There is something – when reading this book – that makes me visualize a photographic darkroom, from the time when pictures were still being developed from a negative. One would submerge photographic paper into trays full of chemical baths, then pull it with pincers, wash, let it dry, and, in the course of all this, see the images gradually emerge, take shape, gaining full contrast and defined contours. The figures in the photo would become distinguishable, the pictures would tell a story, and would become engraved on the mind of the viewer. It would be a riveting process of emergence: where once there had been only white photographic paper, now there was a testimony, a record of occurrence, a document of existence, and a newly shaped epistemological space.

In Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans, Ana Grgić opens up her darkroom to deliver to the world the early moving images that she is working with – of a lost, yet revered past – flickering and faint shadows yet discernible and spellbinding. Tactile. Haptic. She makes faces, facades, and chronicles come to light; she orders, names, and links them. She transforms the void into a story.

And yes, it was a void before. Early Balkan cinema simply did not ‘exist’ a few decades ago. The encyclopaedias and guides on early cinema were there, yet there was little in these volumes to suggest the existence of any faint – let alone thriving – film culture across the Balkan lands. All attention was focused on the West, with the occasional mention of what took place in the lands of former Austria–Hungary. The specialized film festivals would play, occasionally, a film from these territories, and such rare occurrences would be considered a colourful breakthrough. Whatever the Balkans had to contribute was away from the eyes and away from the mind. Cinema did not appear to have any discernible presence in this part of the world. Nor to have left any significant utterances.

In Ana Grgić's text, the absent films, which have only sporadically been referenced over time, now emerge and transform into fully fledged cinematic events – from Grandmother Despina and The Weavers (1907), or The Journey to Sofia (1909), to accomplished albeit nationalist features like The Life and Deeds of the Immortal Leader Karađorđe (1911) and The Independence of Romania (1912) – and become pillars of a new round of witnessing.

There is a serious crisis across Europe today, a crisis of racism. It is particularly palpable in Eastern Europe, where openly racist talk and actions emanate from a range of people who practise hate speech on a daily basis – from football fans to yoga teachers to real estate agents – at their workplace, in their social interactions and on social media. Yet it is a crisis that remains unacknowledged – mainly because the objects of racism and hate speech are the Roma, aka Gypsies. This is a crisis of antiziganism, a hushed one.

Take Jan Gebert's acclaimed documentary, Az prijde válka (When the War Comes, 2018). Set in Slovakia, the film follows the leader of a paramilitary group, Petr Švrček, a clean-cut youngster who is articulate and polite. We see him taking exams and helping older people around town, and on weekends training the other youngsters of his ‘army’ in the nearby woods. Is this training just for recreation purposes or has it real-life application? What is the war that these young people are preparing for? Who is the enemy that they will counter with their advanced fighting skills? This is never clearly identified. Viewers in Eastern Europe, however, know the answer – it will be a war against the Roma, against the refugees, against the ‘foreign’, against all those who are not ‘us’. In fact, it is not a war that is still to come – rather, it is a war that has already quietly started and that such groups are involved with. My attention in this investigation is focused on the reality of antiziganism and the war against the Roma – one that is not officially recognised but that rages across the countries of Eastern Europe – and on the way it has been represented in cinema of the past decade.

Roma are mistreated in Western and Eastern Europe alike, albeit in different ways. In Western Europe, actions against Roma that verge on human rights abuse (demolition of settlements, deportations without the chance to be heard, restrictions on welfare) are carried out by official enforcement bodies such as the police or welfare officers. They are reported on – mainly in human rights monitoring and Roma media, with little in the mainstream sources – but rarely cause much public outcry.

The choice of Bulgaria to illustrate the processes taking place in the cinemas of new Europe's smaller countries is not obvious at first blush. All former socialist countries suffered a drop in film production in the early 1990s, but after the initial disarray previous output levels were restored in some places and the production cycle stabilised, reinforced by the introduction of new legislation and well-regulated funding mechanisms. Bulgaria, however, is nowhere near recovering and the crisis persists.

The overall political atmosphere in Bulgaria since 1989 has been one of general political instability and persistent economic crisis. Governments have kept changing and most of them have stood accused of corruption at some point. Most importantly, whereas many other Eastern bloc countries joined the European Union in 2004, Bulgaria's entry has been postponed, as the country is still deemed ‘unfit’ for Europe.

While these processes represent the worst aspects of volatility, bad management and misguided privatisation, they are widespread across the former Eastern bloc and the example of Bulgarian cinema can also stand in for the situation in other small and persistently failing film industries in countries that continue to suffer the repercussions of isolation and timid provincialism. These industries are rarely written about and part of the interest in considering Bulgaria is the way in which this will extricate the specifics of a national cinema that is not only small but also provincial.