Babo: The Haftbefehl Story 2025 Movie Review
The documentary Babo: The Haftbefehl Story (2025) offers a raw and unflinching portrait of the German-rapper Haftbefehl (real name Aykut Anhan), tracing his trajectory from an unsettling, insecure upbringing to the heights of hip-hop acclaim, and the many demons he encountered along the way. Directed by Juan Moreno and Sinan Sevinç and produced by Elyas M’Barek, the film positions itself, in its essence, as more than a standard “rise to fame” narrative—it delves into the emotional, psychological, and cultural underpinnings of a figure who became emblematic of German-language rap.
From the outset, the documentary confronts the viewer with an image of contradiction: Haftbefehl’s hardened persona as the street-wise “Babo” (boss, chief) clashing with the fragility of a human being grappling with trauma and identity. The film opens with a stark scene—a solitary chair in a darkened space, the man behind the moniker smoking a cigarette, speaking in halting, understated terms about his state of mind: “Mir geht’s gut, Brudi. Ich war in Therapie.” “I was already dead,” he adds. This moment sets the tone: it is not about myth-making, but about revealing the cost of myth.
One of the strengths of the documentary lies in its willingness to trace Haftbefehl’s development not simply as a musical phenomenon, but as a product of place, family, and socio-cultural dynamics. Growing up in the high-rise district of Main-Park in Offenbach, with a family background marked by things that remained unsaid and wounds that never fully healed, the narrative underscores how his environment propelled him toward music and rebellion, but also left him vulnerable to the internal fallout of that rebellion. Through archival footage, home videos and first-hand interviews, the film chronicles his early exposure to hip-hop, his transformation into a voice for many young Germans with immigrant backgrounds—and how, simultaneously, he became enmeshed in the often brutal dialectics of street life and celebrity.
The feature does an admirable job in charting the evolution of his work—in particular the era surrounding his hit that popularised “Babo” as slang for “boss”, his albums such as Russisch Roulette (2014) and Das Schwarze Album (2022) that cemented his status. Yet rather than glorify, the film pauses at key junctures to inspect the costs: legal troubles, media controversy over violent lyrics, the cycle of excess that so often follows fame. One revealing segment shows his collapse at a concert in Mannheim in 2022—an image of a man at the end of his tether, waking in intensive care, weighed down by years of cocaine use. Such scenes help shift the film beyond the bio-doc formula into something more harrowing—a study in the violence fame can inflict on the self.
The pacing of the documentary is compelling. At around 90-odd minutes, it is brisk but charged, and the editing (by Philipp Schnabel, Marco Rottig and David Gesslbauer) ensures that the narrative moves between past and present, between concert footage and confessional interviews, between the in-studio and the in-therapy room. The cinematography (Wesley Salamone) captures the contrast between the bright lights of performance and the dark shadows of personal crisis. We see the adoring masses, the festival stages, the high-end production of hip-hop—but we also see the hotel room, the hospital bed, the detached phone call, the blank stare.
Interviews are central to the film’s power. Haftbefehl himself speaks often—honestly, sometimes uncomfortably—about his drug use: “I’ve been taking drugs for 25 years, and that’s why my brain is mush,” as the director notes. We also hear from collaborators and fellow artists such as Xatar, Moses Pelham, Kool Savas, Jan Delay and Peter Fox, who attest to the energy and influence he brought to German rap: that he changed the game. Their voices contribute both context and contrast: they highlight the magnitude of his achievement while underscoring the contradictions of his persona.
One salient theme is identity—and not just cultural identity, though that is part of the story. Haftbefehl as a son of Turkish-Kurdish background grows into a rapper who often adopts a hyper-masculine street-tough posture, but the film suggests that this posture was also armour. Disclosures about his father’s suicide, his feelings of absence and abandonment, his love of unexpected music like Reinhard Mey (a German singer-songwriter far removed from street rap) all point to a more nuanced person than the public figure. The image of the rap hero is deconstructed even as it is celebrated.
In terms of cultural significance, the documentary underscores how Haftbefehl emerged at a moment when German-language rap was undergoing transformation. He brought diasporic sensitivity, multilingual flows (German with dialects and immigrant languages), and an unapologetic reference to street life that resonated with a generation. His music’s aesthetic (and controversies) mirrored the conflict between mainstream success and underground authenticity. The film places him firmly in that context—but importantly refuses to sanitise the story. In doing so, it prompts a broader conversation about what it means to be “authentic” in hip-hop, what happens when the edgy lyrics become lived experience, and how the commercialisation of subculture can widen rather than erase internal conflict.
