Television Review: Povratak otpisanih (Return of the Written Off, 1976 - 1978)

The 1978 Yugoslav television series Povratak otpisanih (The Return of the Written-Off) occupies a peculiar position in the cultural memory of the former Yugoslavia. Widely considered a more prominent fixture of collective nostalgia than its predecessor Otpisani (1974–1975), this sequel nevertheless represents a creative pivot that prioritises spectacle, humour, and audience gratification over the rigorous historical grounding that characterised the black-and-white original. Through its thirteen episodes, the series navigates a treacherous course between genuine dramatic achievement and the more suspect pleasures of escapist fantasy, ultimately cementing its reputation as perhaps "the most popular and legendary series in the history of Yugoslav television," though not without incurring significant aesthetic and historical costs.

The inaugural episode, Povratak (initially released theatrically as feature film in 1976 and aired 1 January 1978), immediately signals the series' departure from its progenitor. Where Otpisani was filmed in stark monochrome and constrained by rigid ideological adherence to historical accuracy, Povratak luxuriates in colour cinematography, expanded budgets, and a noticeably relaxed relationship with documentary verisimilitude. This is not necessarily to the series' detriment; as the reviewer observes, this loosening of constraints allowed creators to provide audiences with "a winning formula of action, romance and humour." The presence of Pavle Vuisić's Joca—a character introduced briefly in Otpisani but elevated to series regular through sheer force of audience enthusiasm (what might be termed the "Fonzie Syndrome")—establishes a comedic dynamic absent from the original. The chemistry between Joca's middle-aged grumpiness and Dragan Nikolić's more jovial Prle generates considerable energy, though this shift towards entertainment over tragedy inevitably dilutes the moral gravity that distinguished the first series.

The middle episodes of the series demonstrate Povratak's impressive range—and its occasional tonal incoherence. Padobranci (S1E02) stands as a model of restraint, building suspense through psychological and moral conflict rather than kinetic violence. The betrayal by Dragi Kenta (Bora Todorović), a pre-war mentor driven to treachery by desperation rather than ideological conviction, exemplifies the series at its most sophisticated. The execution scene between Kenta and Prle, where the latter offers his condemned friend the dignity of a farewell letter before a death that proves quick, unglamorous, and deeply tragic, achieves a level of moral complexity rare in the Partisan genre. Similarly, Agent (S1E04) distinguishes itself through historical sophistication, engaging with the internal schisms within the Third Reich between the Abwehr's Admiral Canaris, seeking separate peace with the Western Allies, and the fanatical Gestapo apparatus. Miloš Žutić's performance as the infiltrator Hans, with his diabolical, almost Joker-like theatricality, elevates this episode beyond mere adventure yarn into genuinely unsettling territory.

Yet for every Padobranci or Agent, the series delivers episodes that strain credulity or sacrifice narrative coherence for spectacle. Dvokrilac (S1E03), despite its grounding in genuine historical detail concerning German signal-tracking vans, reduces its protagonists to "Rambo-like killing machines," capable of dispatching German and collaborationist forces with such casual efficiency that the adversaries appear disposable. The characterisation of Prle and Tihi shifts notably from the uncertain young men of Otpisani to near-invincible action heroes whose survival is never in genuine doubt—a development that, while undeniably crowd-pleasing, flattens both the dramatic stakes and the tragic dimensions of occupied Belgrade.

The series' relationship with historical truth becomes increasingly problematic as it approaches the 1944 liberation. Povratak otpisanih has faced persistent criticism from historians and nationalist commentators alike for its "profound disconnect from the gritty, documented reality" of wartime Belgrade. The charge that the series functions as "continuation of Communist Yugoslav propaganda" holds particular weight regarding episodes like Dvokrilac, which invert historical actuality—German signal-tracking operations were, in fact, highly successful against the Chetnik movement, not the Partisans. The series' tendency to transform its protagonists into action-hero archetypes, capable of wiping out enemy forces with athletic ease while suffering minimal casualties, priorities dramatic catharsis over the grinding, attritional reality of resistance warfare.

