Hungarian Independent Voices: If Not Them, Who? Independent Festivals Crushing It in the Cracks of the Hungarian Regime

U500 – © Menyhért Hivessy

With a population of nearly two million, Budapest can feel compact, and even more so when viewed within the context of Hungary's ten million. Professional fields can be traversed rapidly, and the cultural scene is particularly interconnected as it naturally spills into nightlife. This is especially true for the independent sector, an even smaller yet dynamic part of the city's pulse. In these small circles, a simple 'hello-hello' might be more than just a greeting; it could signify old partnerships or the recognition of a familiar face seen at countless shared events.

The advantage of this house-party atmosphere is the organic development of friendships, the value placed on meeting spots, and the effective word-of-mouth exchange of job and programme opportunities. However, the downside becomes evident as one quickly hits boundaries, and distinguishing the professional from the personal becomes difficult when conflicts emerge. This community often operates on a network of favours, relying on a base of typically young, sometimes overworked volunteers. Burnout is as common as moments of genuine joy and the creation of lifelong memories.

Cultural funding—whether for performing arts, film, visual arts, or literature—is deeply affected by politics, so the need for a transparent and professional system is critical. The independent sector, by its nature, attracts a niche audience, defies capitalist sustainability, and often operates on principles that oppose it. Without an efficient support system, its proper functioning is nearly impossible. While the post-socialist transition period in Hungary did not create ideal conditions, most of those in the field agree that it was still possible to work.

Since Viktor Orbán's rise to power in 2010, however, Hungary has witnessed a steady decline in the climate for artists and organisations who are openly critical of the system, or seek to break away from mainstream norms. As of 2024, the system for independents nearly bled out. The trend has been compounded by the influence of identity politics, which have shaped global discourse over the past long decade. The values independent players typically share can easily clash with the Hungarian conservative leadership. The eyes of those in power are blind to this scene that—while often still creatively feeding the mainstream—is in a crucial need for small to medium-sized venues for experimentation.

Everyone brings their own beer to the Budapest house party. The host is a musician juggling four bands to make ends meet, living in an apartment passed down from his grandmother. The DJ is his graphic designer girlfriend, and the scones are provided by a catering friend who earns a sideline income by making poke tattoos. No one at the gathering manages to save by month’s end. Without strong personal motivation, few in Hungary venture into independent culture, let alone the experimental scene.

BIFF – © BIFF archives

BIFF

Coming Together

“For a long time, it was a natural part of our family life that my father ran a film festival. I remember standing as a child in front of a cinema with Mathieu Kassovitz, not understanding a word,” recalls Kristóf Horváth, director of the newly debuted Budapest International Film Festival (BIFF). His father, György Horváth, led Budapest’s iconic Titanic International Film Festival, which ran from 1993 to 2019. Growing up, Kristóf was exposed to the challenges of a working environment driven by cultural values and dedication, witnessing first-hand how easily it can be undermined by a poorly designed funding system. “I saw how this vulnerability impacts a family—wondering year to year if there would be work,” he says.

After the Titanic ended in 2019 due to fading opportunities, Kristóf Horváth felt strongly that Budapest still deserves its own international film festival. After years of reflection, he began reaching out to friends and industry professionals in 2023. If a new international film festival was to emerge, he was determined to make it happen. “I set January 20th, 2024 as the founding date for BIFF,” he explains. The process then began with a two-day workshop to define the festival’s vision and approach. “It was extremely liberating to have the stable support of a team coming together with a shared purpose,” he adds.

January seems just around the corner, since the first festival took place in late October. “We received a lot of feedback saying it would be impossible to pull it off in time, and it was overwhelming,” says Horváth. “I felt everything was aligning this year. I was afraid that if we postponed it to 2025, we’d lose the extraordinary creative energy we had.” At one point, Horváth admits, balancing his civilian job and his professional music career became too demanding—but that fortunately changed when Budapest Film, the city's biggest art cinema operator responsible for renting, stepped in as a sponsor (Budapest is currently governed by the opposition.) “When their support became certain, I quit my civilian job. From that moment on, there were no more doubts: we had to move forward,” he recalls.

