– The Serbian filmmaker discusses faith, violence and the mechanisms underpinning power, all subjects tackled in his latest feature, inspired by a real-life case
(© Dragan Vildovic)
Inspired by the real-life case of a Serbian Orthodox priest who ran rehabilitation centres for drug addicts using some brutal methods, Our Father is locking horns in the Transilvania Film Festival’s Competition ahead of its Serbian release in the autumn. Director Goran Stanković elaborated on the idea behind the film and on the reaction of the Orthodox Church locally.
Cineuropa: What first drew you to this story?
Goran Stanković: Like most people in Serbia, I first encountered this real-life case through the leaked video that circulated online years ago, showing a priest beating addicts with a shovel inside a rehabilitation centre. At first, it felt impossible to understand – why would something like this happen in a place connected to the Church? Then, we learned that this was supposedly a method of “treatment”. Two years later, after a public outcry briefly shut the centre down, the priest opened new facilities and eventually beat one of the addicts to death. That was the moment the authorities finally reacted.
What interested me was not only the crime itself, but the societal reaction to it. Many people still defended him, saying that addicts needed a “firm hand”. Others saw it as inhuman abuse. Those opposing viewpoints reflected something much larger about society.
Were you aiming to make a critique of blind faith and ideology?
Not exactly. During the research process, I realised it was more about the misuse of power. Addiction, religion and authority are misused in this case. The priest built an entire system around Christianity and used faith as justification for violence and control.
The rehabilitation commune itself became like a miniature authoritarian society: isolated men, one unquestionable leader, and rules imposed through fear. Living in Serbia, where we’ve had authoritarian political structures for years, I couldn’t avoid seeing the parallels. The film became a warning about what happens when abuse is recognised too late. Many people genuinely think that harsh punishment can “fix” people and that the priest had “saved” the addicts, but for me, that argument collapses once someone is killed.
Did you ever try to meet the priest himself?
I could have, but I chose not to. I wasn’t interested in giving him another platform. I did, however, try to understand him psychologically – he wasn’t simply a sadist, but rather a narcissistic personality, someone with a constant need for admiration and control. He genuinely started with the conviction that he was helping addicts. But once your identity depends on being “the saviour”, admitting failure becomes impossible. The violence escalates because the system itself must be protected at all costs.
The film ends on a very bleak note, without offering much hope. Why did you decide on such a conclusion?
If the story had ended with redemption, viewers could have left the cinema reassured that terrible things somehow resolve themselves. I wanted the audience to feel disturbed and ask themselves: “How do we stop situations like this before they become irreversible?”
For me, hopelessness is actually a call to action. These systems don’t collapse by themselves. Parents, media and the Church all knew what was happening. Society ignored the warning signs. That’s where the responsibility lies.
How did the Serbian Orthodox Church react to the project?
Before making the film, I contacted them because I wanted transparency. I shared the script and asked for support. Their response was that the project was “anti-Serbian” and “anti-Orthodox”. Refusing to engage also meant refusing to distance themselves from someone who committed murder under the Church’s protection. Instead of saying, “This does not represent us,” they treated any discussion of the case as an attack on the institution itself. The Serbian Church is deeply connected to political power, so I understood this would be sensitive territory. We even had to build our own church set because no real church would allow us to shoot there.
You assembled a remarkable cast, led by Boris Isaković. Tell us more about this choice.
Boris has an extraordinary presence. When he enters a room, the atmosphere changes immediately. I needed an actor capable of portraying this man with complexity – not as a monstrous caricature, but as someone who truly believes in his own mission. If you reduce him to pure evil, the film becomes simplistic. Boris understood that the danger lies precisely in the character’s conviction that he is doing the right thing.
Meanwhile, Vuk Perović, who plays the lead, has both sensitivity and inner ambition, which were essential for the role. I tend to work with actors who use minimal expression and stay close to realism because the film itself is deeply grounded in reality.
The film still hasn’t premiered in Serbia. What kind of reaction are you anticipating?
International audiences understand the film as a story about authoritarianism and abuse, but Serbia is where the real conversation needs to happen. The country is politically divided, and even the festival scene is affected by tensions between institutions and artists. I don’t know yet how the Serbian premiere will unfold, but I hope the film starts a genuine discussion. If audiences leave arguing about it, then the movie has done its job.