Nevertheless, the series demonstrates intermittent capacity for genuine emotional devastation. Moljac (S1E06) achieves perhaps the most traumatic moment of the entire saga with the death of a child protagonist at the hands of the Special Police—a narrative choice that brings "the World War Two tragedy depicted in the series to a new level of brutality." Nenad Nenadović's performance renders the titular street urchin with such conviction that it blurs the line between the actor and the role, creating a haunting indictment of occupation violence that transcends the series' generally more comfortable entertainment register. Similarly, Vili (S1E07) explores the "Romeo and Juliet" tragedy of a Wehrmacht soldier's defection and doomed romance with a Serbian woman, though its effectiveness is undermined by a musical choice of Lale Andersen's "Es geht alles vorüber" that feels "artsy" and discordant with the raw emotional material.

The late-series pivot from sabotage to preservation—wherein Prle and Tihi must prevent German destruction of Belgrade's infrastructure rather than initiate it themselves—produces mixed results. Vodovod (S1E10) succeeds admirably, balancing suspense with a devastating final twist as Prle's newly recruited friend Lale is killed by random violence moments after his heroism is proven. However, Elektrana (S1E11) collapses into fan service and narrative filler, complete with celebrity cameos (Ljubiša Samardžić), the formal confirmation of romantic arcs (Tihi and Marija), and saccharine subplots involving a deserting German soldier motivated by sentimental attachment to local children rather than moral or political awakening. The absence of the charismatic antagonist Major Krieger (Stevo Žigon) leaves a void filled only by generic German soldiers and sentimental subplots, undermining the tension that characterised earlier episodes.

Most (S1E12) presents perhaps the most instructive case of Povratak's simultaneous achievement and limitation. The episode dramatises the genuine heroism of Miladin Zarić, a schoolteacher who single-handedly defused explosives on a critical Belgrade bridge in October 1944. This compelling, cinematic story offers precisely the historical texture the series often lacks—yet the script awkwardly subordinates Zarić's quiet, civilian courage to the mandatory action beats required by the series' established formula. The protagonist's firefight and the ritualistic death of sidekick Cane Kurbla feel like obligatory concessions to audience expectation, crowding a narrative that would have been more powerful had it trusted the genuine historical material. Worse, the depiction of Red Army forces using American M47 Patton tanks in place of period-accurate T-34s—despite the Yugoslav People's Army possessing authentic Soviet armour—represents a baffling production failure that shatters the episode's visual authenticity.

Kriger (S1E13), the finale, compensates for much that preceded it. By transforming the series' primary antagonist Gestapo Major Krieger from hunter to hunted—an intelligent operative conducting subversive activities in civilian disguise—it elevates the conflict to a battle of wits between equally matched adversaries. Žigon's performance, eschewing the arrogant, blustering Nazi officer stereotype for something more calculating and desperate, provides a worthy opponent for the series' now-iconic heroes. The episode's social commentary, wherein Krieger discovers his former collaborators have opportunistically reinvented themselves for the new order, adds a cynical sophistication absent from earlier episodes. The conclusion, combining spectacular street action with familial reconciliation and the cathartic dispatch of the truly vile Special Police agent Isa (providing emotional closure for Moljac), demonstrates the series firing on all cylinders.

Ultimately, Povratak otpisanih must be assessed as a triumph of popular entertainment achieved through the strategic relaxation of artistic and historical standards. Its colour photography, expanded scale, and charismatic ensemble—particularly the additions of Vuisić and the returning Žigon—ensure its place in Yugoslav television history. Yet this accessibility comes at a cost: the series frequently "sacrificed historical fidelity on the altar of escapist, crowd-pleasing entertainment," transforming documented tragedy into action franchise. The tension between Povratak and its more austere predecessor mirrors broader shifts in the Yugoslav cultural landscape of the 1970s, as socialist self-management yielded increasingly to consumer satisfactions. For viewers seeking sophisticated cliff-hangers, genuine humour, and the pleasures of watching thoroughly professional actors negotiate one-dimensional material with surprising depth, Povratak delivers amply. For those requiring fidelity to the crushing moral weight of occupied Belgrade, the original Otpisani remains the superior, if less popular, achievement.

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