Péter Donáth, a film directing graduate and one of BIFF’s programme directors, has played a key role in building the festival from the ground up. Since 2010, he has worked in film distribution, travelling to festivals worldwide. “I used to be excited about the idea of starting our own festival, but my career began under the first Orbán government,” Donáth explains, sporting an UH Fest shirt with the slogan “a new kind of joy”. “Over the years, political influence became too overwhelming, making the situation unpredictable. We weren’t willing to make the necessary compromises with the State apparatus.” When he was introduced to Horváth and joined forces to launch BIFF, Donáth was already more than prepared to curate a compelling programme. “If someone asks for twenty premieres, I’d say it’s challenging. I’d rather suggest forty,” he says.

Horváth and Donáth teamed up with three others, forming the five-person founding group behind BIFF (Dániel Rév is the head of programming together with Donáth; Tamás Szalai is the strategic and financial director; Bálint Szimler is the creative director). “We also took personal financial risk, but I don’t see it as a sacrifice—it’s just so much fun to do this,” says Horváth. “We knew the first event would open many doors down the line. It’s a long-term investment.” The founders were joined by about 20 additional team members, with nearly 30 volunteers contributing during the festival. While some received payment for their work, others participated purely out of passion. “People want to be involved in BIFF,” Horváth observes. “They’re hungry for something new to happen.”

The festival’s budget received a significant boost from Budapest Film, which eliminated the need to rent out a cinema at market rates—a cost that ticket sales alone could not have covered. “We lacked proper know-how, so we instinctively turned to sponsors. It was a clear decision from the start not to apply for public funding.” In Hungary, the National Film Institute (NFI)—an organisation well connected to the regime—oversees State film funding, which can reach up to millions of euros. In contrast, award-winning independent films often rely on the collaborative efforts of friends and professionals working outside this system. BIFF’s launch was ultimately supported by a handful of dedicated sponsors, including a bank, a streaming service, a wine company, and an independent news portal—Telex—whose editorial team had stood up against the government before.

A Gritty Nature

The inaugural BIFF was a success, showcasing 21 films across 25 screenings and drawing over 5,000 attendees. The BIFF team thus officially joined the ranks of a determined yet often struggling group of passionate film festival organisers, typically specialising in niche themes. For instance, Verzió has been an international festival spotlighting documentaries and human rights since 2004; Anilogue, now in its 22nd year, celebrates animation; or Friss Hús, which has been showcasing short films since 2012. BIFF’s recent achievement came despite the financial challenges posed by the current climate.

“It’s part of the madness that we launched the first festival in a year marked by economic unpredictability and inflation,” says Donáth. “We hoped there would be enough people willing to support this mission—people curious about a new cultural phenomenon, even if they hadn’t heard of the specific films before. A festival is also about offering an alternative to isolation.” Horváth underscores the festival’s focus on fostering community building. “We deeply believe in the power of cinema,” he says. “Watching Netflix at home with your girlfriend is not the same as sitting in a theatre with 400 people in front of a big screen.”

Donáth highlights that all five founders of BIFF share roots in underground culture. “That’s the pattern we know, the scene we’ve been part of,” he explains. Their backgrounds include organising electronic music and rap parties, running film clubs, working in independent media, and participating in other grassroots cultural activities. According to Donáth, their generational experience as mostly millennials having grown up before the dominance of internet culture is also a key element in their approach to community building, with younger audiences eagerly joining in. “We know what it’s like to go to a friend’s house, ring the doorbell, and hang out only if they’re home.”

At its inception, the BIFF team seriously considered whether it was even right to launch a film festival. “The regime is systematically attacking the civil sector, which is trying to fill gaps left by the state, while stripping away any vision for the future of culture,” the team reflects. “Many people don’t earn enough to live a normal life. Can we justify holding a film festival under these circumstances?” The founders, however, believe that art—much like education—has a vital role in fostering resilience within such a system. “Art helps us survive. It’s our passion. If something doesn’t exist, we have to create it ourselves,” they say. “There’s a gritty determination to it, too. Similar to the approach of UH or U500. Empathy and mutual support are essential if we’re going to build our own institutional foundations.” Reflecting this ethos, BIFF announced the creation of a new independent film fund during its closing screening.

