Rotterdam Review: Wind, Talk to Me is a Poignant and Vivid Exploration of Grief in Hybrid Form

      The title serves as a heartfelt request rather than a command. Wind, Talk to Me, marking Stefan Djordjevic’s feature debut, initially aimed to portray the director’s ailing mother, Negrica, as she fought cancer in the family’s quaint lakeside home in the Serbian countryside. Following her passing, the film transformed into a piece created in her absence, blending scenes from her final days with footage of family members grappling with her loss. Wind oscillates between past and present, resurrecting Negrica through the memories she left behind. Djordjevic deeply interviews his family while also examining and ultimately renovating his mother’s last refuge, demonstrating the film's focus on Negrica’s connections with both people and physical spaces, whether living or inanimate. Even as the end approached, Negrica felt that the line between herself and the world was fluid enough to allow her to connect with nature and converse with the wind. “Close your eyes and believe,” she tells Djordjevic at the conclusion of the film—a sentiment that echoes from the beginning when he states, “the wind makes wishes come true.”

      The term “elemental” is often carelessly used to describe films sensitive to their natural environments, but it feels particularly appropriate here. In a work dedicated to uncovering every trace of Negrica, nature’s forces are just as significant as any living character; they symbolize repositories of memories and secrets. If Negrica could communicate with the wind, then the gentle breeze surrounding the house must have listened to her. What were her words? What does the wind recall?

      This isn't Djordjevic's first exploration of his family’s history. His 2019 short, The Last Image of Father, followed a dying father seeking someone to care for his only son—a project Djordjevic stated stemmed from his need to process his relationship with his estranged father. However, Wind delves deeper, with a more permeable boundary between fiction and memoir. As Negrica passes away, the original intention to create “a film about mum” shifts. Undeterred, Djordjevic broadens the film’s perspective, inviting other family members into a collective effort to confront her death. Notably, he had previously collaborated with his brother, Boško, one of the few individuals portraying themselves in Wind, for a photography exhibition titled Diary of Mum, showcasing images of Negrica that the siblings displayed in Belgrade in 2020. Wind, regardless, provides glimpses of its initial concept, interspersing scenes shot before his mother’s passing. Some capture tender exchanges between them, with the camera lovingly focused on Negrica in close-ups as Djordjevic speaks from offscreen; others depict her posing for her son around their family home. However, for the most part, Wind contemplates what unfolded after her departure: it’s a narrative reflecting the disorientation that accompanies grief, both emotional and creative.

      Scripted by Djordjevic, Wind unfolds as a series of loosely connected vignettes over several summer days, approximately the time it takes for Stefan and Boško to renovate their mother’s retreat. This constitutes the extent of the plot—perhaps aside from a secondary storyline involving a dog that Stefan accidentally runs over and subsequently adopts, serving as a healing metaphor that might be considered the sole overt moment in a film that skillfully blurs the line between staged and spontaneous events, creating the impression that much was captured in real-time.

      In retrospect, this might be Djordjevic’s most remarkable accomplishment. At the film's outset, a notable scene features Negrica—filmed within a cave, her silhouette faintly illuminated by a torch—rebel against her son's directives on posing: “let me be myself!” While others in Wind may not voice such strong resistance, the entire film hinges on a fruitful tension between unscripted and relatively structured moments. Nonetheless, Wind avoids manipulation to such an extent that it’s nearly surprising to learn that Djordjevic did not operate the camera himself. Shot by Marko Brdar, the film employs static framing that captures individuals from a respectful distance, as if cautious not to interrupt their revelations. There are no close-ups—except for those of Negrica at the film's conclusion—nothing that would distort exchanges or diminish their impact.

      This subtle approach allows Djordjevic to steer clear of cheap sentimentality. Wind may evoke sadness, but this melancholy and the subsequent catharsis feel genuinely justified, arising from the emotional truth rather than contrived circumstances. By picking up a camera and focusing on his family, shifting between candid sequences and more deliberately crafted moments, Djordjevic illustrates that documentary can transcend mere artifice. He also demonstrates how cinema can elevate a profoundly personal connection, such as that between a mother and son, inviting strangers into their world without ever feeling invasive. Negrica’s enduring legacy represented a different way of engaging