The son of a close-knit family gets a new girlfriend. The mother then discovers that she has met this woman before and finds her "radical ideas," which worries her father. However, the family ignores her concerns. Then, crazy changes happen.
{{ paragraph }}
Watching *Anniversary* easily brings to mind British dramas like *Years and Years* and *World War I: The Second War* : all are futuristic allegories that intertwine political radicalization with family life. But Jan Komasa takes a more sinister and "smaller" path—not starting with news headlines, but with a suburban villa, a family dinner, letting the so-called "American Civil War" roar in the distance while slowly hollowing out a middle-class family in the close-up. The most interesting and controversial aspect of the film lies in its handling of time. Komasa deliberately blurs the timeline, offering only ambiguous technical details and political slogans, while the narrative is constantly interrupted and jumps: one scene shows the daughter-in-law just entering the family, the next a return visit after she has gained actual power; one moment the elderly intellectual couple is reminiscing about their student days, the next the television is broadcasting news of their "treason." The timeline isn't linear, but expands outwards like tree rings, each look back more brutal than the last. This approach sacrifices entertainment value and the completeness of character arcs, but precisely serves the theme: history doesn't suddenly explode one day, but rather accumulates quietly within a family through a series of small cracks that no one pays attention to. If you compare *Suicide Room* and * Corpus Christi* side by side, you'll find that Komasa consistently explores the same question: when ideas, beliefs, political passions, and individual lives collide, who is sacrificed and who is left behind? *Anniversary* simply confines this clash within a living room: the older generation of liberal intellectuals, living in the stable illusion of the postwar middle class, believe themselves to be on the "right side" of history; the next generation uses them as stepping stones, rising higher with increasingly radical slogans. When the daughter-in-law transforms from a "cultivated object" into a "revolutionary leader," the family's intimate relationships are rapidly recoded by ideology—dinner parties become interrogation rooms, birthday parties become confession sessions, and once-shared artistic interests become class evidence used for accusations. Many were dissatisfied with the ending: behind all this political upheaval lay a very personal, even petty, thread of revenge—a student's resentment towards their mentor, a retaliation for the memories of being abandoned and belittled. They felt this motive was "too small-minded": since this character already had the power to influence the nation's direction, why waste their life on such a personal matter? For me, this is precisely the most insidious aspect of the film. Because the hatred is based on "small things," it feels more realistic. What truly drives politics to extremes is often not abstract, grand ideals, but a humiliation, an unanswered letter, or a sarcastic remark you took for granted at the time. In this respect, this film is far more honest than many "grand narrative" political films: it acknowledges that revolutionaries are not pure; they too are dragged forward by personal grievances, jealousy, and unrequited love. Formally, this is an extremely restrained film: numerous interior scenes, with the camera mostly lingering between medium and close-ups, and the editing constantly revisiting earlier details as echoes—the eye contact during their first encounter at the art museum, and the final "eye contact" as the elderly couple are masked and taken away; paintings they once discussed are brutally covered by news footage and slogans. Komasa doesn't rush to the front lines like in *World War I & II* , but rather portrays war as an invisible pressure: what's happening in the outside world, we never truly understand; the only certainty is that this family is being hollowed out piece by piece. And that's where the problem lies. Compared to his earlier works, Komasa clearly flattens the narrative, presenting it more like a theatrical cinematic performance: numerous dialogues revolve around abstract positions, and the individual lives, careers, friendships, and desires of family members are compressed into a few highly functional scenes. The son, caught in the middle, could have been a very complex, even more cruel, perspective, but the film maintains a distance from him, allowing him to be more swayed than to actively make choices. So, when the final "reckoning" actually happens, the characters feel both like real-life prototypes and slightly like models: we know this trajectory is not unfamiliar in history, but the emotional weight doesn't completely overwhelm the audience. Genre-wise, *Anniversary* can be categorized as "political science fiction disguised as a family drama." Unlike Michel Franco's *The New Order* , which directly exposes violence, or the television series-like temporal depth of *Years and Years*, it conducts a highly focused thought experiment within two hours: what would happen if we reduced America's current divisions, radicalization, and information cocoons to a single family? Komasa's answer is pessimistic but not sensational: there are no heroic sacrifices, no explicit resistance, only a brief moment of comfort between two elderly people before they are hooded and taken away; only a painting that was once loved, played out on the screen, becoming evidence in the new power discourse.
When the main course on the table changes from roast turkey to an ideological bomb being detonated, a 25th-anniversary silver wedding celebration becomes a microcosm of the most brutal battlefield in contemporary America.
The opening of *Anniversary* is as serene as an ideal middle-class scene: a meticulously arranged courtyard, soft lighting, and renowned scholar Alan Taylor (Diane Lane) and her husband preparing to welcome their children home to celebrate their wedding anniversary. However, the moment their son Josh steps through the door with his new girlfriend Liz, an invisible but deadly tension begins to build. Director Yann Comassa uses a family gathering as an operating table, calmly and sharply dissecting the deepest wound in contemporary American society—the "civil war" that has spread from the political square to the family living room, invading private emotions from public issues.
