In a remote corner of North Macedonia, days begin with the sound of cowbells, barking dogs, and the whisper of wind through the rocks. High in the Šar Mountains, five brothers take on a demanding, inherited task: tending to flocks of sheep, cows, and goats during the grazing season. With The Mountain Won’t Move, her sixth feature-length documentary, Petra Seliškar immerses herself in this austere and seemingly unchanging way of life, observing with patience and sensitivity the routine of these young shepherds, whose ages range from eight to twenty.
Premiering in the International Feature Competition at Visions du Réel 2025, the film unfolds as a quiet, attentive portrait—free of embellishments or dramatization. Unlike her previous work Body (2023), which carried a more explicit emotional charge, Seliškar here opts for the power of observation. Brand Ferro’s camera accompanies everyday gestures—milking, cheesemaking, herding, storm-dodging—and captures the imposing natural landscape with a mix of rawness and poetry. A subtly integrated folk-tinged soundtrack blends with the sounds of the countryside, creating an enveloping atmosphere.
The brothers not only share tasks; they also carry the weight of a hard, predominantly male life where human companionship is scarce and generational continuity is fragile. Zekir, the eldest, assumes his role as a guide with quiet seriousness. Sixteen-year-old Zarif finds affection and a sense of belonging in the Karabash dogs—natural-born guardians against wolves. When one of them, Belichka, is lent out and not returned, the event takes on emotional depth, revealing just how profound the bond with these animals is, and how human greed affects even those living at high altitudes.
Seliškar avoids any romanticized portrayal of rural life. There is nothing idyllic here. In the brothers’ conversations—between games and jokes—aspirations and frustrations quietly emerge. Zarif dreams of emigrating. He’s drawn to a world glimpsed through his ever-present cellphone—a tempting yet distant modernity. Zekir understands, though he knows Zarif’s departure would mean more work for those who remain. In this tension between rootedness and escape, the film finds its narrative core.
One of the film’s greatest strengths lies in its refusal to explain or pass judgment. Seliškar trusts the viewer’s ability to read between the lines. There are no interviews, no statistics, no infographics—just a series of moments that, when assembled, form a rich, complex human landscape. The camera lingers with equal care on a puppy seeking affection, a brotherly argument, or a shared meal at the end of a long day.
The question of continuity—of whether this way of life can persist—looms as a quiet, persistent shadow. In a region where many have already sold their animals and opportunities are scarce, shepherding feels less like a choice and more like an inherited fate. Yet younger generations seem less willing to accept that destiny. References to minimal state intervention—no roads, poor cell reception—underscore a sense of structural neglect.
Like Honeyland, the acclaimed film by Tamara Kotevska and Ljubomir Stefanov, The Mountain Won’t Move portrays the fragility of the balance between tradition and modernity. But unlike that film, here the protagonists are young. And in their persistence—especially in Zekir’s—there is a flicker of hope, a quiet will to resist, even as the future remains uncertain. The mountain, perhaps, won’t move. But those who inhabit it, though full of doubts, are in the midst of transformation.
