Articles, Doc-making, EN, Festivals, Interviews, People, Screenings-Events

We are Stardust

April 13, 2026 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

"Jon gave me back my childhood trust in wonder. And now I want to share this magic with all of you." E.R.

Dimitra Kouzi in conversation with Elisabeth Rasmussen

Dimitra Kouzi (DK): If you had to describe the film in one sentence, what would it be?
Elisabeth Rasmussen (E.R.): A love letter to citizen science and thinking outside the box.

DK: How did you first encounter Jon Larsen’s story?
E.R.: I had just returned to Norway after living abroad for years. I heard a radio interview where a man claimed he found stardust on rooftops, and I needed to meet this guy. When I met him, I knew I wanted to make a film about him.

How did you approach portraying Jon Larsen’s character—both as a musician and as an amateur scientist—so that viewers could connect with his curiosity and perseverance?”
I wanted to portray Jon first and foremost as a human being. A question that came up for me is why Jon? How is it possible that a Norwegian artist does what big scientific institutions have not been able to do?
His mum sharing stories about him as a little boy who would come home with pockets full of rocks, teaches us something about him. His background as a jazz musician is essential. Jazz is about improvisation and listening deeply. His art studies told him about textures and pattern recognition. Those same skills informed his scientific discovery.

Jon approaches research with a creative mindset.

But beyond that, I wanted to show vulnerability. There were years of dismissal. Years of doubt.

The audience needs to feel the cost of persistence, not just the triumph.

By allowing time for silence, reflection, and small details, the way he handles the material when looking for it, a particle under a microscope, the way he speaks about rocks, we see not just determination, but wonder. I spent nearly a decade filming him, which allowed space for real moments to unfold naturally.
By showing both his doubts and his persistence, the audience can see themselves in him. He is not a superhero. He is someone who refused to stop looking. And that makes him a hero.

The visual scale moves from microscopic particles to cosmic imagery. How did you approach this cinematically?
I have always been fascinated with micro/macro perspectives. A friend showed me Charles and Ray Eames’s ‘Powers of 10’ during a conversation at Cannes film festival in 2007, and I was mesmerised. I later learned that electrons exist in orbitals (clouds) around a dense, central nucleus composed of protons and neutrons like tiny little solar systems in our body. Nature’s and life’s circular connectedness is so beautiful. I wanted to approach this by showing how our solar system was created by stardust, and how micrometeorites were the beginning of life on Earth through bringing water molecules and other materials like carbon from space. As this process happened 4.6 billion years ago, we solved this cinematically by working with VFX. It was very important to us that the scientific correctness remain valid, so we leaned on scientific institutions as well as the scientists in the film to provide images and feedback on our animations. I have taken inspiration from ‘Powers of Ten’ in the sense that we move from a human body and show different steps all the way to the Milky Way and back, and also inside the body, down to the electron swarm – simply to illustrate the connectedness of everything.

Why was it important to frame this story as character-driven rather than as a conventional science documentary?
When you are a documentary filmmaker and meet someone as passionate and fascinating as Jon Larsen, it is next to impossible not to turn a camera on him. I wanted to share with audiences what he represents – freedom, dream, hope. I do like science films; however, I feel that traditional science films might sometimes alienate broader audiences. Jon stands for openness, curiosity and wonder. His method for finding stardust in urban areas is as interesting to me as stardust itself. I did not want to make a film for scientists; I wanted to make a film that makes it possible for everyone to understand what stardust is, and how we can find it.

How did you portray Jon’s determination without romanticising him? What drew you to his underdog struggle against ‘gatekeepers’ of science?

I come from Sápmi, the traditional homelands of the Sámi people that stretch from Norway across Sweden and into Finland and Russia. My people were colonised and told that their language, culture and belief system were wrong. I guess that makes questioning the perceived right and wrong inevitable. My last documentary was about a punk who never gave in to conformity and established rules. See the pattern here? I love the fact that Jon follows his intuition. He is so humble and inclusive. He teaches even children to find stardust. Just letting his personality shine through the camera, and using that same energy in the edit, having open communication with the editors, encouraging them to go with their gut helped the film find balance without romanticising Jon.

