Spring 1945. On the remote German island of Amrum, 12-year-old Nanning, played with raw naturalism by newcomer Jasper Billerbeck, shoulders the weight of survival. He hunts seals, fishes at night, and toils on a nearby farm to support his mother and family, all while the world beyond the sea begins to crumble and shift. Though life is harsh, the island offers an almost paradisiacal refuge. That illusion is shattered when the war ends, and a much more insidious threat emerges, one that was hiding far closer than enemy lines. The screenplay, originally penned by legendary filmmaker Hark Bohm, was passed on to Akin, who first saw the project as a tribute, then made it his own. “It was like adopting a child,” Akin says. “At some point, you no longer question it, you simply love it unconditionally.”
Despite the historic backdrop, Amrum is not a war film in the conventional sense. It is a study in emotional awakening. Akin distills vast political collapse into a single boy’s realization that the enemy isn’t always a stranger at the gate, it can live under your own roof. Each character brings a layer of complexity to the island’s fragile post-war ecosystem. From grieving widows to conflicted soldiers, Akin’s world is populated by figures clinging to fragile illusions of decency and survival.
In his director’s statement, Akin reflects on Amrum as a mission—a film born out of cinematic admiration and transformed into an exploration of personal and national identity. “For me, the film became a journey into the depths of my German soul,” he shares. “Perhaps it was the last lesson that Master Hark Bohm taught me: cinema remains an eternal mystery.”
With its world premiere at Cannes, Amrum reaffirms Fatih Akin’s position as one of Europe’s most vital filmmakers. It’s a film of quiet power and deep resonance, one that leaves the viewer questioning how close peace ever truly is, and what must be sacrificed to preserve it.