Film Review: Walter Defends Sarajevo (Valter brani Sarajevo, 1972)

History, as the adage goes, is written by the victors. Yet cinema—particularly war cinema—has a peculiar habit of rewriting that history in ways both subtle and profound, reshaping narratives to suit the sensibilities of different eras and audiences. Few films exemplify this phenomenon as vividly as Walter Defends Sarajevo (1972), directed by Hajrudin Krvavac, a titan of the Yugoslav Partisan film genre. Initially conceived as state-sanctioned propaganda to glorify the Communist narrative of resistance during World War II, the film transcended its origins to become a box-office sensation in China, a cult classic in its home country, and a symbol of civic resilience in post-Yugoslav Bosnia. This duality—its existence as both ideological artifact and populist entertainment—makes it a fascinating case study in how cinema can evolve over time, shedding its original purpose to assume new, often contradictory meanings.

At its core, Walter Defends Sarajevo belongs to the Partisan film tradition, a subgenre of Yugoslav cinema that emerged in the 1960s and 1970s to mythologise the Communist-led resistance against Axis occupation (1941–1945). These films, often grandly budgeted and meticulously choreographed, served as cinematic monuments to the "People’s Liberation Struggle," a phrase central to the Yugoslav Communist Party’s historiography. The movement’s hero, Josip Broz Tito, was its symbolic linchpin, but individual films focused on local heroes whose sacrifices embodied the broader narrative of multi-ethnic unity against fascism. In this context, Walter Defends Sarajevo centres on Vladimir Perić (1919–1945), a real-life Communist resistance leader in Sarajevo who orchestrated sabotage operations against German forces until his death in April 1945, at the very eve of the city’s liberation. Yet Krvavac’s film, co-written with Đorđe Lebović, Momo Kapor, and Savo Pređo, transforms Perić into the eponymous "Walter," a phantom-like figure whose mythic status far outstrips his historical counterpart. This deliberate blurring of fact and fiction—where a man becomes a symbol—lies at the heart of the film’s enduring appeal.

The narrative unfolds in autumn 1944, as the Third Reich scrambles to salvage its crumbling Balkan front. German divisions retreat from Greece, relying on fuel supplies from Sarajevo to Višegrad, a key logistical hub. The SS, led by the cunning Colonel von Dietrich (Hanjo Hasse), faces a persistent threat: the underground resistance network orchestrated by the elusive Walter. The plot hinges on a clever twist: Walter, though revered by the Partisans, is a cipher, his true identity known only to a handful. Exploiting this ambiguity, von Dietrich deploys a double agent, Kondor (Dragomir Bojanić "Gidra"), who poses as Walter to infiltrate the resistance. The resulting chaos—sabotaged operations, betrayed comrades, and mass executions—sets the stage for a tense cat-and-mouse game between the occupiers and the Partisans. Enter "Pilot" (Velimir "Bata" Živojinović), a grizzled fighter who assumes the role of investigator, navigating a labyrinth of deception to unmask Kondor and dismantle the Gestapo’s schemes.

This narrative structure, while formulaic by modern standards, was groundbreaking in its time. It subverts the typical Partisan film template, which often prioritised collective heroism over individual intrigue. Here, the stakes are existential: the resistance’s survival hinges not on sheer courage but on unravelling a conspiracy that threatens to dismantle its very foundations. Yet the script’s liberties with history are as striking as its ingenuity. The real Vladimir Perić, though charismatic, was neither a phantom nor a strategic mastermind; his role in Sarajevo was localised and short-lived. By reimagining him as an omnipresent force, the film taps into a universal archetype—the unseen leader whose legend becomes a weapon against oppression. This mythologisation, however, comes at a cost: the film erases the complex ethnic realities of wartime Sarajevo, where pro-Axis Croatian Ustaše militias operated alongside German forces. The absence of these factions, replaced by a faceless "collaborationist police," reflects the Communist regime’s commitment to its "Brotherhood and Unity" ideology, which sought to downplay ethnic divisions in favour of a unified Yugoslav identity. While this simplification streamlined the narrative for international audiences, it also neutered the historical nuance, reducing a multifaceted conflict to a morality tale of occupiers versus patriots.

Krvavac, no stranger to the demands of the Partisan genre, approached Walter Defends Sarajevo with the technical precision honed during his earlier triumph, The Bridge (1969). The two films share not only a director and a lead actor (Živojinović) but also a pragmatic focus on action over ideology. Unlike the didactic tone of lesser Partisan films, which interspersed battle scenes with Communist exhortations, Walter Defends Sarajevo lets its visuals and performances carry the ideological weight. The resistance fighters are depicted as stoic professionals rather than rabid ideologues; their Communist affiliations are mentioned only once in passing. This restraint, paradoxically, amplifies the film’s emotional impact, allowing viewers to project their own ideals onto the characters. The Holocaust - which Lebović, one of the writers, survived, and which amounted to 70 percent of deaths in WW2 Sarajevo - is also briefly mentioned through words of Muslim watchmaker Sead Kapetanović (Rade Marković) who mentioned the debt to his Jewish acquaintance who got deported.