How did you balance Indigenous cosmology with scientific rationalism?The beautiful Sámi myth I heard as a child about how a reindeer wandered down a ray of sun and brought life to Earthmakes me feel awe and connectedness with the sun and nature around me. I felt the same magic and awe when I heard that stardust could be found everywhere around us and that it is these tiny micrometeorites that brought life to Earth. The sun is our parent and everything around us is connected. I feel great comfort knowing that, and a deep love fornature.

What were the biggest challenges you faced during production?
One challenge was to understand and stay on top of the science before interviewing Jon and top astrophysicists and geologists. I spent a good while preparing myself.

What surprised you during the making of the film?
I was astonished to find out just how many tonnes of terrestrial material Jon went through to find one extraterrestrial particle. But most of all I was surprised when I saw how beautiful micrometeorites are!

The moment when NASA scientists climb onto their own rooftop to collect micrometeorites feels almost absurd. What did that sequence represent within the larger arc of the story?
It is true that NASA have spent billions on finding extraterrestrial particles in space. In my interview with NASA Stardust Curator Mike Zolensky, he said that on one such mission, they found half a milligram of stardust. Jon had found much more than that. Scientists need to study this material to learn about where life came from before our solar system was created, and whether there is life in other places in our universe. Before Jon, stardust was only found in space, Greenland, Antarctica and deep ocean sediments. By finding stardust on NASA’s rooftop, Jon proved once and for all that it can be found anywhere. This was a game changer both for Jon and for the field of micrometeorite research. Mike Zolensky said that Jon, through his discoveries, has opened a new door to the beginning of our solar system.

World Premiere March 2026 Photo: Katerina Tzigotzidou

The invention of a microscope camera capable of capturing micrometeorites in vivid colour introduces extraordinary imagery. How did you integrate VFX and AI-assisted animation while preserving the documentary’s authenticity and intimacy?
Mineralogist and photographer Jan Braly Kihle is one of the most interesting and knowledgeable people I have ever met. He created the microscope camera used to photograph Jon’s stardust. Together, Jan and Jon continued to improve it. The photographs they take of cosmic dust are breathtaking, and there has been absolutely no AI or VFX manipulation of the still photos of Jon’s stardust. Micrometeorites are simply that beautiful when you see them enlarged.

But, being a filmmaker, I wanted to see a tiny micrometeorite move. I wanted to see it fall from space and land on Jon’sbreakfast table, because that is what set this whole journey into motion. I’ve seen it inside my head since I heard the story and wanted to visualise this beautiful journey that these small cocktails of life-sustaining materials make when they fall down to Earth like snowflakes.
Making the 0.3mm micrometeorite fall from space and land on the table proved challenging to visualise. We worked closely with Colin Byrne at Little Shadow in London. They used a high-resolution photo of an actual micrometeorite from Jon and Jan and cutting-edge VFX and AI-assisted VFX technology to make it both visible and in a realistic size as it moves.

Elisabeth Rasmussen, Mineralogist and photographer Jan Braly Kihle and Jon Larsen

Those photos of the Micrometeorites made possible due to the microscope invention of Mineralogist and photographer Jan Braly Kihle

We Are Stardust suggests that science belongs to everyone. In an era of polarisation and mistrust of expertise, do you see the film as political?
One of the simplest definitions of politics I heard was from the late Swedish prime minister Olof Palme, who said, ‘Politics is to want something.’ In that sense, the film is political, as it wants to give people the power and inspiration to think outside the box. As Jon says, we tend to think that everything is invented; but it is not. Geologically speaking, we are still beginners; there is so much more to come. Everyone can help shape how the future is going to look and what will be discovered. You do not need money or a science degree to do that. You need curiosity and perseverance.

What do you hope audiences will take away from the film?
It is my hope that every viewer of this film will feel the excitement and zest for discovering stardust that Jon’s micrometeorites reawakened in me. The connection I felt to the stars as a little girl was indeed more real than I realised at the time. We are all part of something bigger; we are all connected. If the film can make the audience feel connected to nature and to each other, or be inspired in any way, that would make me very happy.

