.e. hyperpatriarchal, Croatia, where a girl/woman returns from the west (Germany) to her parents’ village, only to be met with an avalanche of accusations for being pregnant yet husbandless. As her parents try to find her a husband and the many men line up one after the other trying to woo her, she more or less silently puts up with this abuse (for the benefit of the film’s comic potential, presumably) but the real shock to the community comes when she gives birth to a child—and a Chinese one at that (hence the title). At last realizing she cannot bring her child up in these surroundings, she returns to Germany. The reunion takes place a few years later on her father’s deathbed, where he ostensibly accepts the child. This film, much like Schmidt’s Melon Route, brings in the Other (in both cases it is Chinese as the ultimate object of Orientalization) to reflect the xenophobia correctly located in the patriarchy of Croatian insular society. In Kung Fu the woman is the mother of the Other; and the One who accepted and embraced (in more ways than one) the Other (in Germany, where both, in fact, were Other—implying that the only way to learn to accept another is to be in their shoes). The woman is thus the agent of the reconciliation, the softer side of society through which multiculturalism (in Croatia it is symbolized by the EU) will be accepted, whereas at least one generation of men will have to pass away before this idea is integrated in the society. In the Melon Route, however, a Chinese woman is saved by a war veteran haunted by PTSD, first from the water, later from criminals he kills in a bloody showdown. His love for an Other here is, however, hopeless. His mission for them to escape to Germany (as their relationship is impossible in Croatia) fails and she leaves on her own. Both the comedy and the tragedy treat the subject of multiculturalism as something that is on the border of Croatia (as Croatia is now on the border of the EU) but is not as yet its “proper” integrated reality.
Bringing these novel, socially and politically relevant topics into Croatian film definitely diversified its thematic landscape, yet the symbolic and auxiliary function of the Woman continued to haunt Croatian mainstream cinema throughout the stages of its development. Furthermore, the string of films that were made in the following (i.e. past) few years, in the period from Croatian cinema’s late puberty to its adolescence, proved to be (as is any young man of that age, and the Croatian film industry most definitely, and proudly, proved to be of male gender) brimming with testosterone. So much so that the most popular, most successful, and outstanding films of this period had barely any female characters in them—and more than one had none.
Rajko Grlić’s The Border Post (Karaula, 2006), Kristijan Milić’s The Living and the Dead (Živi i mrtvi, 2007), Sviličić’s Armin (2007), Dalibor Matanić’s Kino Lika (2008), Goran Rušinović’s Buick Riviera (2009), Zvonimir Jurić & Goran Dević’s The Blacks (Crnci, 2009) and Branko Schmidt’s Metastases (Metastaze, 2009), all these films in their own right proved that Croatian cinema has indeed finally matured. Directors collaborated with eminent novelists (Grlić worked with Ante Tomić, Kristijan Milić with Josip Mlakić, Dalibor Matanić with Damir Karakaš, Rušinović with Miljenko Jergović etc.) creating celluloid texts of an undeniably better quality, finally building a body of national cinema worthy of note (if only, as yet, on Croatian territory). However, almost all of these films are so male-centered that one can rightfully wonder if Croatian film will soon start reproducing though cell division.
Grlić’s film takes place (as the title suggests) in a prewar Yugoslav army barracks—it’s a co-production financially backed by almost all former Yugoslav republics (this is a practice many directors nowadays recognize as a potent strategy for winning back some of the cultural and financial territory lost in the war); where the only female character is an officer’s wife who serves as a (erotic) tool for the protagonist’s sexual coming of age. She also pays a hefty price for her love and sexual misconduct since she is tragically killed in the rampant shooting that concludes the film. At the narrative level this expulsion of the central female character precludes any possibility of a genuine choice for her lover, a handsome medical doctor, and ensures that the military experience remain a truly male undertaking. On the other hand, her lover, manages to leave the army unhurt (at least physically) and return to his native Dalmatia. The earlier part of the plot comically deals with men’s life in the army and, of course, with politics (another male territory).
Milić’s The Living and the Dead as well as Zvonimir Jurić & Goran Dević’s The Blacks are remarkable examples of war films that go beyond the stereotypes (of genre and ideology), and that have finally brought a complex (formally, structurally, thematically) perspective on the war to domestic film production. (Un)surprisingly, there are no female characters in either of the films. For better or worse, the men are the doers, agents, and whatever their agency, they are always in the shot. Sviličić’s Armin and Rušinović’s Buick Riviera are both films about a male-male relationship the development of which drives the plot. The former is a story about a father and son (and the media industry in the postwar zone), the latter is about a chance meeting of a Serb war criminal and a Bosniak refugee on the US territory, bringing back into play the dynamics and complexities of the past war. Schmidt’s Metastases is another surprisingly well-written, well-directed and acted film about urban (moral) decline, told through four stories of four young Zagreb males in their everyday lives of drinking, betting, soccer-watching and wife-beating. The men that inhabit this world may be the victims of an ethically deteriorating society, but women are the ones who take the worst beatings. And accept them as something natural.
The sad paradox, we could say, of the recent years of Croatian cinematic production is that the better the films are getting, the less space for women there seems to be in them—in front of and behind the camera alike. Whereas in its beginnings it was both the ideology and the form that we could hold against Croatian film, today we are tempted to dismiss the question of (gender) ideology more easily, blinded by the light at the end of the tunnel. But perhaps it is time we face the truth. It’s a train, baby. And it has gender written all over it.
Works Cited
Das, Veena. 1995. “National Honor and Practical Kinship: Unwanted Women and Children.” In Conceiving the New World Order. Ed. Faye Ginsburg and Rayna Rapp. Berkley: University of California Press, 212-233.
Enloe, Cynthia. 1990. Bananas, Beaches, and Bases: Making Feminist Sense of International Politics. Berkley: University of California Press.
Freeland, Cynthia. 1996. “Feminist Frameworks for Horror Films.” In Post-Theory. Reconstructing Film Studies. Eds. David Bordwell and Noell Carroll. Madison: University of Minnesota Press, 195-218.
Kandiyoti, Deniz, ed. 1991. Women, Islam, and the State. London: Macmillan.
Interview with Matanić, Kinoeye, Vol. 3, Issue 6, 26 May 2003.
Interview with Jurica Pavičić, Central Europe Review, Vol 2, No 19, 15 May 2000.
Hrvatski filmski ljetopis [The Croatian Film Chronicle] 1995. Vol. 1/2 (1).