The destiny of great monuments is to outlive ideologies and speak in new languages.

I found myself in a fog that swallowed shapes, as if the monument itself was deciding how much to show. And there, in that slow revelation, a powerful mixture of feelings emerged: admiration for something that human hands had managed to build in such a place, and sadness for what that same work had turned into. It was a space that stood and disappeared at the same time. Monumental, yet wounded. Present, yet as if withdrawing into itself...

So the director Mladen Ivanovic for "Vijesti" he describes his encounter with the Monument on Petrova Gora, adding that it is an unforgettable encounter and love at first sight. His new documentary film "Monument of the Revolution", dedicated to this architectural giant and witness to the vision of society and then its downfall, will be premiered today in Podgorica, at the UnderhillFest International Documentary Film Festival, in Njegoš Park, at 9:30 p.m.

"The Monument to the Uprising of the People of Banija and Kordun is one of the most significant monuments ever built in the former Yugoslavia. Following random and less random visitors, through years of filming, the film records its gradual decline, which figuratively represents not only the disappearance of a monument, but also the erosion of the collective memory and values ​​it symbolized. The film is being shown in the regional selection," the description states.

Ivanović talks in more detail about his journey, but also about why the Monument on Petrova Gora is more relevant today than ever, in an interview for "Vijesti", and visitors to Underhill will be able to see all of this for themselves.

Even when the South Slavs disappear from these areas, these monuments, in their ruin, like the stećak tombstones, will testify that there was an attempt here to make these areas part of a global movement.

Your new documentary “Monument to the Revolution” is in front of the audience. What will visitors to Underhill have the opportunity to see, do you have any expectations and how are you welcoming the premiere?

The audience will have the opportunity to watch an observational documentary that tells a much broader story through one location. “Monument to the Revolution” follows the life and decline of one of the most significant modernist monuments created in the former Yugoslavia, but the film is actually not just about architecture. It talks about our relationship with memory, our common heritage and the values ​​we have lost along the way. During the three years of filming, the seasons, visitors, political rituals, tourists, activists, TikTokers, artists, mountaineers, runners, random passers-by and those who tried to take what could be monetized from the monument changed in front of the camera. While they change, the monument remains a silent witness to time. And our cameras are its eyes.

I don't have high expectations. Years of work have taught me that expectations generally create an unnecessary burden. I'm looking forward to the premiere tired, but also calm. We've finished a film to which I've dedicated a good part of my life, and that's a feeling that's hard to compare to anything else.

Dear film friends - welcome!

There are almost no grand explanations or historical lessons in the film. Instead, the space speaks. Do you believe that architecture can be a more powerful witness to history than people, and can film accompany that kind of testimony?

Architecture already carries time within itself. Nations arise and disappear, change narratives, adapt memories. Stone, formwork, concrete and steel remain, even when empty, damaged or repurposed. Throughout history, we see how materials and entire buildings are constantly recycled through new civilizational epochs. For example, after the conquest of Egypt, the Arab conquerors used certain fragments of the pyramids to build chicken coops. The stone from Doclea was incorporated into the later urban structure of Stara Varoš. The stainless Swedish expensive formwork from this monument today ends up in trivial, almost grotesque objects, such as a samotuk for moca, or for dipping while a lamb or pig is being turned on a spit... In this circulation of matter, or people and empires, such works survive as a kind of remnant of a world that no longer exists. Not in a political or administrative sense, but in a civilizational sense! Perhaps this fate is destined for the South Slavic space after the wars of the 1990s - to remain among the ruins of its own modernization projects.

If we quote Bogdan Bogdanović, Yugoslavia was an attempt to urbanize and Europeanize a deeply rural and conservative space. When these modernization waves faltered, wilderness and tribal mentality prevailed again. In this sense, the film attempts to revive architecture that is no longer just architecture, but the materialized memory of an ambitious project. A monument is not just an object, but a trace of a time in which there was a belief that it was possible to think collectively, progressively and supranationally. The film does not try to restore its original meaning, but to make it visible again - as a space that reminds us of what we were, or at least what we were trying to become at a time when we still believed that we were part of broader civilizational movements.

The way we relate to monuments often says more about us today than about the time they mark. The past from which these monuments emerged cannot be changed even by the most persistent revision of history, such as the one we have witnessed in the past three decades in all the successor states of Yugoslavia. But our relationship to that past is something we choose every day...

“Monument to the Revolution” begins as a science fiction or post-apocalyptic story - a monument is born out of the fog. How did you experience it, how did you get to know it, develop a deeper interest and ultimately become a directorial commitment to this particular monument?