Star watching after the screening with telescopes provided by The Friends of Astronomy Club of Thessaloniki

Producers (left to right) *Jamie Hever* (UK), *Benedikte Bredesen (NO), and Ulrik Gutkin (DN) Thessaloniki Film Festival / Studio Aris Rammos*

Photo: Katerina Tzigotzidou, Stardust safari on the roof top of Elektra Palace, Thessaloniki

Looking ahead, what would your ideal future for the film’s journey look like?
The ideal journey would be as many festivals and public-TV platforms as possible, and special screenings where there is a stardust hunt so audiences can learn how to look for stardust themselves. We hope to sign with the right sales agent, one who understands the film and can find audiences in unexpected places. I have been blessed with the most incredible team of producers – Benedikte Bredesen, Jamie Hever and Ulrik Gutkin – as well as the crew and characters in the film. I hope the film opens doors that lead to a place where we all get to continue doing what we love: making stories come alive. We would all love to do screenings for young people, people in prisons, people in hospitals… I want the film to reach as far and wide as a documentary can and for as many people as possible to meet Jon and feel encouraged by his quest. The sky is not the limit!

The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

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Doc-making, EN, Festivals, Interviews, People, Press Kit, Screenings-Events

La Pietà

April 1, 2026 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

INTERVIEW with the Directors, Pepe Andreu and Rafa Molés (above picture Thessaloniki Film Festival / Studio Aris Rammos)

By Dimitra Kouzi

You describe the glacier as the true protagonist of La Pietà. How do you direct — and produce — a film in which the central character is neither fully human nor fictional, but a living entity fast disappearing?

It’s difficult to stand before the magnificence of a glacier and not feel that it is something far beyond an inert mass of ice. The ice moves; it groans, it speaks — you could almost feel that it sings. It holds physical particles of our history, oxygen our ancestors once breathed, entire universes trapped within its depths. For us, it is something overwhelming, almost mystical.

So for nearly two decades we have been searching, through cinema — our way of expressing ourselves — for a way to convey to the viewer the blend of beauty and pain we felt when we first stood before Vatnajökull over twenty years ago.

The idea was to treat the glacier as a living being: a vast and powerful being that is now dying. A being that moves, that speaks to us and that weeps; a being to love, to care for, and to mourn when we lose it.

The key to conveying that admiration and compassion for the glacier was discovering that there were many others like us, long before us. We learned the story of Flosi Björnsson and his brothers, who lived in isolation on their remote farm, looking after the glacier. Then we encountered the farm, which is still there, like a still life. Then Flosi’s texts and a 16mm film in which they appear exploring the glacier… And later the photographer Ragnar Axelsson and other characters who, like pilgrims — like us — have, for centuries, been drawn to the lament of Vatnajökull.

It is the human gaze that makes us human, and that humanises. So together, we look at the glacier as we would a wounded young person, like a whale stranded on the sand, like something more than a ruined cathedral… and we do so with the intention of awakening the viewer’s empathy, memory, and awareness.

Watch the TRAILER

Pepe Andreu right (director, editor, script-writer and producer) and Rafa Molés left (director, script-writer and producer)

What makes your film different from other films about climate change?

Beauty is the way. Beauty moves us, and it has moved human beings since our beginnings. It stirs us deeply, makes us react, and makes us act.

From the start, we never thought of making a film with climate change as the central focus, but rather a film about beauty and fascination — about something that moves us and that we are letting die. In fact, the film speaks more about human stupidity than about climate change.

We have all the information available about climate change. We have the data, the forecasts; we know the solution, and yet there is nothing to suggest that we will react as we should. Climate change overwhelms us — it seems too big, beyond our control. But beauty, stories, are something we all understand.

That is our small contribution: to make a film — what is within our power — just as our characters did before us. Beauty works on us, and on many others. We wanted to try. La Pietà is our small contribution to a global problem.

Directors Pepe Andreu and Rafa Molés together with their Music Composer Alberto Lucendo at a Radio interview

We live in a moment of both eco-anxiety and paralysis — we are mostly aware of the facts, yet often feel unable to act. In what way do you hope this film could counter that paralysis?

