There are films that are bleak; there are films that are soul-crushingly bleak; and then there are films where the bleakness acquires a terrifying, almost unwatchable weight from the knowledge that the narrative is a fictionalised account of a real, ongoing tragedy. Lukas Moodysson’s 2002 Swedish drama Lilya 4-ever sits firmly in this latter, most harrowing category. It is an ultra-depressive experience that offers not a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel, but a relentless examination of the tunnel itself—a concrete pipe of despair through which countless young women are crushed every minute. For sensitive viewers, it is a brutal, unforgiving ordeal, yet it stands as one of the most potent and talked-about works of European cinema of its time, a film whose artistic power is inextricably linked to its horrifying veracity.
At the time of its release, Moodysson was primarily known for far more upbeat, humanistic works: the tender lesbian teen romance Show Me Love (1998) and the warm, communal comedy Together (2000). With Lilya 4-ever, he executed a drastic, gut-wrenching pivot, basing his script on the real-life case of Danguolė Rasalaitė, a Lithuanian teenager who in 2000 was lured to Sweden with promises of a legitimate job only to be forced into prostitution and ultimately took her own life.
The fictional protagonist, Lilya Mikhailova, is played with devastating rawness by then-15-year-old Russian actress Oksana Akinshina. We meet her in a grim, unnamed post-Soviet city, a landscape of crumbling concrete and dead-end futures. Her mother (Lyubov Agapova) abandons her to emigrate to America with a new boyfriend. Her opportunistic Aunt Anna (Liliya Shinkaryova) promptly swindles her out of the family apartment, relegating her to a decrepit, powerless flat. Desperate and isolated, she is led into the city’s nocturnal underworld by her friend Natasha (Elina Benenson). Though Lilya initially refrains, she is branded a prostitute by association, suffering relentless verbal abuse, ostracisation, and ultimately a brutal rape that severs her last ties to any semblance of a normal life.
The sole oasis in this desert of cruelty is her relationship with Volodya (Artyom Bogucharsky), a 12-year-old boy fleeing an alcoholic, violent father. Their friendship, forged in the eerie emptiness of an abandoned Soviet military base, is the film’s fragile heart. They sniff glue, dream of escape, and offer each other a pitiful imitation of childhood. Bogucharsky, with no prior acting experience, delivers a performance of profound naturalism, his devotion to Lilya providing the only genuine emotional connection in her life. This makes her subsequent decision all the more devastating. When the charming, handsome Andrei (Pavel Ponomaryov) offers her a new life and a proper job in Sweden, Volodya’s desperate, heartbroken pleas fall on deaf ears. Lilya, clutching at this straw of hope, betrays her only friend just as her mother betrayed her. In a crushing off-screen moment, the abandoned Volodya commits suicide.
The promised land of Sweden reveals itself as a new circle of hell. Andrei’s story of a sick grandmother is a ruse; Lilya is delivered to a Polish pimp, Vitek (Tomas Neumann), who confiscates her passport and imprisons her in a brutalist apartment. What follows is an unflinching montage of sexual violence and degradation, as she is sold to a procession of clients. Moodysson films these sequences from Lilya’s perspective, ensuring the audience experiences her violation not as salacious spectacle but as traumatic ordeal.
It is here that Moodysson’s Christian faith and his left-wing political critique converge most powerfully. The film has been used as a cautionary tale by anti-trafficking groups, but Moodysson’s lens is broader and more damning. He paints a picture of a post-Communist world where the relics of the Soviet past are dwarfed by a new, predatory moral decay embodied by ruthless organised crime. Sweden, the epitome of liberal capitalist democracy, is shown to be no sanctuary; its sterile apartment blocks and indifferent streets are merely a more efficient prison. The only escape Moodysson permits is a spiritual one. Lilya begins to have visions of Volodya, now adorned with angel’s wings. In a moment of divine—or delirious—intervention, this angelic Volodya tells her the apartment door is unlocked. She flees to an overpass and leaps, the film’s final, terrible act of agency. This religious allegory, the vision of a guardian angel, is what makes the film’s unbearable narrative paradoxically bearable, offering a sliver of transcendent grace amidst the endless barrage of despair.
Moodysson’s directorial style, employing handheld cameras and the stark, suggestive cinematography of Ulf Brantås, is perfectly suited to the material. Shooting in the Estonian town of Paldiski and Malmö, Sweden, he creates two distinct yet equally oppressive worlds. The camera clings to Akinshina, whose performance is nothing short of a tour de force. Her transformation from a resilient, if naïve, girl into a hollowed-out spectre is conveyed with a harrowing authenticity that anchors the film.The supporting cast, largely non-professional or little-known, matches her commitment, making each character feel wrenchingly real.
The film was not without its detractors. Some found Moodysson’s approach too preachy or self-important, arguing that the use of Rammstein’s “Mein Herz Brennt” over the opening credits was an overly “artsy” or “hip” affectation for such a grim social realist piece. Others felt the second half became a repetitive catalogue of suffering, losing the nuanced character study of the first. Yet, even these criticisms acknowledge the film’s raw power. It swept the Swedish Guldbagge Awards, winning Best Film, Best Director, Best Screenplay, and Best Actress for Akinshina, and was the country’s submission for the Best International Film Oscar.
In the end, Lilya 4-ever is a difficult, essential film. It is a work of furious social criticism, a modern tragedy informed by Christian faith, and a devastating portrait of a global crime. Moodysson stated he wanted audiences to leave the cinema not just sad, but angry—angry enough to spur action. By binding us so intimately to Lilya, he ensures we feel every betrayal, every blow, and the final, fleeting illusion of flight. The film’s enduring potency lies in this uncomfortable fusion: it is both a specific, beautifully acted story of two lost children, and a stark reminder that Lilya’s story is a variation on countless true ones. It is an unpleasant, unforgiving, and ultimately unforgettable work.
RATING: 8/10 (+++)
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