It may sound simple, almost naive, but it was an unforgettable encounter. It was love at first sight. It's one thing when you look at monuments in photographs, in books, through other people's shots and descriptions. And it's quite another when you approach them in person, when you stand in front of them and when the space, without words, begins to change you. At that moment, you are no longer just an observer. The first time on Petrova Gora, with my colleague To Belom Bračko Milešević, I found myself in a fog that swallowed shapes, as if the monument itself was deciding how much to show. And there, in that slow revelation, a powerful mixture of feelings emerged: admiration for something that human hands had managed to build in such a place, and sadness for what that same work had turned into. It was a space that stood and disappeared at the same time. Monumental, yet wounded. Present, yet as if withdrawing into itself. As if a silent dialogue was taking place before your eyes between what it was and what was left of it. For a long time I had the feeling that I was not looking at it, but that it was looking at me. That is how the idea of ​​the way the image was treated in this film was born.

Today, after all these years of filming, it seems to me that the monument has not become quieter, but deeper. Not despite its decay, but precisely through it. As if time has peeled away its layers and left its very core. And perhaps that is why I still think that it has some new, unplanned power. That, in some other context, it could once again become a place of encounter. Let's say, if at some point, the flags of Palestine were to fly beneath it and the space were to reawaken as a sign, as an attitude, as something that cannot be reduced to the past alone. At that moment, it would have its full meaning!

The monument was conceived as a lively place with cultural facilities, halls and a gathering space. But today it is a ruin. It sounds familiar and familiar... What does this contrast tell us about the ambitions of the past, and what about the ambitions of our present, or the decades to come?

The monument was created as a need to adequately commemorate the victory over fascism. Petrova gora was one of the first free places in occupied Europe. Back in 1942. It is the space of the partisan hospital, escape, breakthrough of the ring and joint struggle in which basic human values ​​were defended. It was an ethical and political space in which the supranational principle of the partisan movement took its most concrete form and that struggle was paid for with almost the highest price in Europe. In areas like Lika, Kordun and Kozara, which were twice brought to the brink of demographic and civilizational extinction in the 20th century. That threat is more relevant today than ever.

Monument Vojin Bakić on Petrova Gora was built as a materialization of that experience from World War II. A memorial complex, but also as an idea of ​​the future. Its monumentality, technical and aesthetic ambition, as well as the fact that it was built from the common resources of the entire society, speak of a time in which there was a belief that something that transcends the individual and local could be produced collectively. It was one of the most radical architectural undertakings of that time in Europe, recognized beyond these areas, which served as inspiration for the greatest architectural achievements of other nations. Thanks to international exhibitions such as the one at MoMA in 2015, precisely because of its timeless, almost sculptural autonomy, this monument found its place on the covers of the world's most prestigious newspapers. Today, however, that same object stands as a ruin. Here arises a key contrast between one era that believed in the possibility of a progressive project and another that leaves that project to decay, physically and symbolically. The ruin speaks not only of a disregard for material, but of a change in the value system. About a society that no longer recognizes the common good as something that needs to be maintained, but leaves it to oblivion, privatization or ideological erasure. That is why the Monument on Petrova gora is more relevant today than ever. He shows us how we relate to our own history when it ceases to be functional for current regimes and their political narratives. In the tension between monumental ambition and today's devastation, the monument becomes a kind of document of a double truth: one era that believed in universal values ​​and another that treats them as an ideological surplus. And perhaps most importantly, it suggests a longevity that does not depend on us. Even when political systems disappear, a material trace of an idea remains. And when the South Slavs disappear from these areas, these monuments in their ruin, like stećaks, will testify that there was an attempt here to make these areas part of world movements.

It is precisely as we watch this decay that the Monument becomes a metaphor for the society that built it and the system that abandoned it. Did you consciously construct this personification or did it arise through the mere observation of the space?

That was the idea I started with. That personification was not added later, but was inscribed in the very concept of observation. The monument was conceived from the beginning as a living organism that disintegrates together with the social frameworks that produced it. However, I would not say that it was “abandoned by the system”, because for something to be abandoned, it must first exist as a system. In these regions, after the collapse of Yugoslavia, we are talking more about fragmented elements than about organized social systems. These are post-Yugoslav societies as fields of transitional robbery on the periphery of world capitalism, where comprador elites maintain power through the constant production of crisis and the deepening and daily reminder of transgenerational traumas. These traumas are a resource that is used to justify that same robbery. And of course, servitude to their bosses. They also use various nationalisms, historical revisions, erasure of collective memory, erasure of common spaces, etc.... All of this together produces the continuity of a single logic, which is the decomposition of the common good, i.e. the transformation of common spaces, memories and resources into private property.