At one point in the film, Oddur Sigurðsson, a prominent retired glaciologist, speaks with Ragnar, a renowned photographer who has dedicated his work to showing the consequences of climate change for Arctic populations. Oddur tells him that we must find other ways to reach people and convey the urgency of this problem. Scientists have been precise, but they struggle — and are fully aware of how complex it is — to communicate these issues to the public. Oddur Sigurðsson places his faith in the idea that where science falls short, the work of artists can help.

This is how we would like the film to function. In this case, art can serve as a bridge between science and the public.

We all find it difficult to act because the meaning of what we are losing has faded; we have grown accustomed to hearing that there is a problem, yet we are unable to grasp its scale. This is where poetry comes in: to reveal, once again, the meaning of the catastrophe.

However, we do not feel there is pessimism in our film, but rather profound reflection, tough realism, and the belief that— throughout the history of art — the beauty of a still life has moved us and reminded us of our most humanistic side.

Flosi Björnsson and his siblings devoted their lives to the glacier long before climate discourse existed. What does their radical life choice reflect back to us today?

The legacy this family leaves us is an example to follow. Small actions within our reach can transform the world. Their example has moved scientists, artists, the current inhabitants of the valley, and us — to make this film.

Their relationship with everything around them, their awareness of being a natural part of the place they inhabited, and the interest they showed in their surroundings — the flowers, the insects — their desire to learn everything.

The siblings lived almost isolated from the world for most of the year, yet they studied glaciers, botany, geology, entomology… as self-taught learners (Flosi learned several languages on his own, with nothing but books and by listening to the radio), driven by love for the place where they lived. That way of understanding life and relating to nature is the legacy they leave us: to withdraw from the global noise, to look closely at what is right before our eyes, with attention, affection, delicacy, and hope.

You’ve referred to the film as a kind of ‘ghost story’. How did this spectral dimension influence both the storytelling and the production choices?

There is an unattainable dimension when you stand before the great wall of a glacier — something that goes beyond what our human mind can assimilate. You try to grasp, with all your senses and knowledge, what you see, what youhear, what you feel, but it’s impossible. It is overwhelming. That spectral dimension is powerful; it is there, if you are fortunate enough to stand on a glacier.

That is why we played with the idea of the ghost, understood in a contemporary sense: a familiar presence from the past, a benevolent spirit that encourages or warns us about what is happening. The farmhouse where the Björnsson family lived is not haunted, but it creaks; the wind slips through the cracks; and, in some way, the voices of those who lived there still resonate — voices from the past that howl like advice, like warnings.

All the Björnsson siblings have passed away. The handwritten texts we found by Flosi, with notes about daily life and his explorations, gave us the real words for that ghost. By reading them, we invoked his spirit and brought his voiceback to life — voiced in the film by the great Icelandic actor Ingvar E. Sigurðsson.

That is also why we filmed the empty farmhouse at different moments of the year: to show — and to hear — the passage of time, with characters whose shadows we barely see (we will all be shadows), focusing on small details capable of evoking it — a box of memories, personal objects they once touched, old paintings,

You had access to personal archives, even a 16mm reel from 1950. What responsibility did you feel when bringing these fragile memories back to life, and how did you balance preservation with reinterpretation?

When our friend and co-producer Ólafur Rögnvaldsson told us the story of the Björnsson family and we visited the farm, we were in shock — but discovering the 16mm footage undoubtedly pushed us to tell this story.

The old film showed us what we already knew from Flosi’s diaries: the family, the work on the farm, their expeditions to the glacier. But those images had enormous power on their own — almost spectral. It was fascinating and left us spellbound. We wanted to manipulate it as little as possible, to preserve it as we found it, without adding voice-over or ambient sound; only minimal music to help bring that past into the present and allow ourselves to be hypnotised by these images.

We do not believe it is a reinterpretation but a tribute; these frames were shot with a purpose similar to what we are filming today, and they are very valuable material for understanding how this family related to nature.

This respect also extends to the many photographs and personal objects we had access to, which play a fundamental role in the narrative — able to evoke a life and a way of acting that we seek to reframe, or to present as still lifes that function as an offering or an altar.

Sound plays a central role in this film. How did you conceive the sonic identity of the glacier, and at what stage did music and sound design become essential to shaping the film’s ‘voice’?

