Set in a coastal town where women are forbidden to sing, Ali follows a teenage boy who secretly enters a singing competition to escape to the city—masking his true voice in a way that is both haunting and defiant. The film's intimacy, restraint, and emotional depth struck a chord far beyond its runtime.
We sat down with Adnan Al Rajeev to explore the deeply personal roots of the film, the political power of voice, and what it means to represent Bangladesh on cinema’s most prestigious stage.
AM: First of all, congratulations on the Cannes recognition. What does the Special Mention mean to you?
Adnan Al Rajeev: Thank you. Honestly, it still feels surreal. Growing up watching films from Cannes, it always seemed like a world far from mine. For Ali to be recognized there, it's deeply personal but also symbolic. It’s proof that stories from Bangladesh, stories rooted in silence and resistance, can travel and touch people across the globe. It reminds us that even the quietest voices can be heard if they’re honest.
AM: The concept of forbidden voices feels both intimate and universal. Where did the idea come from?
Adnan Al Rajeev: It came from lived experience, from a mixture of inherited silence and personal trauma. I had a father who believed in structure and tradition, while I wanted something less defined. We couldn’t understand each other, and that silence stayed with me. Later, during a political protest I supported, I had to go into hiding after police action. That fear, losing your ability to speak up, settled deep. Ali began from that silence. It’s about reclaiming your voice not through shouting, but through something delicate and human—like singing.
AM: Why did you choose music, and specifically voice, as the medium of resistance in the film?
Adnan Al Rajeev: Because the voice is the most intimate expression we have, and it’s also the first thing society tries to control. I was inspired by the songs of Lalon, a spiritual folk musician whose lyrics question everything from identity to religion. His music feels gentle, but it’s radical at its core. In Ali, the boy doesn’t just sing, he resists. He claims space. It’s not about talent, it’s about survival.
AM: The film’s setting feels atmospheric, almost like a character in itself. Tell us more about the location.
Adnan Al Rajeev: We shot in remote parts of Bangladesh, places that reflect the character’s sense of being stuck. Beautiful, vast, but somehow suffocating. The landscape mirrors Ali’s emotional state—wide horizons with no direction. That illusion of space, paired with a sense of entrapment, was key. Every location was carefully chosen and often took hours of travel to reach. We used soft, diffused light to create a mood of quiet heaviness. It had to feel like a beautiful cage.
AM: Your lead actor delivers a haunting performance. How did you find him and guide him?
Adnan Al Rajeev: I love working with first-time actors. They don’t perform, they feel. Al Amin had never acted before. We became close; we talked, shared personal stories. I needed him to connect with Ali emotionally. We brought him to the location days before filming and let the place imprint on him. No makeup, just sun and earth. Some of the most powerful moments came from unscripted takes, mistakes, really, that felt too honest to ignore.
AM: How do you see Ali fitting into the current wave of Bangladeshi cinema?
Adnan Al Rajeev: I think it’s part of a shift—a new generation less afraid of vulnerability. For too long, our films played it safe. Now, we’re beginning to tell personal, political, and emotionally truthful stories. Ali doesn’t try to represent Bangladesh. It just tries to be real. And maybe that’s what makes it part of something bigger.
AM: What kind of reactions did you receive at Cannes? Any moments that stood out?
Adnan Al Rajeev: There was warmth from the start, but after the screening, something changed. The applause didn’t just stop, it lingered. A filmmaker from Brazil came up to me crying, saying the story felt like his own. One person simply said, “That was my story too.” Those moments stay with you. One producer even told me, “If I were on the jury, I’d have given you the Palme d’Or.” But beyond the compliments, what moved me most was hearing that the film’s tenderness resonated. That’s what every filmmaker hopes for, that your truth becomes someone else’s.
AM: Final thoughts?
Adnan Al Rajeev: Ali is a film about being seen, about the quiet courage it takes to use your voice in a world that wants to mute you. At Cannes, I saw that story echo in unexpected places. That’s the real award.