U500 – © Menyhért Hivessy

U500

Everyone Who Lives and Moves

“When I work abroad, people usually ask me if we have censorship. And I ask them, what do they mean?,” says Viktor Szeri with a touch of irony. “Someone dances, and they censor it? I’d be happy if they even came to see what we do,” he adds with a laugh. In response to the Covid-19 crisis, Szeri, alongside a small team of friends and professionals, funded the Under500 Festival (U500). One of his main collaborators is Adrienn Hód, director of the internationally acclaimed Hodworks company. Both are contemporary dancers and choreographers. Following the first wave of the pandemic in the spring of 2020, the Hungarian government lifted lockdowns for the summer, allowing stage performances for audiences of fewer than 500 people—hence the festival's name.

“The funding system—or rather, what was left of it—did not respond to the pandemic at all,” says Szeri. “We had resources to continue performing, but nowhere to actually perform.” By the time the government lifted Covid restrictions after the first wave, most theatre staff all around the city were already on holiday. “During the lockdown, even if we couldn’t go on stage, we kept rehearsing in closed communities,” adds Adrienn Hód. “What we couldn’t understand was why no institution organised a summer festival with an open stage for completed productions.” Both Szeri and Hód emphasise the precarious nature of their work. “We don’t have steady pay checks. Our income depends entirely on whether or not we can perform.”

Although Budapest boasts one of Europe’s most renowned stages for contemporary dance with Trafó House, the field has faced years of decline due to the gradual collapse of the funding system. Because the overall situation is trying and everyday issues are hard enough to solve, actors often explain their absence from EU tenders by a lack of time and energy. Performances have steadily dwindled, and at least one major company has already been forced to shut down (The Symptoms). Even when support structures exist, they are often project-based, creating additional challenges for performers. “It would make much more sense if we could run a show until it naturally reaches its end,” says Viktor Szeri. “If you only have one or two nights to perform, people forget about it quickly.” The organisers of U500 say they usually rely on word-of-mouth communication, which still works well enough in Budapest.

Still Here

When the pandemic hit, Viktor Szeri was also working as an organiser for the music-focused Kolorádó Festival, which was ultimately cancelled. “Adri’s company, Hodworks, was set to perform there as well,” recalls Szeri. “So she was the one who asked: if Kolorádó isn’t happening but the programme is ready, why don’t we organise a festival ourselves?” The first U500, initially a day-long event, was held in—and thus supported by—Artus Contemporary Art Studio, a space well-known within the dance community with a maximum capacity of approx. 100 people. By 2021, U500 expanded into a small two-day festival. Since then, U500 has consistently showcased 80-100 participating artists and attracted 100-120 daily spectators. In addition to Artus, the event is supported by other venues frequented by the independent scene, such as aqb or MU Színház, and a volunteer crew of around 20 members (over the years, Hód and Szeri worked together closely with András Molnár, Gyula Muskovics, Andi Soós and Tamás Páll among others).

The language of the festival, now traditionally held in the summer, is rooted in dance and movement but its programme includes musical and visual collaborations, experimental and performative directions. Visitors can enjoy performances from a work-in-progress piece to a fully realised production. “It quickly became clear among the organisers who was working in which field, but anyone can propose a programme,” explains Hód. Each year, they aim to expand their reach by welcoming new creators, often through personal networks and recommendations. These encounters may evolve into long-term partnerships, reinforcing U500’s role as a creative hub and a professional platform, where creators regularly sit in as audiences for one another’s productions. “You don’t need a lot of money to participate. Once a year, we can provide a platform for young performers as well with an audience of 100-150 witnesses. In these few days, we can really feel that we are still here as a community.”

U500 operates with a transparent model: every performer, whether a student or an experienced professional, receives an equal albeit modest share of the ticket revenue. “In 2024 we operated completely by crowdfunding: all of the 80 performing artists we had come for free,” adds Szeri. For the first time, after this year’s festival, the organisers opted not to distribute the limited income. “If some miracle doesn’t happen, the 2024 revenue will all go into organising U500 2025.” So the festival continues its journey: according to plans it will be held between July 14th and 15th, 2025, in Artus.