It is particularly striking that through the changing seasons we see how time passes, but nothing essentially changes. Is this stagnation also one of the central themes of the film and is it our reality in many areas? Where is the revolution then regarding this monument?

It seems to me that we are not stagnating, nor is the monument itself. I would rather say that we are actually rapidly deteriorating in all fields. As he points out Marko Vucetic, society either progresses or regresses; stagnation is often just a convenient illusion so that we don't have to name what is happening. I have the impression that since the AB revolution we have been living in a kind of free fall that is accelerating. Towards the bottom. All these masks, rhetoric and whitewashing seem to me like applying makeup to a corpse before burial. But, not to be too gloomy, history always reminds us that it could be worse. Imagine, for example, that you are in Gaza today. Or that war breaks out again. So we certainly live in interesting times. This is precisely where I see room for what could be called a revolution as a process that is gradually born. The moment when we finally hit rock bottom, when we stop believing in the games and manipulations of the same comprador elites who only change hats, colors and flags, and when we finally understand that it cannot be good for me if it is not good for the person next to me, then something will really start to change. The revolution, if it happens at all, will not be a spectacle, nor will it be in the mainstream media, but will come as an awakening of solidarity and awareness that we are victims of constant polarization. And perhaps that is the only point where the "decay" can be reversed...

At one point we see activists cleaning the monument, locals using it for their gatherings, young adventurers, and then tourists... What do this, and numerous other monuments from that period, actually represent today - to us "locals", but also to foreigners?

Well, that's one of the key questions the film raises. We have Čedomir Studen, the caretaker of the monument, a wonderful and honest Kordunaš, a descendant of people who gave their lives for the ideals that this monument symbolizes. Every day, the child repairs what seems impossible to repair. He collects the remains of the formwork, closes the broken doors, cleans up after others. In a way, he is a metaphor for all of us. Sisyphus!

Because when you look at the monument today, logic says that its battle is lost. And yet, something keeps bringing you back to that place. Something irrational. Maybe beauty, maybe history, maybe the need to find meaning in the ruins. Or maybe just to record a Tiktok video. It is interesting that this monument means something different to everyone today. Someone shoots music videos on it, someone uses it as a mountaineering training ground, someone organizes races, and someone comes to lay a wreath at the ossuary and pay tribute to the victims. It is precisely in this ambiguity that its value today lies. It is no longer just a monument to a single historical episode. It has become a meeting place for different generations, ideas, and needs. At the same time, it is a space of collective oblivion and a space for new readings. Perhaps this is precisely the fate of great monuments, to outlive the ideologies that created them and continue to speak new languages.

To what extent does our relationship with monuments define us as a society?

Absolutely. The way we relate to monuments often says more about us today than about the time they mark. The past from which these monuments emerged cannot be changed even by the most persistent revision of history, such as the one we have witnessed in the past three decades in all the successor states of Yugoslavia. But our relationship to that past is something we choose every day. In this sense, the choices of post-Yugoslav political elites regarding the monumental heritage are largely similar - ignoring it, leaving it to the ravages of time, or radically removing it. In Croatia, some monuments, such as Bakić's "Wings of Slavonia," have been completely destroyed, while others have been deteriorating for years. And they are the target of daily attacks. Imagine someone blowing up their wings!

That's why I was sincerely pleased with the restoration of the monument at Barutana. Such gestures show that there is still an awareness that the legacy of the National Liberation War does not only have an ideological dimension, but that it represents a question of culture, history and elementary respect for one's own heritage.

Finally, we learn something related to formal responsibility towards the monument...

It's one of those situations where bureaucracy seems to become almost Kafkaesque. When no one is sure who is responsible for something so big and significant, then everyone actually washes their hands of responsibility. The film doesn't try to pass judgment on who is to blame for the current state of the monument, but it shows the absurdity of a system in which institutions shift responsibility to each other. In the end, the question of ownership becomes less important than the question of care. Because cultural heritage should not be anyone's problem on paper, but everyone's problem in reality.

And who better than Montenegro can talk about the transfer of jurisdiction between institutions? If there was a competitive discipline, Montenegro would take gold in that category. And where we can still confirm that we are from the same, South Slavic tribe is that discipline. Just like they did in the film, in today's Croatia, so do we in Montenegro, and I believe that the same situation is in other republics...