From the very beginning, we wanted to give life to the glacier and show it as a wounded being, infinitely beautiful. Sound design and music were fundamental to achieving that. We worked with Iván Martínez-Rufat (in charge of sound design) to transform the sounds of the glacier into a lament — into the cry of something that still retains life.

The farmhouse, too, takes on a life of its own. Together with Iván Martínez-Rufat and the wonderful Lithuanian foley team, we played with the idea that inside the house, the wood and the wind should sound like a ship adrift — a kind of ghost ship that carries with it all the life that once inhabited it.

To all of this we added Alberto Lucendo’s score, to create the great requiem the film becomes. Alberto embarked on an exciting sound research project, taking as reference the ideas we proposed (the beached whale, the ruined cathedral, the constant voice of the wind conveying a whispered message, or the running water — like blood), searching for instruments and melodies that would evoke those images and help develop the idea of this requiem.

You have spent many years working in Iceland and building close relationships there. How did this involvement impact the film? Did being insiders give you freedom, or did it increase your sense of responsibility?

Iceland is a place that captivated us more than twenty years ago. And we have not been able to stop going back ever since. This is our second film there, but it could easily have been the first.

When we discovered the country, each of us separately, we immediately felt that one day we would create something out of the glaciers.

From that love at first sight, and from the need to know more, our previous film Lobster Soup was born. That film allowed us to get very close to people and to build a special relationship with them. It also made us understand that we too — more than being part of the surroundings — were part of the problem. We arrived as tourists and, generally, behaved like predators. We have learned this from our capitalist way of life, but here we became aware of it and are willing to act. This is our responsibility.

Lobster Soup had an impressive international run, but among all the recognitions we have received, the one we are proudest of is being named adoptive children of the town of Grindavík, where the film takes place. Being welcomed as part of the story and the community has changed us. Iceland is not an exotic or remote place for us, but something closer to home.

You co-direct and co-produce your films. How does this collaboration function in practice? How do you divide and share creative and production responsibilities? How do you navigate divergence of views while maintaining a unified vision?

Sharing the direction of a film comes naturally to us. That is how we met, and almost without thinking about it, that ishow we made our first film — and we have grown into this way of working.

For us, it is an easy way to work, mainly because we start from a shared vision of what drives us to make a film and to tell it in a certain way. We are two minds sharing the same vision, and then we bring in other minds from the team. We talk things through a lot, and the film itself decides — sometimes immediately, and other times over time.

Our roles as directors and writers are constantly intertwined, and while we do divide certain tasks — sometimes one of us focuses more on writing and the other on editing — we are both involved in every decision about the film.

La Pietà embraces a contemplative, slow cinematic language. In a time of accelerated consumption and shrinking attention spans, how do you reflect on the future of cinema, particularly this kind of immersive, patient filmmaking?

Without a doubt, the future of cinema is uncertain. The current crisis goes beyond the industry and economics: we arewitnessing a flattening of narratives under the rule of algorithms and speed-driven consumption — a simplification of film language on a scale we have not seen before. Little by little, we are giving in to a culture of disposability, and the kind of cinema we have understood until now may increasingly survive as a form of cultural resistance rather than simply as a nostalgic trend. Resisting is a beautiful way to create.

What role does humour play in your film?

Director Rafa Molés, and  Director Pepe Andreu, Thessaloniki Film Festival / Studio Aris Rammos

Humour is one of the most useful tools for expressing or communicating, but also one of the most difficult to articulate. For us it is especially difficult because of our, let’s say, “melancholic” nature, but we would like to have enough talent to use it more.

This film uses humour, but it is closer to satire or sarcasm, with the intention of ridiculing ourselves and the way human beings relate to nature today.

At a certain point, the camera seems to turn towards all of us. The tourists represent each and every one of us — consuming the glacier like insects devouring a corpse, moving through its entrails impassively. The sequence of tourists on the glacier taking selfies is funny, but it is also painful. It holds up a mirror to us: this is who we are; we laugh at ourselves, but it is profoundly bitter.

What do you hope audiences take with them?

We hope that fascination — the love and beauty of glaciers — becomes the spark that helps people wake up and take action.

Directors Pepe Andreu and Rafa Molés have been working together as writers and directors of documentary films since 2013. Their work has been selected at festivals such as San Sebastián, Visions du Réel, DOK.fest Munich, and Thessaloniki.

