What Marielle Knows
An insult, followed by a slap, unleashes a telepathic power in Marielle. All at once, the girl can hear and see every thought, every word, inside her parents’ minds, day and night—upending any sense of personal desire.
Yet this unsettling gift is no blessing: it becomes a lens of truth, a blinding mirror reflecting hidden hypocrisies. Julia, the mother, is caught in a tension between forbidden desire and the spotless image she wants Marielle to see; Tobias, the father, struggles to maintain authority, vulnerable at work, prey to insecurities he had carefully concealed. When Marielle exposes their most painful secrets, Julia and Tobias are forced to engage in a “manipulative game”: they try to hide, to perform new versions of themselves, even to speak in another language in order to avoid being “read.”
Yet this unsettling gift is no blessing: it becomes a lens of truth, a blinding mirror reflecting hidden hypocrisies. Julia, the mother, is caught in a tension between forbidden desire and the spotless image she wants Marielle to see; Tobias, the father, struggles to maintain authority, vulnerable at work, prey to insecurities he had carefully concealed. When Marielle exposes their most painful secrets, Julia and Tobias are forced to engage in a “manipulative game”: they try to hide, to perform new versions of themselves, even to speak in another language in order to avoid being “read.”
The most common lie is the one we tell ourselves.
(F. Nietzsche)
(F. Nietzsche)
The slow-motion opening, with the slap to Marielle accompanied by Beethoven’s Razumovsky Quartets Op. 59 No. 3, recalls the magical slow-motion beginning of Ursula Meier’s The Line, where a daughter delivers a dangerous slap to her mother, set to Vivaldi’s RV 608 Nisi Dominus.
The film unfolds along a fil rouge that is both satirical and painfully real, staging an existential experiment: what would happen if a child could read their parents’ minds? Marielle’s telepathy is not merely a sci-fi device but a powerful metaphor for inner surveillance, the quest for authenticity, and the steep—often unbearable—price of truth. It is the place where suspicion, distrust, and the erosion of privacy take shape, as though interiority could be violated by a gaze too close, too absolute.
But once seen, truth cannot be erased. Lies crumble, family roles collapse, and telepathy becomes both burden and weapon. In this conflict marked by silence, nervous laughter, and revelation, the family must face the possibility that total transparency may be as liberating as it is destructive.
But once seen, truth cannot be erased. Lies crumble, family roles collapse, and telepathy becomes both burden and weapon. In this conflict marked by silence, nervous laughter, and revelation, the family must face the possibility that total transparency may be as liberating as it is destructive.
The film echoes a cinema of moral discomfort, especially the tradition of Rubén Östlund, where characters discover who they truly are only when pushed to the brink of the inevitable. As in Force Majeure, fragility surfaces, expectations are betrayed, and the self-image collapses the moment one can no longer choose—when danger or the impossibility of lying forces us into our most naked face.
Hambalek seems to suggest that we are always ready to flee from ourselves, to desert our responsibilities—at least until no one is watching; and that only the gaze of the other—surveillance, judgment, the external force that locks us into reality—compels us to see what we truly are.
Hambalek seems to suggest that we are always ready to flee from ourselves, to desert our responsibilities—at least until no one is watching; and that only the gaze of the other—surveillance, judgment, the external force that locks us into reality—compels us to see what we truly are.
At the center of the film stands Marielle, portrayed with uncanny intensity by Laeni Geiseler, a presence almost metaphysical—more question than answer. Her ability to hear and see is not frivolous but a destiny that overwhelms her: secrets, shames, hidden desires rise like debris after a storm.
From this violent ethical short circuit emerges a radical question: are we virtuous only when someone is watching? Is our morality authentic, or—as Schopenhauer might suggest—merely a “representation without will”?
The gaze of the other becomes a form of coercion that demands coherence. But which coherence truly matters: the superficial one, or the one tied to conscience?
And above all: who are we when no one is looking? And into what do we transform when someone is able to read us completely?
From this violent ethical short circuit emerges a radical question: are we virtuous only when someone is watching? Is our morality authentic, or—as Schopenhauer might suggest—merely a “representation without will”?
The gaze of the other becomes a form of coercion that demands coherence. But which coherence truly matters: the superficial one, or the one tied to conscience?
And above all: who are we when no one is looking? And into what do we transform when someone is able to read us completely?
Julia and Tobias, the parents, inhabit a theatre of self-deception. Julia is more complex, less predictable: she tries to live with a kind of raw naturalness, accepting its painful consequences. Tobias, with his simple and essentially unlayered nature, slips almost unconsciously into a state of automatic, unreflective acceptance.
Here the film strikes hardest: are we more real or more false when under scrutiny? Does surveillance make us authentic, or does it paralyze us?
Here the film strikes hardest: are we more real or more false when under scrutiny? Does surveillance make us authentic, or does it paralyze us?
Hambalek plays with the blackest comedy and the deepest introspection. In its most paradoxical scenes—like when the parents switch to French in an attempt to escape their daughter’s mental radar—the tension between appearance and truth becomes unmistakable.
A subterranean question emerges: what is harder—being natural, sincere, spontaneous? Or exercising constant self-control?
And further still: if we removed every filter, would we be at the mercy of our impulses?
Is absolute sincerity a space of freedom—or a device of annihilation?
A subterranean question emerges: what is harder—being natural, sincere, spontaneous? Or exercising constant self-control?
And further still: if we removed every filter, would we be at the mercy of our impulses?
Is absolute sincerity a space of freedom—or a device of annihilation?
The most brutal moment arrives when Marielle, sharp as a blade, asks her mother, Do you want the truth? and then strikes her: I’ve realized that I don’t like you at all.
In that instant, the film ceases to be metaphor and becomes open wound: truth does not save, does not comfort, does not redeem.
In that instant, the film ceases to be metaphor and becomes open wound: truth does not save, does not comfort, does not redeem.
Musically, the classical quartets (Beethoven, Schubert) amplify the tension between form and substance, between ideal harmony and discordant reality. Contemporary interiors and a glossy aesthetic suggest a surface too fragile to withstand the pressure of truth.
Yet the heart of the film lies in its philosophical and existential question:
What would happen if we were allowed to penetrate the thoughts of others—especially those that concern us?
Would people truly desire such a world? Or would they prefer to return to hypocrisy and lies as forms of survival?
For truth terrifies, sincerity wounds, and secrets—however unpleasant—are often mechanisms that keep us alive.
What would happen if we were allowed to penetrate the thoughts of others—especially those that concern us?
Would people truly desire such a world? Or would they prefer to return to hypocrisy and lies as forms of survival?
For truth terrifies, sincerity wounds, and secrets—however unpleasant—are often mechanisms that keep us alive.
Are we capable of choosing and enduring sincerity and transparency?
Can they lead us toward freedom—or toward destruction?
Perhaps toward a place where none of us, if truly seen to the core, could bear to remain.
Can they lead us toward freedom—or toward destruction?
Perhaps toward a place where none of us, if truly seen to the core, could bear to remain.
A disturbing spark of inevitable reflection infiltrates the unresolved folds within each of us: a slap that leaves a psychosomatic mark.
Inside us there is something that has no name, and that is what we are.
(José Saramago)
(José Saramago)
This movie was in the official competition of Berlin International Film Festival