Szeri explains that contemporary dance, much like other subcultures, is far more inclusive than it might seem from the outside. “It’s not just about going to an institution, watching a dance performance, maybe having a glass of wine at the bar, then heading home. For two days, we’re all connected. You get to know people.” Although it’s just a brief annual event, Hód and Szeri both believe the sense of community and shared experience gives participants an invaluable boost. “Afterward, I feel like it’s worth it. I’m not sure why—because it’s definitely not worth it financially—but it’s amazing to have each other,” Szeri says. “It’s like we have beacon lights here. We bring them together, and for two days, they shine together more brightly,” concludes Hód.

UH – © Csilla Fodor

UH

A New Kind of Joy

“It's about the idea and the will: that's where it all starts. If you know it can be done and you have the will to do it, you can do anything,” says András Nun, founder, co-curator, and organiser of UH Fest. He emphasises the importance of initiative, advising “Don't wait for an institution to fund what you want.” Since 2001, UH in its own words is “one of the rare events dedicated to adventurous modern music in Hungary.” Over the years, it has showcased hundreds of artists. This autumn UH featured ten events over seven days, attracting between 150 and 400 visitors each event.

UH Fest has undergone different phases in its long history, and next year it will take a break. “Even in a classic workplace, it’s worth pausing occasionally to evaluate what we’re doing,” says Krisztián Puskár, who has been co-curating and organising the festival with András Nun since 2012. “In volunteering, it’s especially important not to fall into a routine that becomes repetitive. This break is about renewal—and we’ve grown tired, too.” Nun agrees, emphasising the value of stepping back. “It will be refreshing if the next semester doesn’t begin with the almost mechanical tasks for the coming year. It’s a serious responsibility to organise a festival like ours. You have to be cautious not to stumble so badly that you end up saying: never again.”

The festival has reorganised itself before, particularly after its first major era in the 2000s. In its early days, UH featured one-night, multi-stage concerts, but as fundraising efforts improved, it expanded into longer festivals held in 2003, 2005, 2007, and 2010. By 2012, the festival held one-off concerts under the name UH Demo, tapping into the wave of creativity fuelled by the SoundCloud explosion, focusing on the local scene and fostering new young voices. In 2014, UH was relaunched as a full festival, starting from scratch without financial backing. It grew organically by drawing on the experience and enthusiasm of a new team of volunteers, gradually regaining its momentum.

“From 2001 onward, the first ten years were focused on whether we could assemble an event with a concentrated line-up of exciting concerts,” says Nun. “The question was whether an underground festival could survive without institutional backing. When we relaunched in 2014, our concept was to dedicate an entire week to UH—as if we had the funding. And, by golly, a year later, we did.” While the festival also depends on volunteer work, it draws from multiple funding sources. UH is one of the founders of the EU-funded Shape Platform, a collaborative project with other European festivals. Since the relaunch, part of its framework comes from this membership (Shape will be active until the middle of 2025)

The commitment to volunteer for UH is evident—this year, nearly 70 people signed up for roles requiring only about half that number. The festival typically operates with a team of 30 to 40 during the events, with volunteers handling tasks such as ticket sales, artist coordination, and transportation logistics. “Imagine a giant Excel sheet—it’s an information hub that has been evolving over the years,” explains Puskár. The main, year-round core team—next to Nun and Puskár comprising Veszna Wessenauer—is responsible not only for coordinating these volunteers and handling curatorial and organisational duties, but also for communication and financial management.

“Giving others the opportunity to get involved can be uplifting, even if it's for just one week a year,” says Puskár, reflecting on the value of volunteering. “We’ve already seen former UH volunteers go on to create their own small performance festival. They’ve taken the professional skills they learned with us and applied them to something new. That’s very rewarding. It also comes down to a personal question of who can do what and who has the right level of passion. It can sometimes be self-exploitative, but as long as you get enough back, it’s worth it.” Nun adds that scarcity itself can be a powerful motivator. “Because the country is small, it’s often only financially feasible to book well-known performers who can guarantee ticket sales with their name alone.” Without support, it’s challenging to bring in lesser-known artists who perform niche or experimental music—and that’s exactly UH’s profile.

