THE STORY – The life of a man after he experiences forgotten baby syndrome, unintentionally leaving his infant daughter in the back seat of his car.
THE CAST – Milan Ondrík, Dominika Morávková-Zeleníková & Anna Geislerová
THE TEAM – Tereza Nvotová (Director/Writer) & Dusan Budzak (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 102 Minutes
Some films don’t arrive with grandeur; they slip quietly into view, almost imperceptible, and then take root in the mind, refusing to let go. Tereza Nvotová’s “Father” (Otec) is such a work. It begins with the gentle rhythms of ordinary life: a father jogging through empty streets, the clatter of breakfast dishes, a child’s laughter filling a sunlit kitchen. The everyday feels warm and reassuring until, in a single, unthinkable instant, it is shattered.
Michal (Milan Ondrík) lives a life defined by routine and devotion, constructed from the small acts that anchor fatherhood and partnership: a kiss for his wife, guiding his daughter’s steps, fulfilling daily obligations. On a sweltering day, that routine betrays him. A momentary lapse in judgment, leaving his infant daughter in the backseat of a car, unleashes a cascade of consequences that expose how thin the line is between security and catastrophe. It is a tragedy both intimate and universal, the sudden fracture of an ordinary life.
Nvotová draws the audience deep into Michal’s unraveling. Long, continuous takes linger on his every movement until the viewer is no longer observing but inhabiting his collapse. Adam Suzin’s camera captures fleeting expressions of guilt and fear with an almost suffocating closeness, while Jonatán Pastircák’s score, buzzing and insistent, mirrors the chaos of a mind in freefall. Form and feeling are inseparable; the audience does not simply watch tragedy unfold, it experiences it
Ondrík’s Michal is a portrait of quiet devastation. He does not rage but folds inward, carrying unbearable weight in trembling hands, faltering speech, and long silences. Opposite him, Morávková-Zeleníková’s Zuzka externalizes her grief in jagged, uneven, and unpredictable ways. Together, they embody a truth at the core of human experience: grief rarely moves in tandem, and even those closest to us may diverge in suffering, their bond fraying under the strain.
Nvotová situates catastrophe within the everyday: kitchens, offices, familiar gestures. The contrast between the mundane and the catastrophic heightens the horror. Life continues relentlessly even when its meaning has been stripped away. “Father” asks the question: how does one endure when the world collapses in a single, irreversible moment?
The film’s rigor heightens its emotional resonance. Long, unbroken takes cultivate empathy. Silence, stillness, and gesture replace melodrama. Even when the narrative expands to include the press, the trial, and public judgment, it remains intimate, resisting easy absolution or catharsis. The devastation of human error lingers beyond any verdict.
Ondrík and Morávková-Zeleníková ground the film with extraordinary subtlety. The horror lies not in spectacle but in the quiet disintegration of identity, as love erodes under unbearable weight. Trembling hands, faltering words, and silences heavy with grief linger long after the credits. Even when the film edges toward resolution in its final act, the neatness feels slightly at odds with the unflinching honesty that precedes it. Still, the power of “Father” remains undiminished.
At its core, “Father” is a work of profound empathy, a meditation on human fragility, the weight of love, and the inescapable burden of guilt. Nvotová’s direction is formally precise yet deeply humane, supported by Suzin’s immersive cinematography and Pastircák’s piercing sound design. The result is a film that transforms pain into art, leaving audiences hollowed yet illuminated, confronted with the raw truth of how a single lapse can alter everything.