The film had its world premiere at the 28th Thessaloniki International Documentary Festival (2026) were it was awarded The “Human Values” Award of the Hellenic Parliament .

Want to watch it? La Pieta will continue its festival journey:

in Spain, Germany, Poland, Ireland, Lithuania (very soon the details will be announced)

Find more about it in the PRESS KIT

Pepe Andreu and Rafa Molés, Ólafur Rögnvaldsson their Icelandic co-producer, and
Arūnas Matelis their Lithuanian co-producer

Days of Wonder, Interview with Karin Pennanen

November 24, 2025 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

During her childhood, the director spent much time with her uncle Markku. Markku is a multi-talented composer and an artist. Suddenly, he disappears without explanation. After withdrawing to his self-designed artist house on the outskirts of a small town in Finland, Markku produces an immense amount of art, storing all of it in his house, without anyone knowing. Now, the director finds his hidden world and starts to make a film about his life – to her surprise, together with him. A cinematic journey into the hidden world of a reclusive Finnish artist, bringing his lost genius to light.

Interview by Dimitra Kouzi

Dimitra Kouzi: When you first opened the door to your uncle’s house after his passing, what was the most surprising or emotionally powerful thing you discovered?

Karin Pennanen: We hadn’t talked about his home at all. We knew he was an artist, but he’d lived there for thirty-four years, and no one had entered. I went in with a mix of curiosity and fear – your imagination runs wild: what might be hidden, what will I find? Among the piles of things were paintings and thousands of newspaper cuttings. I realised this wasn’t rubbish but material for art. He had been making collages for years, cutting out images from the papers he delivered as a night-time newspaper boy. We saved sixteen big boxes of these clippings. But there are nearly a thousand collages. He was incredibly productive. It felt like a huge relief for me when I found out he had been making art all along.

Dimitra Kouzi: Why do you think most people choose to live conventional lives when they have the freedom not to? He clearly lived an unconventional one.

Karin Pennanen: I’ve often wondered that. He’s been a great inspiration to me. My own life is quite conventional – I have a family, I work – though being an artist adds another dimension. I think it comes down to the need for security. We’re herd animals; we follow one another.
He, however, kept his inner child alive. Children think freely and play; adults often lose that connection to what they truly want. He never lost the ability to play. It’s sad that so many people forget it.
Of course, society and capitalism encourage us to conform and consume. People are insecure, and it’s frightening to live differently. But we only have one life – we should listen to ourselves and follow what truly moves us.

Dimitra Kouzi: How do you push yourself out of your own comfort zone, both as a filmmaker and as a person?

Karin Pennanen: I’ve made a habit of it. I started out in scenography, worked in theatre, but wasn’t happy, so in my thirties I went to study film in Norway. Most of my classmates were ten years younger, so that was already a leap. I’ve always felt this inner push. For me, it’s scarier to stay put. I’m a bit of an adventurer – I love surprises, excitement – even though I’m actually quite a fearful person, yet I keep moving towards what scares me.
Just last week I started a new job as a journalist for a popular Finnish talk show. I keep learning new things – though it’s harder now than at twenty! And stepping out of your comfort zone always comes with a dose of embarrassment; you must learn to live with that.

Dimitra Kouzi: Embarrassment often leads to self-censorship. Since you appear in Days of Wonder, you had to direct yourself and others at once. How did you handle that?

Karin Pennanen: I don’t enjoy being in front of the camera anymore. When I was younger, I dreamt of being an actress – not anymore. But in this film, I felt that if I was revealing so much about my uncle, I had to put myself there too. It had to be a dialogue.

Still, it was difficult. I’m a visual director, I like watching the frame, but here I had to trust the cinematographer and simply be. I have highly appreciated cinematographer Pietari Peltola’s earlier work, so he was easy to trust, and he is great in all other ways too, so that helped me. In development phase, we had Ville Tanttu as cinematographer, and I really appreciate him, too. He came with me to the house when I first went there. But it is a schizophrenic situation – you know that good documentary moments happen when the subject forgets themselves, yet as a director, you can’t.
In editing, I forced myself to see “me” as a character. I’d even say to my editor, “That person there,” not “Me.” That distance was essential.

