Nuclear energy has divided public opinion for years. Perhaps that explains why the documentary I'm So Sorry, which screened at Cannes in 2021, passed almost unnoticed here—except at the Across Asia Film Festival in Cagliari, which presented its Italian premiere.
The film offers viewers reflection rather than information, in the poetic, visually meticulous style that has made Liang Zhao one of China's most prominent documentary filmmakers. It brings us close to Chernobyl, where a handful of people live in isolation, having chosen not to leave; near Fukushima, to the temporary housing of evacuees whose homes remain intact despite the nuclear disaster; and to Germany, where a nuclear plant is being dismantled.
Traveling to Belarus, the director wants us to see how children born with severe disabilities caused by radiation exposure live their lives. These are among the most moving scenes—but inevitably, they are also manipulative. While a mother caring for a son with limited mobility offers a portrait of profound maternal love, close-ups of other gravely ill young people (unaware they are being filmed) venture close to a pornography of suffering, deployed cynically to buttress the director's argument.
The film presents mainly the negative consequences that people across different latitudes have had to endure, never addressing the possible advantages of nuclear energy—economic, political, environmental. It leaves the viewer in a state of unbearable unease. By design, it sidesteps harder questions: What are the best alternatives, if any exist? Can we truly be confident they cause no equal or greater harm to human health and the planet? Do we really have no hope of living in greater harmony with it?
My Sunny Maad, an animated film presented at the Rome Film Festival, takes us into entirely different territory. The story draws from a book by journalist Petra Procházková, who covered multiple war zones for her work, particularly in former Soviet regions—including Afghanistan. Like the book's protagonist, Helena is Czech. She falls in love with an Afghan man and marries him, moving to Kabul. She is fortunate to marry into a progressive family—with one notable exception: her brother-in-law. Yet in a country where she has lost her Western freedoms, she must be careful how she carries herself.
Unable to have children, Helena and her husband decide to adopt Maad, a gentle, quiet boy whom no one else wants because of a cranial malformation. The love the finally-accepted child feels for his parents is returned in full: a ray of sunshine in a country already shrouded, for women and mothers, in dark clouds. Her love for her son helps Helena endure the ravages of civil violence engulfing her adoptive home.
Watching Michaela Pavlátová's film in light of recent events fills the heart with sorrow. The film's original way of portraying Afghan society—blending Western and local perspectives—ultimately rings hollow. It ends with a message of hope and resilience in the face of hardship, rooted in the profound bond Helena shares with her son Maad. A message that, sadly, no longer seems to accord with the reality on the ground.