“Three Kilometers to the End of the World,” directed by Emanuel Pârvu, tells the harrowing story of Adi, a 17-year-old who faces violent repercussions after sharing a kiss with a boy in a rural Romanian village. The film, which critiques societal homophobia and victim-blaming, highlights Adi’s struggle against parental abuse and police indifference. Winning the Queer Palm at Cannes, it emphasizes the need for awareness around the challenges faced by the LGBTQ+ community, reflecting broader issues of intolerance globally.
Under the cover of night, a deserted street becomes the setting for a fleeting moment of tenderness as 17-year-old Adi shares a kiss with a boy. However, this small act of love spirals into a nightmare when he becomes the target of a brutal attack on his way home. In order to file a police report, Adi must navigate the harsh gossip of his tight-knit village, endure his parents’ violence, and face a police force more interested in dissuading him than seeking justice.
Emanuel Pârvu’s film, Three Kilometers to the End of the World, flips the narrative by portraying the victim as somehow culpable. The protagonist, a gay youth, is wrongfully blamed for inciting the hatred that fuels his assailants’ actions. This poignant movie, which garnered the Queer Palm at Cannes, critiques the societal structures that shield criminals while endangering marginalized communities.
Though set in the rural expanse of Romania, the film’s themes resonate universally, particularly in places like France, where homophobic violence remains a stark reality. According to the director, the phrase “three kilometers to the end of the world” symbolizes both the physical distance from the village to the sea and the broader chasm between humanity and its own monstrous tendencies. An interview with Emanuel Pârvu, the mastermind behind both the script and direction, sheds light on this complex narrative.
Emanuel Pârvu: The inspiration for Three Kilometers to the End of the World could easily be linked to real-life incidents. One notable case in Romania a decade ago involved a girl who was raped by a group of seven men, and the local community turned against her, branding her the guilty party. Their question was, ‘Why was she wearing that dress?‘
Adding to the disheartening discourse, a priest appeared on television, stating, “If the rapist is sentenced to seven years, perhaps the girl should face three or four months as well, since she wasn’t raped by anything.” Such blatant victim-blaming is pervasive, and it sickens me. If we hold such dismal views, it’s at least courteous to refrain from voicing them.
This mentality does not deserve a place in our society. I make films about children and social issues because I feel a strong obligation to highlight these severe problems. I was fortunate to grow up in a supportive family, away from orphanages or the LGBTQ community, yet I feel it’s my duty to bring attention to what needs changing. We must confront these topics; we cannot keep sweeping them under the rug.
In Romania, while homosexuality is no longer a criminal offense, same-sex marriage remains unrecognized. What do you think about the current state of affairs there?
Romania is traditionally conservative, and while Bucharest may be more progressive, the rest of the country often reflects outdated views. A mere 15 kilometers outside of Bucharest reveals a vastly different atmosphere.
While there has been some progress, it is frustratingly slow—not just regarding LGBTQ rights, but also in the fight against sexism, racism, and xenophobia. I anticipate this film will spark significant discussion in Romania, and I acknowledge that such dialogue can be contentious.
Are you prepared for the backlash?
Absolutely. I’ve faced backlash before and have thick skin. My role as a filmmaker is to provoke thought and stimulate discussion, similar to what I aimed to do with my previous project, Mikado, which centered on life in an orphanage. If my work helps even one person improve their situation, I will consider it a success.
In the film, Adi’s parents isolate him, treating him as their possession. His autonomy is eradicated.
Having grown up under a communist regime, I’m familiar with the damaging phrase, “I created you, I can destroy you.” It’s still a common mantra among parents today. They may believe they can provide everything but also take it away. However, children are not property; they have their own lives, and love should not be conditional. The bond between parent and child is profound and transcends ownership.
Despite the complexity, do you think there is love in the parents’ actions?
Yes, I believe they love their son, but their prejudices overshadow that love. They’ve been conditioned to think this way. If law enforcement confronted them about their son committing theft or violence, their reaction would differ. Unfortunately, they cannot comprehend anything beyond their prejudiced worldview.