Dimitra Kouzi: Let’s talk about that dialogue. How did it take shape between you and him?

Karin Pennanen: My uncle left an immense archive – over five hundred hours of recorded phone calls and audio diaries. Listening to them felt like he was talking to me from beyond death. It was almost magical.
He’d even recorded reflections on cinema – on what a film should be and how dramaturgy works. In a way, he’d unconsciously been preparing this film himself by documenting his life. I was simply continuing what he started. It took me a year just to listen to the tapes – and then there was all the other stuff. The dialogue in the film exists on many levels, in a wider, cinematic sense – not just words. Sometimes I respond to his recordings directly; sometimes I answer through images, in a visual, emotional, conceptual dialogue. It’s a cinematic conversation between two worlds.

Watch the trailer

Dimitra Kouzi: You worked with so much material – archives, your own poetic images. How did you find coherence?

Karin Pennanen: At some point I embraced collage as the guiding idea – fitting, since it was my uncle’s main artistic method. Bringing fragments together to create something new.
We had Super 8, digital video, VHS, new material, new Super 8 reconstructions. The process was organic and evolved mostly in editing. My editor, Markus Leppälä (Helsinki Effect), brought a lot to the film. He bravely started editing from what we had. From being in dialogue with my uncle in the research and planning phase, it went to dialogue between me and Markus in the editing phase. We talked a lot, tried stuff out, and I felt we were on the same wavelength. Same with sound designer Ville Katajala: sound and music play an important role in the film, and Ville also intuitively understood the quality of my uncle.
The white-canvas scenes, filmed in the studio, were my way of reflecting on the filmmaking process itself. For me, the canvas became a border between life and death – my uncle on one side, me on the other – and cinema the tool that allows a dialogue across that border. I like the idea of the cinema canvas being a place where I could meet my uncle.

Dimitra Kouzi: What would you say is the main narrative or question in the film?

Karin Pennanen: The focus is on my uncle’s life – his choices, his relationships, how he lived. I ask many big questions, and those never have one simple answer. I like to let the audience think for themselves and draw their own conclusions. Another key theme is visibility and invisibility. He had lived almost invisibly, and without this film, his life and work might have vanished. Making it was a way to make him visible again. I could not bear the thought of his world just vanishing.

Dimitra Kouzi: Yet he chose invisibility. How did you approach that ethical dilemma – making someone visible who didn’t want to be?

Karin Pennanen: I thought about it a lot. At first, I asked myself if it was right – what if he wouldn’t have wanted this? But gradually I understood it wouldn’t harm anyone. My motivation was admiration and love.
He even wondered in his recordings what might happen if someone listened to them one day. But I did not find any note or record of him not wanting to be seen, or anything like that. He didn’t seem to need recognition; he was deeply focused on creating and learning.
Some of my relatives see it differently. My brother, who’s also an artist, was almost angry – he believes artists have a duty to share their work. In the art world, making art for yourself is often considered wrong or selfish. But my uncle was dedicated to inner growth.
He had even designed his house with large windows so that big paintings could be taken out – so he must have thought about showing them. But he was shy, introverted, often standing in the shadows. I think he might have also been protecting himself.

Dimitra Kouzi: Why was it threatening for your father to imagine you becoming like him?

Karin Pennanen: My parents are both successful – my father a professor, my mother a well-known textile artist. Even if they said success wasn’t important, their lives show otherwise. They used to say, “What a pity he never showed his art.”
I think especially my father simply didn’t understand him. They were so different; it is incredible that brothers from the same parents can be so different. Both my dad and mom thought he was wasting his talent by not exhibiting his work.
But he wasn’t interested in success. He was fascinated by life itself – by science, philosophy, existence. He was sceptical of psychic phenomena but open. When I was a child, he talked to me about UFOs and reincarnation. His computer was like an encyclopaedia. He was constantly learning and thinking about why we are here, how humans function, what connects us. My mother told me he once said to her that he was never bored, “Life is so interesting!”

Dimitra Kouzi: How has your family reacted?

