’17’ Berlinale Review: A Brutal Portrait of Adolescence

Filmmakers from Eastern Europe have often gravitated toward a kind of realism that feels markedly harsher than that favored by many of their Western counterparts. It’s not a rule, of course, but audiences frequently approach films from this region expecting a form of brutal honesty that flirts with the shocking—especially in works committed to a naturalistic register. In that sense, 17 does not disappoint. Or rather, it doesn’t—provided one can stomach those extremes of human behavior. For viewers who find such levels of rawness ethically troubling or emotionally overwhelming, the experience is likely to be very different.

The film opens deceptively, with what appears to be a fairly typical scene of teenage sex. Soon, however, the frame widens and it becomes clear that it’s not a boy and a girl, but two boys with a girl. That alone wouldn’t necessarily be an issue, except that seconds later it’s obvious the situation is far less consensual and far more abrasive and violent than it initially seemed. We then meet Sara (Eva Kostic), the girl at the center of that encounter, in a full shot as she prepares for a school trip that will take her from Macedonia, where she lives, to Greece. Lost in thought, she packs her bag without really engaging in the household conversation. When her father gives her the usual advice and warnings, she nods along as if on autopilot.

Sara’s withdrawn demeanor doesn’t change much once she meets up with her classmates. Taciturn and distant, she sits alone and barely tolerates the chatter of Lina (Martina Danilovska), a schoolmate no one else seems to pay attention to. The students pile onto the bus shouting, singing, drinking, challenging the teachers, trading looks and comments. Sara mostly watches, fixated on another friend, Nina (Eva Stojchevska), who appears indifferent to her presence. As the trip progresses, things spiral further out of control, with the students’ behavior becoming increasingly unmanageable for the teachers—both on the bus and later at the hotel.

There, much to her dismay (she had paid extra for a single room), Sara is assigned to share with Lina and Nina. Her emotional distance remains intact—until Lina, after a few too many drinks, heads upstairs to a party the boys are throwing in another room. Sara begs her not to go but Lina, drunk and dismissive, ignores her and goes anyway. Sara follows. From that point on, the film intensifies, growing darker and more dramatic, pushing Sara not only to act but to finally confide in Lina the secret she has been carrying. With that confession, her ordeal takes on an entirely new dimension, and both girls realize they’re trapped in a situation that offers no easy way out.

Dense, suffocating, and at times devastating, 17 paints a bitter portrait of adolescence. While the film avoids sweeping generalizations—there are a few kind, decent classmates—the overall impression is of a group of aggressive, violent, defiant teenagers who seem utterly beyond adult control. As in Adolescence, the Macedonian film explores a world defined by pressure, betrayal, abuse, and mistreatment, most often (though not exclusively) inflicted by boys upon girls. Sara and Lina understand that there is no real space for them to speak up or complain; an unspoken pact of silence governs certain behaviors. Break it, and there will be consequences.

In its second half, once key truths come to light, director Mitic shifts the film’s focus almost entirely to the fallout of those revelations. Here she stages the film’s most confronting and difficult scenes—moments that may prompt some viewers to look away, or wish they could—depicting the consequences of a culture steeped in abuse, violence, and cruelty. What ultimately keeps 17 from collapsing into outright nihilism is the bond that forms between the two girls: a fragile but vital relationship built on mutual support. And, crucially, the possibility they allow themselves to imagine—that despite everything, another kind of life might still be possible.