Core Battleground: Ideological Showdown at the Dinner Table
The film's core dramatic tension is cleverly compressed within the confined space of the dinner table. The mother, Ellen, is a professor at Georgetown University known for her radical progressive views, and her entire family—including her husband and three daughters—seems to follow the ideological trajectory she has set. Liz, a student who was expelled by Ellen years ago for challenging her academic views, now "invades" this ideologically homogenous fortress as her son's girlfriend.
Their conflict goes far beyond a simple mother-in-law/daughter-in-law dispute. The film presents a comprehensive ideological confrontation: from education, environmental protection, and social justice to fundamental visions of the future, any topic can quickly escalate into a heated argument within a few words. The film shows that in a highly polarized society, all topics inevitably "slide into politics," and even silence itself is given a stance, becoming a source of mutual suspicion. The cups, plates, knives, and forks on the dining table seem to become weapons of words, and every clash dismantles the last remaining bonds of warmth within the family.
Character Mirroring: When the Individual Becomes a Symbol of a Stance
The film's profundity lies in the fact that it does not simply reduce the conflict to a binary opposition of "progress and conservatism," but rather reveals the fanaticism and intolerance that both sides may fall into.
Professor Allen represents the latent authoritarian aspect of "victorious progressivism." She views the family as an extension of her ideology and cannot tolerate any "heretic" ideas that deviate from orthodoxy, even if they come from family members. Her aversion to Lids stems from a deep-seated fear of having her academic authority and family discourse challenged.
Liz is portrayed as a challenger seeking a "new social contract" and calling for national unity. Her bestselling book symbolizes a new ideology that attempts to transcend current divisions but also possesses immense mobilizing power. Her confrontation with Allen is a clash of two different solutions to salvation.
Through this family, the film cruelly reveals that when each person is first and foremost seen as a vessel for a certain stance, rather than a complete individual, the foundation of love and kinship collapses. The son, Josh, becomes a victim caught between blood relatives and lovers; his struggle is a painful microcosm of countless ordinary people suffering in the tearing apart of their families.
Narrative Fable: The Family is the Smallest Unit of National Destiny
"Anniversary" employs a highly symbolic and condensed narrative style. The Taylor family's mansion is like a miniature American social laboratory. Intense arguments, emotional breakdowns, and relationship breakdowns are presented in a manner akin to a psychological thriller, allowing the audience to feel the suffocating anxiety and oppression permeating the air.
The film's most unsettling prophetic aspect lies in its foreshadowing of the potential consequences when this polarization reaches its peak. In the latter half of the film, when Professor Allen realizes that his worldview might be ruthlessly abandoned by public opinion, his reaction escalates from verbal violence to more extreme threats. This suggests that if social divisions cannot be healed, a "cold civil war" could escalate into real violent conflict. The film serves as a stark warning, alerting viewers that irreconcilable differences within families will ultimately unfold in a more devastating manner on a broader social stage.
Beyond Criticism: A War with No Winners
Ultimately, the brilliance of *Anniversary* lies in its lack of cheap solutions or clear moral high ground. It doesn't aim to blame any one side, but rather calmly reveals a systemic collapse—a complete breakdown of communication mechanisms. Everyone is trapped in their own informational cocoons and emotional fortresses, launching "verbal missiles" at their loved ones.
As the lights dimmed, the rubble of a silver wedding anniversary left us with a chilling question: when celebrations of love and union degenerate into scenes of ideological reckoning, have we lost the most basic language necessary for living together? This film doesn't offer answers; it's merely a unsettling mirror reflecting the most pervasive wound of our time—the seemingly close yet deeply entrenched rift between us and our loved ones. It tells far more than just one family's story; it's about how we all struggle to protect that fragile little boat called "home" amidst the raging tides of our times.
It's a very unassuming film, yet ingeniously terrifying—a new era of horror. It seems fantastical, but looking around and at online discussions, everything in the story could very well happen. As a Chinese person watching this film in a German cinema, I felt a chill run down my spine and my heart pounded with fear. The film isn't perfect, but I'd include it in my top ten films of 2025.
I clicked on it immediately upon seeing the cast list. It's like a variation on *World War I: The Second War*, stripped of its road movie elements and PTA-style absurdity, showing how politics invades individual lives and tears families apart within a seemingly ambiguous political context. The difference is that *Anniversary* feels more serious and suspenseful, and its ending isn't as uplifting as *World War I: The Second War*. If you approach this near-future totalitarian America with preconceived notions and viewpoints (and I believe that Hollywood and intellectuals on Douban are predominantly liberal), you'll find it strikingly similar to the near-future Britain depicted in RTD's 2019 novel *YnY*.
The trailer was better than the movie… National affairs were brought to the table as family matters, alluding to humiliation—revenge—establishing a regime, but many characters were wasted. Given that this film was made in 2023, its meaning becomes even more poignant after the neo-Nazi marches that emerged in 2025. Having lived in places with one-party dominance and bipartisan struggles, I can understand the film's meaning, but… sigh… it feels so hopeless when I think about reality.