“There are compelling ideas here, and occasionally the film finds genuinely disturbing ways of expressing them”

In many ways, Sister Brother Manhole Cover can be perceived as a thematic follow-up, or even a companion piece, to Manchevski’s 2022 film Kaymak. Once again he attempts to examine existence as an exercise in humiliation: the more lost people become in life, the more desperately they struggle to grab whatever they can to keep their heads above water. Along the way they humiliate themselves, sell themselves short, and give little thought to how their choices might consequently hurt others. After all, human fates are intertwined. In any community, it is precisely the possibility of collective effort that makes its existence possible. Yet this very proximity also ensures that the consequences of one’s actions are inevitably felt by many.

Against this backdrop Manchevski’s comedy-thriller follows two siblings, Malina (Sara Klimoska) and Viktor (Filip Trajkovikj), as they struggle to fend for themselves. Both live with health limitations and have no family or friends to rely on. Their days are spent stealing manhole covers and busts of local historical figures, which they melt down and turn into something else. And here lies the film’s strongest idea: history and public infrastructure are stolen and sold to help two individuals make ends meet. Individuals who, more often than not, have themselves been neglected by the very historical movements and public institutions these objects represent, and by the public infrastructure that is either nonexistent or insufficient.

The symbolism is so striking that Manchevski returns to a particular dream sequence several times throughout the film: Malina cannot breathe or move, and she sees herself trapped in bed, pinned beneath the weight of a manhole cover. It is a haunting image, yet one she quickly puts behind her upon waking. She cannot afford to dwell on her problems. She has to work, to steal, and, above all, to take care of her brother.

Once again, Sister Brother Manhole Cover feels like a companion piece to Kaymak, and unfortunately it seems to repeat some of that film’s shortcomings. The film starts on particularly strong and interesting ground when it fully embraces the insane, absurd circumstances of its characters’ lives without resorting to cheap comic devices or dated jokes. The situations Malina and Viktor find themselves in are so cruel and bleak that the film’s constant tonal shifts ultimately undermine some of the strongest elements of its screenplay. Simply put, the comedy does not work.

I cannot stop thinking about how the film moves from one of Malina’s harrowing dream sequences into an extraordinarily dated and stereotypical fantasy involving Brazil: its beaches, Copacabana, football, Ronaldo, and an almost-naked Malina evoking Carmen Miranda, who, let us not forget, was born in Portugal, not in Brazil, and became famous in the United States. The transition is jarring, and not in a particularly productive way. It is as though the film momentarily abandons the specificity and cruelty of its own world in favor of an assortment of tired cultural references.

Malina’s body, and her lack of agency over it, are particularly important subjects, especially when considered in the context of Manchevski’s body of work and the recurring role of sex and physicality within it. Perhaps the film’s cruelest and, ironically, strongest sequence brings this issue into sharp focus. After her brother suffers a serious accident, Malina visits a doctor who has been helping her in exchange for sex. She has no health insurance, and her body is the only currency she can offer.

This motif resurfaces in different forms throughout the film. It is there when the pharmacy clerk charges her more because she lacks a prescription. It is there in the way those who purchase the stolen goods can dictate how much they pay, and under what conditions. After all, they can always threaten to call the police. But it reaches its most horrifying expression when, while having sex with the doctor who is treating her brother, Malina’s heart begins to fail. She begs him for help. She asks him to stop. He ignores her and continues until Viktor, using one of the manhole covers that haunt his sister’s dreams, kills the man who is raping her.

It is an exceptionally disturbing sequence, one that brings together the film’s concerns with bodily exploitation, economic desperation, and the complete absence of agency. Yet even here, its impact is somewhat diminished by the film’s oddly disjointed structure and incessant tonal shifts. What should be one of its most devastating moments becomes entangled in the very narrative and tonal confusion that prevents the film from fully realizing its ideas.

Ultimately, Sister Brother Manhole Cover loses its way because it tries to accommodate too much. Too many characters, some connected to one another, others barely integrated into the narrative; too many situations unfolding simultaneously, and too little time devoted to developing any of them properly. Whereas Manchevski’s more dramatic screenplays often benefit from a certain structural tightness, this one feels messy, underdeveloped, and at times decidedly dated. There are compelling ideas here, and occasionally the film finds genuinely disturbing ways of expressing them. But they are buried beneath an uneven screenplay that never quite manages to reconcile its tragedy with its comedy. Perhaps comedy is simply not his thing.