<em>Silent Flood</em>

In Silent Flood, the Dniester River appears almost as a mystical presence, its waters and fog-covered banks enveloping the landscape in an atmosphere of quiet, timelessness. It runs through the film both literally and spiritually. There lives an isolated religious community that has consciously distanced itself from modernity. They’re both the starting and the focus point for Dmytro Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk, who doesn’t use the Dniester merely as a picturesque backdrop. It carries the memory of floods, wars, and generations that have passed through the region, becoming a witness to the cyclical catastrophes that shape both the film and the lives it observes.

The «hat-wearers»

They’re called – often disdainfully – the «hat-wearers,» although in line with their particularly modest principles, they don’t have a name. Most of Ukraine seems unaware of their existence – they’re perfectly content with it. They trace the origins of their faith community back to the 19th century and compare their secluded, pacifist lifestyle, which strictly follows the Bible, to that of the Amish. They bake manually, wash clothes in the river, and avoid electricity, choosing to live by candlelight. Although a physical church is considered unnecessary, visible markers of belonging remain important: colourful caps and headscarves are still required. The world wars and high waters mark their history. «survivors» is another name said aloud by others with a strain of irony. «If others followed our lifestyle, there would be no wars,» the villagers say.

There is war, though. Because of their beliefs, they’re exempt from military enlistment. Russia’s 2022 invasion must eventually reach them, too. The film’s narrative is divided into chapters, each drawing even stronger parallels between the recurring destructive forces of nature and the heavy historical footprint. This subtle observation of the cycles of catastrophe is one of the strongest points of the documentary. It all starts like a tale, almost. The foggy riverbanks bear the scars of centuries, yet the community’s pre-industrial rhythms seem idyllic. Then, this harmonious isolation is brutally contrasted with the mechanised, drone-filled reality of the war.

It [Dniester River] runs through the film both literally and spiritually.

Sharing bread

The collision of two worlds reminds one of Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk’s feature narrative film, Pamfir (2022), as both contrast idyllic, insular village life with the realities of external duties and modern survival. What happens when distant historical forces intrude upon tightly knit communities? In Silent Flood, such themes manifest literally as the peace-loving villagers bake bread and send it to the front lines, connecting the pastoral village with the military reality. While they don’t engage in combat, they still express solidarity and help however they can. As such, a common thread peeks through Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk’s films – deep, interconnected themes centred around Ukrainian identity, borders, and the crushing weight of external forces.

As we leave the village to sit down with the soldiers and share the bread, another prevailing motif emerges. Sharing the stories about the «hat-wearers» and recalling the bread-baking methods from their childhood homes, the soldiers reveal more about the community. Yet, no matter the bizarreness of that lifestyle, they conclude that «they have the right to live, too.» It’s a dark winter night outside; the soldiers sit in a dimly lit room and eventually must circle back to the concept of «home.» Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk sketches a compelling architecture of belonging. The documentary reflects on how the deep, ancestral attachment to their land provides a sense of sanctuary, even as floods and military threats frequently besiege it. At the same time, the «land» goes beyond a marked plot and farmed soil, as «home» is under threat.

The story wouldn’t work that well without the captivating and visually stunning cinematography. More than the frantic energy of Pamfir, Silent Flood recalls the highly observational, visually arresting, and near-dialogueless cinematic style of Liturgy of Anti-Tank Obstacles (2022). Silent Flood is built on immaculately composed, static, or gently moving frames, which are lyrical, meditative, and hauntingly beautiful.

Observed in silence

The camera observes the community with immense respect and detachment, allowing sweeping Dniester River landscapes and the passage of the seasons to dictate the film’s rhythm. Its deeply observational nature may readily bring to mind other recent Ukrainian documentaries, such as the quiet Militantropos (2025) by Alina Gorlova, Yelizaveta Smith, and Simon Mozgovyi, or Olha Zhurba’s exquisite Songs of Slow Burning Earth (2024). The war in them is observed in silence, using both poignant and distinct cinematic styles. All three have a delicate, observational approach to the war, without focusing on explosions and combat.

Yet, Silent Flood manages to offer a «fresh» (if such a term can even be used when talking about war) angle through its subject, painting a reflective and poetic portrait of resilience and shared humanity. Ultimately, by contrasting the idyllic, pre-industrial life of the pacifist villagers with the stark realities of the trenches, Silent Flood bridges the two worlds through shared themes of resilience, memory, and recurring floods.