On that note, the film’s tone teeters between admiration and critique. It is clear that the makers respect Haftbefehl’s artistry and his importance; yet they are unafraid to examine his failures, self-destructive impulses and the contradictions of his lifestyle. One interview with his wife stands out: she speaks of loving Aykut but not necessarily the persona of Haftbefehl. This demarcation—between the man and the myth—runs as a subtle through-line, and distinguishes the documentary from a hagiography. The film thus becomes a mirror: it shows the glamour, the triumph, the power—but also the toll, the isolation, the collapse.
In terms of shortcomings, some viewers might find the documentary’s brevity limiting. With so much ground covered—childhood, immigration, music career, legal issues, drug addiction, mental health—the film cannot deeply explore every theme it raises. At times, the transitions feel rapid, and for those unfamiliar with the German rap scene or with Haftbefehl’s work, certain cultural references might lack sufficient framing. The film assumes a certain level of awareness and perhaps will resonate most with those already engaged with the genre. Also, while the interview segments are strong, some of the archival footage and cut-away commentary feel standard for music documentaries and might not break entirely new ground in form. But arguably that is less a flaw than a pragmatic choice—the film wastes little time on embellishment and sticks to its core objective: laying bare the story.
Another interesting dimension is the film’s aesthetic relationship to its subject. Hip-hop thrives on performance, spectacle, bravado; the documentary partly mirrors that, showing concerts, crowd energy, production studio flurries. But it then pulls away into the aftermath: the heavy silence, the rehab chair, the text message unread, the phone ringing unanswered. That shift is effective: it invites the viewer to consider the cost of performance. The contrast is visceral. The film effectively uses sound design and editing to create mood—early tracks, conversation in the studio, overlayed with images of roads, hotel corridors, empty venues—creating a sense of restlessness that matches Hafbefehl’s psyche.
From a production standpoint, the involvement of Elyas M’Barek is intriguing—his role as producer signals a bridging of mainstream German film and the hip-hop documentary world. Reportedly, the documentary was two years in the making—a sustained effort to capture the artist in motion, not simply retrospectively. The commitment shows: we see not only archival material but footage shot contemporaneously, which gives a freshness and immediacy to the story.
The film’s emotional impact is significant. It is easy to watch it as a “music documentary” for fans, but the human dimension carries weight beyond genre interest. The candid nature of Haftbefehl’s admissions—about his addiction, about having “no brain left,” about what the persona cost him—makes the film compelling even for those who might not otherwise follow German rap. There are moments that impress simply because the subject allows himself to be exposed. One reviewer on Letterboxd writes, “Die Reinhard Mey-Szene hat mich gekillt … Haut dich frontal sakat.” (The Reinhard Mey scene killed me … hits you head-on). This kind of visceral reaction suggests the documentary reaches beyond niche appeal and touches something universal: the collision of identity, ambition, self-destruction.
At the same time, in terms of broader resonance, the documentary also raises questions about the music industry, about cultural appropriation and authenticity, about the commodification of the gritty “street” aesthetic. By following Haftbefehl’s story—how he rose, how he struggled—the film implicitly asks: what happens when the authenticity that propelled success becomes the burden that traps the artist? How do communities that looked up to him interpret his collapse? And how does the public figure reconcile with the private self? The film doesn’t offer simple answers, which is perhaps its greatest strength. It gives space to discomfort, to contradiction, to ambiguity.
Another layer worth noting is how the film situates Haftbefehl within a generational shift. He is a bridge: between immigrant youth and mainstream German culture; between underground rap and commercial success; between the past era of gangsta-rap tropes and a more reflective future. In that sense, the documentary becomes not only a biography but a cultural document—a snapshot of hip-hop’s place in 2020s Germany, with its tensions, its politics and its potential for both empowerment and damage.
In the final analysis, Babo: The Haftbefehl Story is a strong documentary that achieves more than loyalty to its subject—it interrogates the subject. That is what makes it noteworthy. It may not completely redefine the form of music bio-docs, but it elevates the genre with honesty, emotional gravity and socio-cultural context. For fans of Haftbefehl, it offers a layered portrait; for newcomers, it provides enough intrigue and human drama to engage; and for cultural critics, it supplies fertile ground for reflection on fame, trauma, identity and the music business.
If one were to draw a modest criticism: at times the film may feel a little rushed in states of crisis, and it leans quite heavily on confession rather than deeper analytical framing. For example, it presents the drug-use collapse, but offers less in the way of broader commentary on systemic issues—poverty, migration, institutional neglect—that might have contextualised the story further. But given its runtime and focus, those omissions are understandable, and they do not significantly diminish the overall impact.
In conclusion, Babo: The Haftbefehl Story stands as a compelling, necessary document of a figure who looms large in German hip-hop and whose story contains within it the contradictions of art, identity and survival. It is courageous in its self-exposure, poignant in its depiction of a public persona stripped down to its vulnerable human core, and culturally resonant in how it reflects the changing face of German popular music and youth culture. For anyone interested in rap, in biographies of artists, or in the intersection of culture and trauma, this documentary is worth watching.
