The 1969 Yugoslav war epic The Battle of Neretva stands as the apotheosis of the nation’s cinematic ambition, a sprawling monument to both the Partisan mythos and the technical prowess of its film industry. While few critics might anoint it the greatest Yugoslav film, its sheer scale, political significance, and unflinching dedication to spectacle secure its place as a cornerstone of Balkan cinema history. Directed by Veljko Bulajić, the film epitomises the Partisan film genre, while its grandeur, funded by state coffers and international co-producers, remains unmatched in the region’s filmography. A product of Tito’s regime, the film sought to immortalise the wartime valour of the Yugoslav People’s Liberation Army, yet its legacy transcends propaganda, offering a visceral, if ideologically charged, meditation on sacrifice and survival.
Bulajić, already renowned for his 1962 epic Kozara (a reconstruction of a pivotal 1942 battle), approached The Battle of Neretva as both a thematic sequel and a grander technical experiment. Commissioned to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the eponymous 1943 battle in modern-day Bosnia-Herzegovina, the film expands Bulajić’s fascination with wartime “set pieces,” blending historical fidelity with myth-making . Where Kozara focused on the defence of a mountain stronghold, Neretva dramatises the Partisans’ near-miraculous escape from Axis encirclement, a narrative pivot from defiance to cunning. Bulajić’s direction here is less intimate than bombastic, prioritising panoramic battles and collective heroism over individual psychology — a choice that would later draw criticism but underscores his commitment to the socialist ethos of communal struggle.
Set in January 1943, the film opens amid the Axis’ Fall Weiss offensive, a multi-pronged assault involving German, Italian, Ustaše, and Chetnik forces determined to eradicate Tito’s Partisans. After retreating from western part of Bosnia, the Partisans — burdened by thousands of wounded and civilians — find themselves trapped near the Neretva River. Bulajić meticulously reconstructs their tactical genius: feigning a northern retreat, they destroy their sole bridge, misleading Axis forces while secretly rebuilding it to cross and ambush the Chetniks. This operational deception, though historically accurate, is rendered with a mythic sheen, portraying the Partisans as both underdogs and master strategists. The film’s pacing oscillates between frenetic battle sequences and quieter, pathos-laden moments — typhus-stricken soldiers, civilian refugees — underscoring the human cost of victory .
With an estimated $12 million budget (the largest in Yugoslav history), Neretva’s production mirrored the scale of its subject. The Yugoslav People’s Army loaned 10,000 soldiers as extras, while Soviet T-34 tanks — repurposed as German “Tigers” — thundered across Bosnian landscapes, later reused in Hollywood’s Kelly’s Heroes (1970) . Three villages were constructed solely for destruction, and a full-scale railway bridge over the Neretva was blown up twice (unsuccessfully due to obstructive smoke) before miniatures in Prague studios achieved the desired effect. Such profligacy drew scrutiny, yet it immortalised the film as a technical marvel, blending practical effects with a documentary-like immediacy that CGI-era epics lack.
Financed by Yugoslav, Italian, West German, and American studios, Neretva’s multinational pedigree allowed Bulajić to humanise Axis characters — a rarity in socialist cinema. Hardy Krüger’s Colonel Kranzer evolves from a stereotypical Prussian officer into a grudging admirer of Partisan resilience, while Franco Nero’s Italian defector, Captain Riva, embodies the anti-fascist “turn” (loosely based on real-life Captain Mario Riva) . The casting of Cold War icons Orson Welles (as a Chetnik senator) and Yul Brynner (a stoic demolition expert) — both of whom died on the same day in 1985 — alongside Soviet stars Sergei Bondarchuk and Oleg Vidov, served as a symbolic détente, bridging East-West divides through shared cinematic labour . Bondarchuk, fresh from his War and Peace Oscar win, even advised Bulajić on award strategies, though the film ultimately lost to Costa-Gavras’ Z .
True to socialist realist tenets, Neretva prioritises the “people” over individuals. Protagonists are archetypes: the stoic engineer (Brynner), the typhus-riddled commander (Vidov), the defiant poet-statesman (Hajrudin Hadžikarić’s Vladimir Nazor). Characters’ deaths — often abrupt and unceremonious — amplify the film’s anti-war message, though Bulajić occasionally succumbs to melodrama, as in Stipe’s (played by Boris Dvornik) PTSD-driven execution of POWs . Only Curt Jürgens’ General Lohring, modelled on executed war criminal Alexander Löhr, emerges as a nuanced antagonist, his icy pragmatism contrasting with the Partisans’ fervour. While critics decried the lack of character depth, this anonymity arguably reinforces the film’s central thesis: war erases individuality, reducing humanity to cogs in a bloody machine.
The film’s most jarring moments stem from heavy-handed ideology. A mobile hospital erupting into Padaj silo nepravdo (“Fall, Tyranny Injustice”), a 1900s socialist anthem, feels contrived, juxtaposing wartime grit with didacticism . Yet elsewhere, Bulajić’s commitment to authenticity shines: mud-caked uniforms, improvised weaponry, and the haunting depiction of typhus wards — where the sick are both pitied and feared — ground the spectacle in visceral realism . The director’s refusal to sanitise violence (Partisans execute prisoners; Ustashas massacre civilians) lends the film a grim credibility, even as it lionises the communist cause.
Domestically, Neretva was hailed as a cultural triumph, though it never rivalled the popularity of action-driven Partisan films like Walter Defends Sarajevo. Internationally, its Oscar nomination marked a first for Yugoslavia, while truncated Western releases (dubbed and rescored by Bernard Herrmann) introduced global audiences to Balkan heroism, albeit through a diluted lens. Critics praised its battles as “among the most spectacular of the era,” though narrative coherence suffered in shortened versions.
The film’s influence peaked in 1973 with Sutjeska, an unofficial sequel depicting the 1943 Battle of Sutjeska. Directed by Stipe Delić instead of Bulajić, and starring a miscast Richard Burton as Tito, the film’s critical and commercial failure underscored Neretva’s singular alchemy of budget, talent, and timing .
The dissolution of Yugoslavia scattered the film’s rights, leaving it in legal limbo. Multiple cuts — from a butchered 102-minute U.S. dub to a 175-minute original — further muddied its legacy, with many versions omitting Herrmann’s haunting score . Efforts to restore the director’s cut remain sporadic, consigning Neretva to a fragmented afterlife.
For Bulajić, Neretva proved a double-edged sword. Lauded by the regime, he was scorned by Yugoslavia’s Black Wave auteurs as a conformist, a reputation compounded by the film’s final act — a glorification of Chetnik defeat that inflamed Serb nationalists in later deacdes. Yet time has softened these critiques, reframing Neretva not as propaganda, but as a flawed yet audacious testament to a vanished nation’s cinematic ambition.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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