If there’s a unifying impulse in Nadav Lapid’s cinema, it’s refusal: refusal of comfort, of distance, and of the idea that art can stand apart from the conditions that produce it. In Yes!, his most confrontational film to date, that refusal takes on a new intensity. What begins in manic, almost grotesque satire gradually reveals itself as something closer to an existential reckoning, a film less interested in persuading its audience than in exhausting it.
Catch Yes! in theaters beginning April 2nd at the Laemmle Glendale.
Set in the aftermath of October 7th, Yes! centers on Y, a pianist living in Tel Aviv with his wife and their young child. They are ambitious, affectionate, and acutely attuned to the possibilities of upward mobility. Their strategy is simple: ingratiate themselves with powerful individuals. Moving through parties, performances, and private gatherings, they attach themselves to a network of political, military, and cultural elites, saying “yes” to every opportunity, every demand, every unspoken expectation.
Lapid renders this ascent in a style that is deliberately overwhelming. The film’s early passages unfold in a rush of movement and noise: faces contort, bodies thrash, images veer toward the surreal. Satire here is neither cool nor distancing but feverish, almost desperate. Moments of comedy land uneasily, often collapsing into something more abrasive. The effect is one of constant destabilization, as though the film itself were struggling to contain its own anger.
At the center of it all is Ariel Bronz’s Y, a figure defined by his almost-superhuman capacity for acquiescence. He absorbs the rhetoric around him without question, reshaping himself to fit the expectations of those in power. His ambition—to be seen, to succeed, to matter—drives him forward, even as it erodes any stable sense of self. What Lapid tracks, with increasing severity, is not a moral awakening but the consequences of its absence. Y does not so much choose a path as slide into it, one “yes” at a time.
What distinguishes Yes! is its refusal to offer release. Lapid does not build toward catharsis, nor does he grant his characters the dignity of clear transformation. Instead, he circles a more troubling idea: that complicity is rarely dramatic, rarely declared, but incremental, shaped by small concessions that accumulate over time.
The lingering effect of Yes! is less the shock of its imagery than the persistence of its central idea. Lapid’s film doesn’t argue so much as confront, exploring what it means to live alongside catastrophe, to filter it, to rationalize it, or simply to keep moving. The answers remain unresolved, but the implication is clear enough: indifference is not a neutral position.
“You can hear the rage behind the laughter in Israeli satire Yes… [Lapid] almost seems to bait you to look away, to turn off and tune out just like his revelers, even as he inexorably pulls you in.” – Manohla Dargis, The New York Times
“A whirling, maximalist satire… Exhilaratingly of the moment and in the moment.” – Guy Lodge, Variety
“Deliriously provocative, a veritable orgy of self-loathing.” – David Ehrlich, Indiewire
