Yes, a necessary and highly relevant film about post-October 7th Israel
A jazz pianist is tasked with writing the new national anthem, but soon finds himself grappling with his conscience. In cinemas.
While controversies continue over Naza (2026), with the Israeli government even investigating the leak of classified information - implicitly admitting that what was told in the intense documentary awarded in Venice was true - and openly threatening retaliation against the directors, another film that last year enraged Tel Aviv's powerful elite arrives in Italian cinemas, unfortunately with limited distribution.
We are talking about Yes, an autochthonous production - albeit co-financed by France, Cyprus, and Germany - directed by Navad Lapid, already winner of the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival with Synonymes (2019), which directly targets post-October 7th in his homeland. A homeland he no longer recognizes, and which becomes the territory for this fierce, very bitter satire against those in command who decide the fate of thousands of people. But also a work that inserts segments of a much more tragic and dramatic reality into fiction, a reality that is often not shown and is sugarcoated by multiple sources.
When saying yes hurts
The story of Yes, a title that is a declaration of intent which turns into that significant closing question, is that of Y., a jazz pianist who, along with his partner Yasmine, a dancer and performer, earns a living by performing at the luxurious parties of the Israeli elite. The two are deeply disillusioned with their country, but at the same time cannot do without the money and privilege in which they live. Parents of young Noah, they constantly seek a balance between economic success and the desire to maintain their artistic integrity.
Artistic integrity is put to the test when, during a yacht party, Y. is approached by Avinoam, a man who works in communications, who offers him a very lucrative job: he must compose a new national anthem, destined to represent the new Israel after the tragic events of October 7th. The lyrics must be a patriotic song celebrating the army's courage, and Y. accepts, but soon finds himself grappling with his conscience.
Abysses and footholds
A feverish film, a desperate musical that moves on the abyss, with the protagonist being dragged deeper and deeper into a world he doesn't want for himself and for those he loves. The first few minutes, between carefree parties, dance lessons, and so on, pass quickly, and in that frenzy, news about Gaza and the hundreds of deaths reaches the protagonists via smartphone messages reporting such news. News that appears so transfigured, overtly relegated to the background by a direction that exacerbates nationalism to become a ruthless critique of it, confronting the nation itself with the demons that are consuming it.
It is no coincidence that a significant passage of the film is set near Gaza, at a safe distance where one can observe the smoke and rubble without the risk of direct consequences. To watch but not touch, so as not to feel guilty, to pretend that nothing is happening and that the fault lies with others, that revenge justifies everything. And when the anthem is written, with those words that burn like fire, that children's song - real footage appears, with censored faces, of these young choristers who were actually called to sing words of death - becomes a modern museum of horrors.
But the director's great merit is not to rely on rhetoric or easy emotional solutions, quite the opposite. Yes delves deep into the dark sides of society, ignites contrasts to make them a cynical caricature, in a staging that is at times thunderous and exaggerated, starting with its two-and-a-half-hour runtime - including credits - potentially off-putting, but which becomes necessary to give ample, painful, breathing room to the whirlwind of events. Yes, yes, and again yes, to literally lick the feet of the powerful, to ensure an affluent life at the expense of others' suffering: the screenplay says everything without explicitly stating it, but working intelligently on the unsaid, on the unseen, on the heart of darkness that consumes everything and everyone.
Ariel Bronz, a theater actor of Ukrainian origin, is perfect in bringing to life such a complex character full of nuances - not just metaphorical, as he even dyes his hair platinum blonde at one point in the story - in a cast that does what it needs to with precise diligence, embodying demons and cassandras of a lavishly monstrous stage.