Shoghakat Vardanyan, 1489, 2023
Access the Croatian original here.
When the decades-long conflict over Nagorno-Karabakh between Armenia and Azerbaijan flared up again in 2020, Soghomon Vardanyan was serving in the army. He was just 21 years old–a student, a saxophonist, with his family waiting for him to come home. Twelve days after all communication with him ceased, his sister Shoghakat Vardanyan began recording a diary documenting their search for the missing member.
Vardanyan, an academically trained pianist, mentions in the film’s opening subtitles that 1489 is her first venture into filmmaking, a medium she has found herself working with by chance. As she has expressed in numerous interviews, cinema has a unique ability to testify–a capability unmatched by a simple statement, sound, or image. It communicates a richer, more complex experience, resonating both historically and intimately with audiences.
Titled after the military code for soldiers missing in action, 1489 (2023) operates effectively on both personal and historical levels. It is a structurally and stylistically a cohesive work, with its painful subject matter laid bare from the start. Yet, the film eschews traditional exposition, explicit context only in the closing subtitles.
Vardanyan uses the language of cinema to reveal her family’s daily life: her father’s contemplation in his studio, where sculptures and drawings once took shape; family conversations; late-night news broadcasts fresh from the battlefield, still untranslated into Armenian. Vardanyan avoids both melodrama and myths, yet doesn’t shy away from emotionally charged moments. Symbolism permeats some scenes, such as that of the father catching a bird and releasing it from the balcony–a poingnant metaphor for both hope and grief.
The film–winner of multiple awards, including two at IDFA 2023–masterfully conveys emotions of loss, uncertainty, and suffering, while maintaining high aesthetic and compositional standards. Vardanyan’s grasp of framing and space is remarkable, particularly for a debut filmmaker working independently. Using a mobile phone camera without a pre-established structure, she improvises, often guiding family members on how to appear in front of the lens. Her persistence, bolstered by encouragement from a journalism mentor, gives the film its raw, authentic edge.
Vardanyan extended the filming over two years, capturing the cyclical experience shared by many families affected by war. In the Balkans after the 1990s, the reception of this film has a special dimension because identification with the seen in almost inevitable. Over 3,800 Armenians were officially killed during the Second Nagorno-Karabakh War, with unofficial estimates exceeding 5,000. More than 200 remain missing, like Soghomon, and at least 80 are prisoners in Azerbaijan. Even before the Soviet Union’s collapse, Armenians were frequently displaced from the disputed region–a trend that continued into 2023. Against this backdrop, 1489 assumes a deeply anti-colonial, freedom-loving stance. While it cannot assign meaning to suffering like Soghomon’s, it honors his memory and that of countless others, even as it acknowledges Armenia’s defeat in the 2020 war.
Among the film’s most striking moments is the director’s confrontation with the camera. Standing with her freshly shaved head before a photo of her brother, her physical resemblance to him is startling. In a later scene, her father, searching for his daughter’s cut hair, gently touches her head—a quiet yet powerful culmination of his role within the fractured family. This moment, rich in symbolism, emphasizes his centrality in their grieving microcosm.
However, the film subtly questions the patriarchal and martial undertones of such mourning rituals. By cutting her hair—a practice rooted in medieval Christian mourning traditions and common across cultures—Vardanyan aligns herself with her brother’s loss, but also highlights how war disproportionately frames suffering through male lineage. The film reflects on the enduring perception of war as the loss of fatherland, identity, and masculinity, while raising deeper questions about how women’s grief is often subsumed within this narrative.