Muri­na

A ​‘muri­na’ is anoth­er term for a Mediter­ranean moray eel, a del­i­ca­cy which teenag­er Juli­ja (a won­der­ful Graci­ja Fil­ipović) and her father Ante (Leon Lučev) hunt with spears at the bot­tom of the Adri­at­ic Sea.

In Croa­t­ian writer/​director Antone­ta Ala­mat Kusijanović’s assured debut, co-pro­duced by Mar­tin Scors­ese, the sea is both a haven of tran­quil­li­ty and a well of sim­mer­ing desire. This area of the Croa­t­ian coast­line, where the sparkling sea is inter­rupt­ed by jagged out­crops, is an appro­pri­ate­ly beau­ti­ful but harsh set­ting for this sharp-edged com­ing of age story.

Juli­ja is a qui­et, solemn young woman who prefers the peace­ful obliv­ion of div­ing to the com­pa­ny of her par­ents. Her father is resent­ful of his mea­gre lot in life as a fish­er­man, while her moth­er Nela (Dan­i­ca Ćurčić) is a list­less for­mer local beau­ty queen now trapped in a love­less mar­riage. Ignored by her self-involved par­ents, Juli­ja inevitably falls under the spell of the charis­mat­ic Javier (Cliff Cur­tis), an old friend of her father’s who made his for­tune abroad and has now returned to his hum­ble roots.

Swan­ning in on his yacht, Javier is sup­pos­ed­ly inter­est­ed in Ante’s scheme to devel­op a piece of land with a sin­is­ter past into a lux­u­ri­ous resort, but it’s Nela who proves more com­pelling. The stage is set for a Freudi­an tug-of-war for Javier’s affec­tion (and wealth) between father, moth­er and daugh­ter, with each want­i­ng to use him to escape their unhappiness.

Muri­na is unset­tling from the out­set thanks to an ear­ly close-up of an impaled eel squirm­ing in a buck­et. Dead or dying ani­mals can be rather a hack­neyed visu­al metaphor for the loss of inno­cence, but Ala­mat Kusijanović’s film avoids cliché and easy answers. Does Juli­ja see Javier as the insti­ga­tor of her dreams? Or has his atten­tion sparked a sex­u­al awak­en­ing? Is sub­mit­ting to the con­trol of men all the world has to offer her? Moth­er and daugh­ter are both forced to grap­ple with what it means to be desired and whether it can ever lead to true liberation.

Hélène Lou­vart, who shot Mag­gie Gyl­len­haal​’s The Lost Daugh­ter and Eliza Hittman​’s Nev­er Rarely Some­times Always, took home the Cam­era d’Or in Cannes for Murina’s unshowy but exquis­ite cin­e­matog­ra­phy. The oppres­sive­ly bright sun is coun­tered by lurk­ing shad­ows – a vision of par­adise soured by repressed vio­lent and sex­u­al urges.

Anchored by four very strong per­for­mances, Muri­na is a taut psy­chodra­ma that makes sub­tle but impact­ful state­ments about misog­y­ny and per­son­al choice. Its con­clu­sion may not be quite as dra­mat­ic as the esca­lat­ing ten­sions sug­gest, but it’s an accom­plished debut from a writer and direc­tor with an ear for sharp, nat­u­ral­is­tic dia­logue and an eye for strik­ing visuals.

Lit­tle White Lies is com­mit­ted to cham­pi­oning great movies and the tal­ent­ed peo­ple who make them.

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