Toma (2021)

Toma feels special because it treats a singer’s life not as a checklist of milestones, but as a lived-in, smoky-night ballad—messy, romantic, and aching in all the right places. Milan Marić inhabits Toma Zdravković with the kind of raw, unshowy charisma that makes you believe every lyric cost him something, while the film’s music isn’t decoration so much as the language the story breathes in. The vibe is intimate and nostalgic, steeped in café atmospheres and the bittersweet pull of fame, friendship, and longing, with just enough historical texture to give the emotions weight. If you’re allergic to melancholy or slow-burning character portraits, it may feel indulgent—but if you want a drama that sings with soul even when it’s quiet, this one earns your time.

Toma is clearly aiming for a big, heartfelt tribute to a beloved Serbian folk icon, leaning hard into romance, melancholy, and the myth of the tortured bohemian artist. When it works, it’s carried by Milan Marić’s committed performance and the music’s emotional pull, which can be genuinely affecting if you already have a connection to that world. But be prepared for a long, nostalgic, episodic biopic that sometimes feels more like a reverent greatest-hits memory tour than a sharply shaped drama with fresh insight. If you’re not into music-driven life stories, don’t have patience for sentimental pacing, or want a more critical, complex portrait instead of a warm legend-building approach, this may test your attention even if you respect what it’s trying to honor.