Underground (1995)

Underground is the rare war film that feels like a feverish folk opera: boisterous, tragic, hilarious, and somehow all of those at once, as if history itself were throwing a party in a collapsing building. Emir Kusturica stages Yugoslavia’s decades of upheaval with reckless energy and visual invention, letting brass-band exuberance and surreal comedy rub against genuine heartbreak until you can’t tell whether to laugh, wince, or mourn—and that’s the point. The performances (especially Predrag “Miki” Manojlović and Lazar Ristovski) give the madness a human pulse, turning political allegory into something intimate: friendships curdling, love turning transactional, and survival becoming its own kind of delusion. It’s long, loud, and unapologetically chaotic, so it won’t suit viewers craving restraint, but if you want cinema with ambition to burn—equal parts spectacle and gut-punch—this one is unforgettable.

Underground is trying to be a wild, tragicomic fable about Yugoslavia’s 20th century—part party, part nightmare, and part political allegory—told with Kusturica’s trademark chaos. If you don’t enjoy three-hour epics that sprawl, shout, and pile on surreal set pieces until you’re either exhilarated or exhausted, this will feel like work rather than entertainment. It’s also the kind of film where the politics and historical framing can become the main event, so if you want a clean, “neutral” war story, you may find it provocative in ways you didn’t sign up for. That said, the performances are committed and the imagery is unforgettable; just go in expecting maximalism, not restraint.