War movies that come out "too soon" are at the mercy of an understandably tender and sore audience. In turn, the genre’s greats are often poorly received during release. Apocalypse Now was polarizing because of its realistic, albeit insensitive, production. The Deer Hunter was critiqued for its fabrication of Vietnamese cruelty. Platoon was questioned for its historical accuracy. Nadav Lapid’s (Ahed’s Knee, Synonyms) Yes is no different. It’s a film so divisive that it likely holds the title for most controversial film of the decade. One day, though, it might also be called bold and blunt, too.
Lapid’s work–including Yes–is characterized by his resentful outlook on his home country and its actions. It’s surprising to see someone so unflinching in their stance, regardless of what others may think. Lapid is immovable even when an entire nation is in furious disagreement with him.
The film opens with a couple kissing, which, at first glance, seems romantic. Once the camera lingers, though, it quickly becomes awkward as the pair circle each other like vultures with their tongues deep down each other’s throats. The room is quiet, save for their ragged breathing and whimpering moans.
Then, the lights dim. LED colors start pulsing, filling up every crevice of the screen. Club music erupts. The lovebirds peel away from each other. The man spastically runs off into the lively crowd, and the woman starts dabbing cake on her tongue for fellow partygoers to lick off. The camera fumbles through dancing, drugged-up people; a neon Star of David hangs on the wall. It’s so bright it’s blinding.
The gesticulating man is a pianist named Y (Ariel Bronz), and the seductive woman, a dancer and Y’s wife, Yasmine (Efrat Dor). It’s a post-October 7 world. The couple sells their bodies and souls to Israel’s ruling class to quench their money lust and power craze.
Yes is the kind of movie that only needs to be witnessed once. Witnessed, not watched, because it is full of moments that feel private at best, incriminating at worst. Sexual eroticism creeps around every scene until such desires burst like rupturing pimples. Greed and corruption dominate the Israel that Lapid depicts, and overindulgence is a mundane part of everyday life for his characters.
Y is a bootlicker–both literally and figuratively–to the powers that be, and will do anything to lift his standing in the world. As he climbs the social ladder, Y is offered the opportunity to compose a new war anthem for his country amidst the Gaza conflict and in reaction to October 7. The anthem’s inspiration comes from "The Song of the Victory Generation," a video created by an ultra-nationalist Israeli organization called The Civil Front, which was hatefully inspired by Haim Gouri’s beloved national poem, “The Brotherhood.”
The Civil Front’s revised version has lyrics like: “Planes are bombing / destroying, destroy / In one year, we’ll annihilate them all." The most haunting moment in the film involves Y standing along the smoke-suffocated Gaza border (filmed guerrilla-style), where he belts out the song's lyrics in a twisted search for musical inspiration. Y is eerily okay with the amoral nature of the task; his guilt only arises when he imagines his anti-militaristic, deceased mother casting Godlike vengeance on him.
Yasmine cares little about Y’s work, and is simply glad that it will result in a fat pay stub. Between escapades with sexually deviant elders and at eccentric Epsteinian class social events, the couple embrace each other furiously and expound on their appreciation for one another.
Despite Y and Yasmine’s convictions, there is no love in this world of theirs. Not for each other, and certainly not for their baby, Noah, whose pure innocence acts as a terrifying reminder to the couple that their lives are far from normal. At one point, Yasmine bursts into tears, and when Y asks why, she only musters up an, "I'm not sure." Then, she wipes her tears away and puts on a shaky smile. Yasmine and Y play pretend day in and day out. They dance pantsless in their sunny second-floor apartment. Yasmine prances off to her day job; Y wanders around breathtaking Tel Aviv.
The beautiful cinematography helps hide the grotesque underbelly of their lives. The shots of Israel are awe-inducing. Stretches of ocean make a moment soft and calm. Aerial shots capture the long and glorious desert. Other times, though, the visuals tell their own story; speaks of things easier said unspoken. Habitually, they tell a separate, underlying narrative that the characters refuse to address themselves.
Lapid plays around with shaky shots, camera panning, zoom-ins and outs, and dynamic framing. He is constantly creating movement and action, keeping things alluring even when there’s a strong urge to look away from the chaos. The colors, too, are remarkable. They are often vivid, sometimes pastel; complementary when necessary or, at times, contrasting to prove a point.
Though this experimental film gets self-indulgent and overly symbolic in the middle, its intense depth and critical lens allow some wiggle room in the avant-garde department. Meaning lies in every millisecond of the film’s 2-hour and 30-minute run time.
Lapid uses the half-lucid plot of Yes as a vessel for unpacking and analyzing his home country's identity crisis and decent into mayhem. The director's bitter resentment is a familiar feeling. After all, the old adage of "things aren't what they used to be" has never felt more true and extreme across the globe. This film shines a necessarily harsh and bright spotlight on that ugly, uncomfortable reality. While Yes might be divisive now, it’s sure to be "one of the greats" in ten years' time.
Yes is now in theaters.
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