Adam’s Afraid (2024), a Hungarian student film by Mátyás Kovács, takes place during a war in an alternate reality and is infused with a tension that constantly keeps us on edge. But one question lingers throughout: Who is the enemy in this war? The film intentionally leaves this ambiguous, focusing not on the war itself but on the internal conflict of its characters. We never find out who they are fighting against. What matters is that a war has come, and the real battle is within the home, within the family, and within the heart of the protagonist.
We follow a dedicated married couple attempting to flee a military draft. They have already planned their escape from the country and are stopping at the girl’s parent’s house to tell them that they are running away. But they realize that the parents might not let them, which is why Adam and his wife are caught in a bind. Adam wants to run, but his wife is quickly beginning to side with her parents. Until the sirens go off and bomber planes approach when she must choose her side.
The wife’s indecision stands as the film’s emotional core. She does not make up her mind until the last possible moment, torn between two loves – one that promises escape and another that ties her to her homeland and family. Her hesitation is palpable and speaks to the weight of a choice that cannot be made lightly. In this way, the film captures the overwhelming uncertainty that war brings to personal relationships, leaving the viewer questioning how one can choose between the love of a spouse and the deep-rooted love of family.
Visually, the film enhances this sense of internal turmoil. The couple’s quiet act of holding hands in a moving car captures a fleeting moment of unity as the opening scene, but the storm is approaching faster than they can arrive at their destination. The old house they return to is more than just a setting; it becomes a character in its own right, steeped in memories and survival. They have arrived at a family house. The way the camera frames this place, worn, dark and weathered, speaks volumes about its role in holding the family together through generations of hardship. The family dinner scene is particularly striking. The camera lingers on faces, capturing the warmth of shared meals and the subtle distance between each family member. These moments of closeness are juxtaposed with the mounting tension, creating a visual unease that matches the growing uncertainty.
The cross of the girl’s father, passed down through generations of survivors, is another poignant symbol. It represents more than just faith; it embodies a way of being, an inherited sense of duty and survival. It serves as both a talisman of protection and a burden, reminding us that the family’s survival comes with its own cost. In one of the most quietly powerful moments, the father hurriedly drinks the last bottle of grape raki. The act itself is ordinary, but the weight of it is substantial. Is he drowning his fear or gathering the courage he needs to face what is coming? The film leaves this question unanswered, allowing the quiet tension of the moment to speak for itself.
When the bombs strike, the violence of the house’s shaking mirrors the protagonists’ inner turmoil. The scene before they run to the basement is charged with hesitation – each character’s movement, each hesitation, feels like a decision of monumental importance. The husband’s desperate plea, bag in his hand, waiting outside after leaving the house freezes time, capturing the rawness of their shared fear and love.
The daughter’s face during these moments encapsulates the heart of the film. She is not only afraid of keeping herself safe, but of the choice she is about to make. Torn between the passionate love for her husband and the deep-rooted love for her family, she chooses to stay with her father. But just as we come to terms with her decision, another explosion shakes the air, and the film cuts to black.
This final moment leaves us with one crucial, unanswered question: Which love truly saves us? The love that offers escape and promises a new future, or the love that ties us to our origins, to a place and people we cannot abandon, even when destruction looms? The film’s power lies in its refusal to answer this question definitively. It challenges the audience to confront their own understanding of love, loyalty, and survival, and forces us to grapple with the ambiguity of both personal and national identity. Through its careful attention to detail, the film transforms what could have been a simple story of choice into a profound exploration of what love really means when it is tested by war.
