A Dutch resistance fighter, openly gay and awaiting execution in a Nazi cell, begins a heartfelt dialogue with his young German guard. What starts as silence becomes an unlikely connection, challenging both men’s beliefs before time runs out.
“There’s always room for one more friend… however long is left of it.”
Willem isn’t just a short film – it’s a punch straight to the chest. In a 35-minute emotional furnace set in a Nazi prison cell in 1943, we meet Willem Arondeus – a Dutch resistance fighter, an artist, a writer, a lover, and yes – unapologetically gay. And for that, he’s about to die.
Across from him sits Alexander – a young Nazi officer, quiet, stiff, and visibly conflicted. He’s not a monster. Not yet. Over the course of three days, something shifts. Not dramatically. But tenderly, like a crack in a wall where a ray of sunshine dares to sneak through.
What unfolds is not a romance. It’s not a thriller. It’s a human encounter that will quietly wreck you if you’re paying attention.
Minimalism done right
The film is deliberately claustrophobic. One cell. Two men. No flashbacks, no distractions. The dialogue – written by director David Hastings – is sharp, poetic at times, yet grounded in raw human emotion. Some lines feel lifted straight from a play. And honestly? They work. Big time.
Willem steals the show
Chris Johnson as Willem is the heart and soul of this piece. He paints (literally and figuratively) a portrait of a man who has lost everything but refuses to let go of dignity, humor, or hope. His monologues – about his love for Jan, about painting sunshine when it wasn’t there – are heartbreaking and inspiring in the same breath.
And then there’s Thomas Loone as Alexander, the conflicted officer. Watching him crack, flinch, soften – it’s slow-burn magic. The film never forces a redemption arc. It simply gives us a man struggling between uniform and conscience.
Yes, it’s a queer film – but it’s also resistance cinema
Willem isn’t just a “gay martyr” story. It’s a powerful reminder that queer people weren’t just victims during WWII – they resisted. They fought. They loved deeply and lost profoundly. And they mattered.
This story is inspired by the real Willem Arondeus – a Dutch artist and resistance member executed in 1943, who famously said before his death:
“Let it be known that homosexuals are not cowards.”
That line’s not in the film, but its spirit is everywhere.
It’s a quiet triumph.
This isn’t a comfortable film. But it’s a necessary one. In a world still struggling with hatred in many forms, Willem whispers (and sometimes screams) the value of empathy, memory, and courage.
It’s a quiet triumph.
David Hastings directed the film You Are My Sunshine
