Burhan Qurbani, the German-Afghan filmmaker who captivated audiences with his remarkable film Berlin Alexanderplatz—featured in the main competition of the 70th Berlin International Film Festival—returns with his latest work, No Beast. So Fierce. Premiered in the Berlinale’s special section this year, this film crafts another mad, chaotic world. Though it doesn’t match the power of his previous work, it still showcases a filmmaker who resists conventional storytelling, striving instead to create a distinct cinematic universe unlike any other.
In No Beast So Fierce, Qurbani transposes Shakespeare’s Richard III into contemporary Berlin, once again portraying the sprawling metropolis as a key character in the film. The first act immerses us in this vast, intricate city, where Shakespeare’s tale of power and betrayal transforms into a brutal struggle between two immigrant families controlling Berlin’s underworld. From the opening moments to the very end, an intense, terrifying tension pervades, confronting the audience with an unrelenting atmosphere of violence and horror.
The film begins with bloodshed—murders within and between the rival families. Soon, we are drawn into the complex dynamics of two brothers and their sister, Rashida. In a strange scene, captured with a camera that weaves through the crowd, an even more ominous conflict emerges: Rashida’s ambition to seize power from her older brother. As the film unfolds, it becomes clear that the tensions within the family are even more savage than their feud with their rivals.
At this point, femininity merges with Rashida’s ruthless quest for power, gradually leading to an escalation of explicit violence, which dominates the second half of the film.
The gritty realism of the first half—set in the everyday locations—morphs into an entirely surreal narrative in the latter part. The story abandons the urban landscape for a grim, decayed tower, a setting that better reflects the dark, twisted nature of the characters. Rashida’s inner world progressively manifests outwardly, and the familiar cityscape gives way to the ruins of human morality. Here, characters will stop at nothing—even fratricide—to achieve their aims. And then, the horror intensifies further: infanticide. Rashida orders the murder of her brother’s children, a command so monstrous that even her most loyal handmaiden refuses to carry it out, choosing to abandon her instead. Yet, Rashida finds another way to achieve her goal. Initially, it seems the filmmaker will refrain from depicting the children’s murder, allowing it to be conveyed through a killer’s confession. But we soon realize that Qurbani does not shy away from the full horror—he returns to the scene, showing us the gruesome act in all its brutality (undoubtedly the most distressing moment of the film).
Qurbani has no reservations about displaying violence. In a film fundamentally about brutality, he deliberately forces the audience to confront the darkest aspects of his characters. Even Rashida’s romantic and sexual relationship with a woman from the rival family does nothing to soften the film’s tone; rather, it serves only to propel the story toward its inevitable, nightmarish conclusion. The filmmaker constructs a hellish world of womanhood where love, sex, and traditional femininity hold no meaning. In such a world—devoid of affection and tenderness—there is no escape from violence, humiliation, suffering, and, ultimately, death.
Once again, Qurbani makes extensive use of music, which dominates most scenes. Likewise, his signature camerawork is ever-present—dynamic and fluid—heightening the tension of each moment. The camera not only intensifies the scene’s energy but also draws closer to the characters, penetrating their turbulent inner worlds.
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