‘17’ Review: Kosara Mitić’s Devastating Debut Exposes the Cost of Silence and Complicity [B] Berlinale

There are films that portray sexual violence as isolated tragedy and then there are films that examine the systems that make such tragedy possible. With her blistering debut feature 17, Kosara Mitić aligns herself decisively with the latter. This is not simply the story of one girl’s trauma, but a searing critique of a culture that conditions young people, particularly young women, to equate silence with safety and endurance with strength. 

Mitić opens the film with bracing immediacy. What first appears to be a consensual teenage encounter quickly curdles into something coercive and deeply unbalanced. A handheld camera refuses to look away, hovering uncomfortably close, its intimacy nearly suffocating. This choice will inevitably divide viewers, some of whom may question the need for such explicit proximity. Absence of aesthetic cushioning feels fundamental to the film’s intent. Violence, so often softened into implication or reduced to narrative shorthand, is confronted head on here, rendered with a starkness that denies any safe distance.  At the heart of this unsettling story is Sara (Eva Kostić) and though only seventeen, she carries herself like someone worn down by far more years than she has lived. Hidden beneath oversized layers, her posture turned inward as if in self protection, she moves through her days in a haze of careful detachment. Kostić’s performance is remarkable for its precision and control, because it resists overt dramatics, allowing emotion to simmer beneath the surface. Her silence hums with strain. A clenched jaw, a momentary pause or a breath suspended just slightly too long. Each detail accumulates, creating a portrait defined not by grand gestures, but by the quiet weight of everything left unsaid. 

The story unfolds during a school trip from North Macedonia to Greece, a transitional space that mirrors Sara’s inner turmoil. What begins as typical adolescent chaos gradually turns volatile. The boys, especially the domineering Filip (Dame Joveski), operate with unchecked entitlement, disguising aggression as humor and cruelty as teasing. They push boundaries because no one truly stops them. The teachers embody a quieter failure, preoccupied with logistics and discipline while missing the emotional tension building around them. The film makes clear that indifference can be just as harmful as open hostility. Cinematographer Naum Doksevski heightens the tension through relentless closeness. The handheld camera stays tight on Sara, following her through narrow spaces with stark, naturalistic simplicity. There is no stylistic gloss, only an austere realism that denies distance and forces us into her discomfort. The film’s most harrowing moment unfolds during a hotel party, where laughter and music echo while violence occurs just nearby. The contrast is excruciating. Mitić underscores how easily cruelty coexists with celebration and how proximity does not guarantee intervention. In this world, silence is not passive. It is a choice. 

As 17 unfolds, it moves beyond isolated acts to explore their cumulative toll. Sara’s trauma surfaces gradually, deepening her isolation and complicating her relationship to her own body. At the same time, she forms a fragile bond with Lina (Martina Danilovska). Their connection is tentative and imperfect, offering not salvation but a small break in the cycle of silence. Co-written with Ognjen Sviličić, the script occasionally feels relentless, stacking misfortune to an almost overwhelming degree. Still, the film avoids exploitation. The violence is never stylized or sensationalized, focusing instead on consequence rather than shock.

Over the course of the film, the focus gradually moves from raw physical immediacy to a more internal, psychological reckoning. Without graphic excess, Kosara Mitić builds toward a climax that feels both unavoidable and crushing. Eva Kostić rises to the moment with a performance of searing intensity, her anguish registering less as melodrama than as revelation. Sara’s pain becomes an indictment of the community that failed her, exposing the illusion of silence as protection and revealing it instead as something corrosive. Crucially, 17 refuses to be reduced to a culturally specific cautionary tale. Though grounded in the realities of North Macedonian adolescence, its examination of patriarchal conditioning, peer complicity and institutional passivity resonates universally. The film argues that violence is rarely sustained by singular villains, but by systems and everyday behaviors left unquestioned. For a debut, the formal confidence is striking. Mitić maintains tonal precision and emotional consistency throughout, avoiding heavy handed moralizing. The film’s politics emerge naturally, shaped through careful observation rather than didactic declaration.

17 is not an easy experience. It exhausts, unsettles and at times feels almost unbearable. Yet that lack of comfort is precisely what gives it power. By forcing viewers to sit with what they might otherwise look away from, the film turns distant sympathy into something far more immediate and uneasy. In the process, Kosara Mitić emerges as a filmmaker willing to confront both her characters and her audience without compromise.

Grade: B

This review is from the 2026 Berlin International Film Festival, where 17 had its world premiere in the Perspective section.