As an Ecosystem

Over the two decades UH Fest has been running, Budapest’s cultural landscape has been naturally transformed. “The club scene is facing serious problems right now. We have to operate in a DIY way,” says Puskár. “But I trust the organisers in our scene—they’ve been at it for years. They’re driven to create something new because they’re not satisfied with the current conditions,” he adds.

Speaking of these current conditions, the organisers of UH Fest are outspoken critics of the House of Music Hungary (HMH), a large public institution dedicated solely to the music genre. It opened in 2022, and was built by the State under controversial circumstances at a reported cost of approximately 55-60 million euros. “We can’t ignore HMH when discussing how Budapest’s music scene has changed. It has a significant gravitational effect,” says Nun. In his view, HMH undermines grassroot initiatives. “While having huge resources, it drains civic energy and weakens self-organisation,” he explains. “It functions as a kind of cultural financier, but without transparency.”

“In this society it’s hard to maintain civil courage,” adds Puskár. “Working in the underground and experimental fields, creators and organisers are inherently vulnerable and HMH has intentionally targeted them. There might be good intentions, however they inevitably become instruments of autocracy-washing. By now, working there is considered acceptable, and criticising it feels like spoiling the party. People are tired.” For Nun, HMH symbolises the broader dynamics of the past 14 years in Hungary. “If you don’t join, you’re left chewing on the doorstep,” he says. “We have a certain responsibility too: we should talk about these issues together with those involved” (The organisers of UH had previously initiated an open discussion on the subject inviting various actors).

Despite the challenges, the organisers of UH Fest remain optimistic. “I like to think of our community as an ecosystem—we complement each other,” says Puskár. “We don’t do exactly the same things, but we reflect on one another.” He emphasises the importance of openness and criticism, both culturally and politically. “For example, 25 percent of our weekly pass holders buy those without even knowing the line-up. This kind of trust and thinking is incredibly rewarding,” he explains. “We see that UH inspires many.”

BIFF – © BIFF archives

One Closes, One Opens

Press is not free merely because independent newsrooms operate; education is not of high quality simply because alternative schools exist; science does not progress just because one field is arbitrarily subsidised—and culture is not truly diverse because we have grandiose State institutions. Yet, the government often points to these examples to portray itself as a democratic system.

In reality, thoughts outside the narrative the regime feels comfortable with—whether in culture, media, education, or science—is being systematically stifled. The method in all fields listed above has become all too familiar: in addition to the financial pressure, bureaucratic centralisation, and putting people with party affiliations in decision-making positions are also important practices.

Still, critical culture persists—and not solely under-ground. While many artists and creators understandably leave Hungary, others return, bringing with them the experiences they’ve gained abroad. They want to create here, driven by a connection to their home and the issues that matter most to them. When one venue closes, another opens. Budapest remains a dynamic hub determined to innovate and express itself. Yet, the question remains: how long can an unsustainable situation endure?

The quotes in this article have been edited for clarity.

Published on December 10th, 2024

About the author:

Nora Balkanyi is a journalist based in Budapest, covering creative industry, media, and culture; currently freelancing as an editor, media literacy trainer and cultural content manager; volunteer in JazzaJ hub for improvisational music since 2015.

About the festivals:

BIFF

Kristóf Horváth — Festival director and one of the founders of BIFF; guitarist of the band Esti Kornél.

Péter Donáth — BIFF Programme Director, one of the founders of Cinema Niche, magyarhangya and BIFF; film director and film distribution specialist.

U500

UNDER500 Festival 2023

UNDER500 Festival 2022

Adrienn Hód — Artistic and production director of Hodworks company; an internationally acclaimed choreographer and teacher specialising in contemporary dance and experimental movement.

Viktor Szeri — Independent multidisciplinary performer and choreographer based in Budapest; one of the founders of the artist group Hollow.

UH FEST

UH Festival 2023

András Nun — Founder, co-curator and organiser of the UH Fest; associate of Autonomia Foundation, which works on civic development and social empowerment, especially Roma inclusion programmes.

Krisztián Puskár — Co-curator and organiser of UH Fest since 2012; a senior journalist and editor, working for the Partizán channel since 2022; an occasional DJ, organiser and co-founder of Küss Mich club nights.