The slogan "Death to fascism, freedom to the people" is also heard... Anti-fascism is either taken for granted or relativized today...

As he wrote Umberto Eco, fascism is eternal in the sense that it constantly finds new forms and new masks. That is why I think it is important not to view anti-fascism as an “episode” that ended with a historical victory, but as a permanent social and personal obligation. Our task is to recognize patterns of exclusion, hatred and intolerance when they appear, even when they come in a new guise. Today we live in a time in which anti-fascism is often used as a label, while its essence is forgotten. On the one hand, we have political structures that invoke the anti-fascist heritage, while at the same time, for three decades, they have dismantled the ideas of solidarity, social responsibility and social justice that were its integral part. I will not talk about factories this time. On the other hand, we are witnessing attempts at historical revisionism and rehabilitation of movements that, during the period of the fight against fascism, for one reason or another, sided with it. And often committed greater crimes than the occupiers. And let's not forget the ideological hybrids that emerged after the August changes, who, busy selling off the rest of social wealth, have no time to deal with this topic, and when they do, they usually remain silent - as during the erection of the flea market 3D Theme monument to Pavle Đurišić. That is why it seems to me that today it is more important than ever to return to the essence. Antifascism is not just a relationship to the past. It is a relationship to politics that wants to make mortal enemies out of the other and different.

Were there any moments during filming that were particularly challenging?

One thing is certain, what characterized our years of filming was enthusiasm. This was a student, master's film. There were no fees, big budgets, or certainty that we would ever finish what we started. What kept us going was the belief that we were making something important. The film was finished when we had completed one year of film time. We had all the seasons, all the changes that space brings, and all the events that we needed to tell the story. That's when we felt we had come full circle. After that, we continued to go to Petrova Gora, but without cameras, as if on a pilgrimage. That was a sign that the film was finished.

In the end, what does the Monument on Petrova Gora tell us?

Wherever you look towards the highest peak of Petrova Gora, where the monument is located, you will see some reflection of it. As the light changes, so do its colors. To me, that reflection always looked like a kind of eternal fire. That is why I think the monument leaves us a very simple legacy: not to forget the fight against fascism and not to give up on the idea of ​​a more just, humane and solidary society. Not nostalgia for the past, but a task for the future, in the present moment.

Would you like to add something, tell the readers?

First of all, I would like to thank the people without whom this film would not exist. First of all, I must mention the extraordinary mentorship Goran DevićAfter forty days of filming and a multi-year work process, I can freely say that the film belongs equally to the editor. Water Predrijevac as much as I do. It also belongs to the entire team: the director of photography Matija Petrovic, producer Tamari Puizini, cameramen Petar Krajacic-Vilovic i To Ivan Čizmin, Nina Ugrinović which made the sound and Jurici Marković who signs color, as well as our leitmotif and a kind of Sisyphus of the film - the caretaker of Petrova Gora, To Čedomir Studen. And I would just like to tell readers that, if they have the chance, they should watch the film and draw their own conclusions. I think the questions the film raises are more important than the answers it offers.

Migrant tracks

The graffiti “OPEN BORDERS” that appears several times is an interesting moment. What is its symbolism and meaning of presence, is it a commentary on the present, the past, ambitions, hopes...?

And that is part of the universality of the monument's message. And it is a time-honored fight for the rights of refugees fleeing their war-torn countries to countries whose policies often had a crucial impact on those same wars. The border in that area is porous, and a migrant route also passes by it. So we often found traces of migrants in the monument. However, when we came closer to the monument, they would flee from it, so we could not film that act... And they fled because the attitude towards them by the police and the army was extremely questionable.

The most important film festival we have

Although the film is a Croatian production, the premiere is taking place at Underhill... How do you experience this festival and why is it important to us in Podgorica and Montenegro?

The film has long since outgrown the student framework. In order to complete it, part of the process took place in Montenegro, the budget was rounded up in Montenegro, so it is also a Montenegrin film.

For me, UnderhillFest is the most important film festival we have. It is a gathering place for documentarians, authors, producers and audiences who believe that documentary film can change the way we see the world. I remember that during my studies, the producer, Professor Vanja Jambrović, told us about the most important festivals that individual countries have. When Montenegro came, she said only one word - Underhill. That is why it always surprises me how often its significance has to be explained again and again. Such cultural institutions should not constantly prove their value. They have long proven why they are important. The only ones who do not understand this yet are our rulers, who all practice one continuity together, and that is the misunderstanding of the significance of such a festival.