The action sequences, meticulously staged, are a masterclass in mid-20th-century filmmaking. The motorcycle chase through Sarajevo’s cobbled streets, the hand-to-hand showdown in a fog-shrouded quarry, and the climactic explosion at the end—all these scenes betray Krvavac’s deep study of Western war epics like The Guns of Navarone (1961) and Von Ryan’s Express (1965). Yet the film also owes a debt to Jean-Pierre Melville’s Army of Shadows (1969), whose claustrophobic tension and moral ambiguity are echoed in the cat-and-mouse dynamic between Pilot and Kondor. Živojinović’s performance, a blend of Gary Cooper’s laconic cool and Charles Bronson’s rugged resolve, anchors the film. His Pilot is a man of few words, relying on cunning and the terrain’s tactical advantages rather than brute force—a departure from the Rambo-esque lone heroes of later decades.

If the film falters, it is in its occasional lapses into melodrama. The subplot involving Sead Kapetanović’s daughter Azra (Etela Pardo) and her doomed romance with the impulsive Partisan Brzi (Vladan Holec) feels extraneous. Their ill-fated raid on a German trucks, orchestrated by Kondor’s treachery, culminates in Azra’s death—a scene meant to evoke pathos but which instead risks undercutting the film’s otherwise taut pacing. Worse, the subsequent sequence in which Sead, the grieving father, retrieves Azra’s corpse from a Nazi display feels manipulative, a concession to the sentimentalism that often mars even the most hardened war films. These moments clash with the film’s gritty realism, suggesting a tension between Krvavac’s desire for cinematic sophistication and the genre’s populist expectations.

Elsewhere, the supporting cast elevates the material. Ljubiša Samardžić’s Zis, Pilot’s jovial sidekick, provides comic relief without trivialising the stakes, while Neda Spasojević’s Mirna adds layers of intrigue as a seamstress whose true loyalty is revealed only in the film’s final act. The score by Bojan Adamič, meanwhile, is a character in itself. Its haunting main theme became an instant classic, instantly evocative of both Sarajevo’s resilience and the broader Partisan mythos.

The film’s most astonishing afterlife unfolded not in Yugoslavia but in 1970s China, a nation then isolated by Maoist ideology. With Hollywood and Soviet films banned due to Cold War tensions, Walter Defends Sarajevo became a cultural lifeline. Chinese audiences, starved of foreign cinema, embraced its underdog heroism and anti-imperialist ethos. Živojinović, dubbed into Mandarin, attained near-mythical status, his image adorning posters and his lines—"That is Walter"—echoed in playgrounds and public squares. The film’s success in China was no accident: its themes of grassroots resistance and collective sacrifice aligned with Maoist rhetoric, while its lack of overt Communist dogma made it palatable to a regime wary of Tito’s non-aligned Yugoslavia.

Back in Sarajevo, the film’s legacy took on a bittersweet hue. For decades, it was a staple of Yugoslav television, a shared cultural touchstone that transcended the republics’ ethnic divides. But after the Yugoslav Wars (1991–1995), its themes of unity gained a tragic resonance. The 1984 Olympic host city, once a symbol of multiethnic harmony, endured a brutal siege (1992–1996) that laid bare the fissures the film had papered over. Yet the city’s artistic community reclaimed Walter Defends Sarajevo as a testament to Sarajevo’s indomitable spirit. After Zabranjeno Pušenje’s 1984 album Das Ist Walter, Dubioza Kolektiv’s 2010 anthem Vratit će se Valter ("Walter Will Return") reimagined the film’s hero as a symbol of resistance not just against fascism but against the corruption and nationalism that plagued post-war Bosnia.

Walter Defends Sarajevo endures not because of its historical accuracy or ideological rigour—both are suspect—but because of its ability to adapt to the needs of its audiences. As a piece of propaganda, it succeeded in immortalising the Communist narrative of resistance; as a war film, it delivered thrills and spectacle; as a cultural artefact, it became a mirror reflecting the hopes and anxieties of disparate societies. Its flaws—its historical omissions, its occasional melodrama—are eclipsed by its craftsmanship and its uncanny ability to speak to different generations and geographies. In the end, the film’s most enduring line—"That is Walter"—resonates not because it identifies a man but because it gestures toward the collective will of a people to defy oppression. Walter, like the city he defends, is less a person than an idea: indomitable, shape-shifting, and eternally alive in the imagination.

RATING: 8/10 (+++)

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