Welcome to Brave New Romania!: “Eight Postcards from Utopia” at the 2025 goEast Festival of Central and Eastern European Film

Eight Postcards From Utopia (2024) may at first evoke a sense of amusement in the viewer, which in the final scenes is transformed into a socio-political reverie. This is not just a documentary, but a mirage assembled from the remnants of post-socialist transition, a sociological reflection that reveals the surreal optimism and aspirations of a nation trying to remake itself on the ruins of Nicolae Ceaușescu’s “utopian” past. 

Directed by Radu Jude — the much-loved representative of the Romanian New Wave,
an an award-winning veteran of film festivals all over the world, famous for his biting wit and unflinching social criticism — in collaboration with philosopher Christian Ferencz-Flatz, whose research focuses on phenomenology and new media, the film is a found-footage essay documentary that stitches together television commercials from the 1990s and early 2000s. These were the years following the 1989 revolution, a time when Romania, like much of Eastern Europe, underwent a rapid and disorienting transformation. Communism dissolved in the flickering light of newly imported televisions, while capitalism conquered society’s minds and screens.

Divided into eight thematic segments, Eight Postcards From Utopia is not a historical documentary in the traditional sense, but it is a document of history — one refracted through marketing slogans, kitsch aesthetics, and anxious aspirations. Each section — ranging from “The History of the Romanians” to “Green Apocalypse” – reveals not only what Romanians were buying, but what they were dreaming of.

In the first segment, history is commercialised and simplified. Ancient Roman and communist legacies are fused into absurd narratives — vodka called Romulus, deodorants that evoke imperial pride. A Pepsi commercial featuring the footballer Adrian Mutu proclaims the Romanians as the proud heirs of Dacia and Rome. Here we see history not as memory but as branding. National identity becomes a tool for selling everything from insurance to Motorola pagers. The result is both hilarious and devastating.

The tone darkens, or perhaps deepens, in “Money Talks” and “The Technological Revolution.” Ads scream slogans like “Get ready to be rich!” and “The future started yesterday.” Consumerism is framed not merely as a lifestyle, but as a moral imperative, a way to redeem the past and prove worthiness in the European capitalist family. In Romania, as in many post-communist societies, the new order was not gradual reform, but an avalanche of privatisation, speculation, and televised promises. As the film reminds us, what is not on TV does not exist.

The absurdity reaches poetic dimensions in “Found Poetry” and “Magique Mirage,” where the banal language of advertising becomes strangely lyrical in its repetition and detachment, with flying angels and magical effects used to encourage us to buy the absolute best washing powder. At times it’s unclear whether we’re watching real advertisements or surreal parodies — but this ambiguity is part of the point. 

The final two segments, “The Anatomy of Consumption” and “Green Apocalypse,” bring the film to a quietly unsettling close. In “The Anatomy of Consumption,” desire is commodified to absurd extremes — everyday items like beer, tights, or even washing powder are sold with erotic overtones, turning the body into both lure and object. It’s a saturated world where everything can be bought, including fantasy itself. In contrast, “Green Apocalypse” shifts to images of nature and harmony, offering a brief illusion of peace. But even this serenity feels staged, another product of the same advertising logic. These closing moments leave us with the uneasy sense that even our dreams of escape are already a part of the marketplace.

Jude and Ferencz-Flatz do not editorialise. The humour is dry, the montage brisk. This sparseness may leave some viewers tired, especially given the visual and tonal uniformity of the low-resolution commercials. There is a deliberate monotony to the film — an overstimulation that reflects the feeling of a society overburdened with desire, products, and promises. 

While the film’s format might feel repetitive, its power lies in accumulation. The Romania depicted here is not so different from other Central and Eastern European nations in the 1990s — self-conscious, hungry for modernity, intoxicated by the glamour of the West, and yet haunted by its own past. What distinguishes Eight Postcards From Utopia is its refusal to moralise or explain. It observes, records, and lets the viewer do the decoding.

There is no singular protagonist here, no narrative arc — just fragments of a collective psyche exposed in the bright light of post-socialist television, symbolising Romania’s new brave capitalist world. This is a documentary of surfaces and ghosts, a collage of contradictions. It is, ultimately, a portrait of a country caught in the act of becoming something else — enthusiastic, awkward, hopeful, and utterly real.

Eight Postcards from Utopia (2024) was screened on 24, 25, and 27 April as part of the 2025 goEast Festival of Central and Eastern European Film.