Karin Pennanen: They haven’t seen the finished film yet. I’m most nervous about my parents because they appear in it, but they’ve been supportive throughout. My father had a complicated, distant relationship with his brother, yet both my parents will come to the Tallinn premiere next week.
It’s brave of them to be part of it, and I’m grateful. Everyone in my family has been positive and helpful. I also interviewed my cousin and brother, but not everyone made the final cut. For all of us, this film touches a shared pain. We wanted to respect his wish for solitude but also wondered what he wanted, whether we should have reached out. The film might be cathartic for the whole family.

Dimitra Kouzi: You mentioned Leonardo da Vinci earlier. What artists or filmmakers inspired you while making Days of Wonder?

Karin Pennanen: Existentialist philosophy influenced me deeply. I also followed the artists and thinkers my uncle admired – he listened to everything from Bach to Mozart, studying their scores to understand how they thought. He was communicating with other dead artists, in a way. His favourite filmmaker was David Lynch – one of my favourites too. Maybe you can sense that influence in the film.
I also researched personal documentaries: Sarah Polley’s Stories We Tell, The Devil and Daniel Johnston, Searching for Sugar Man, Grizzly Man, Finding Vivian Maier. Still, I realised his world was so unique that I had to find my own form for this film.

Dimitra Kouzi: He says in the film that when we look at another person, we also look into ourselves. What did making Days of Wonder reveal to you about yourself?

Karin Pennanen: It revealed how deeply other people shape us without our noticing. Without this film, I might never have understood how much my uncle shaped me as a child – perhaps I wouldn’t even be a filmmaker without him. The process made me aware of how interconnected we are. Making the film was, ultimately, an existential experience. Through it, I processed my own relationship with death. On a practical level, it was also a huge step in my career – my first feature. I still feel it was, in some way, a gift, even though it came out of sorrow.
I was dealing with his long absence and with the question I had carried since childhood: why did he move away? Making the film filled a gap in my own story. And I’ve realised that many families have such a figure – a relative who remains mysterious or distant – so I think the film can resonate beyond my personal experience. Going through his life taught me a lot that never made it into the film. I loved his slightly anarchic attitude; it reminded me how important it is for artists to keep asking themselves, why am I doing this?

Dimitra Kouzi: How long did the film take to complete?

Karin Pennanen: Almost four years. I started immediately – the very day he passed away, at the end of 2021, I went to his house. Since then, I’ve taken part in international workshops and pitching forums, meeting other filmmakers who often spend five to ten years on their features. It’s inspiring – though I still wonder how they manage financially!

Dimitra Kouzi: Funding a personal documentary about someone who isn’t famous must have been challenging. How did you and your producer, Sonja Linder, convince funders to support a story without a conventional dramatic arc?

Karin Pennanen: From the start I knew it would be hard to convince people. Competition for funding is tough, and personal films are easily questioned by financiers – even though, as a viewer, I often find them the most powerful. We live in a world of formatted content; I believe what stands out is authenticity and a personal voice. My uncle’s uniqueness helped: he wasn’t just anyone – he was an exceptionally intelligent, complex artist, even a member of Mensa. But I also needed a distinctive perspective. The idea of a dialogue across the border of death gave the film its form and its emotional strength. Of course, as a debuting filmmaker for a feature-length documentary, I didn’t know so much about the funding process. I’m sure I would not be here with the film if it wasn’t for producer Sonja Lindén, who is more experienced and networked. Thanks to her, the film is a co-production with Denmark and Norway, which feels great since I have studied film in Norway and value Scandinavian collaboration. And she advised me with workshops, pitching forums; she really has helped me so much with my whole career through making this film happen. We can’t make it alone in this business. I am grateful.

Dimitra Kouzi: Since your uncle didn’t care about recognition, I wonder – do you? Who did you make this film for?

Karin Pennanen: Every filmmaker is asked that, and my answer might sound selfish: I believe artists must first make work for themselves. Otherwise, you risk losing authenticity.
Of course, I hope the film speaks to anyone interested in how to live – in existential questions like why we are here and what makes a meaningful life. It’s for people who are curious about others. It’s a contemplative film; it doesn’t hand out answers or information. It follows its own poetic logic. So-called transcendental films have always attracted me, and I hope I’ve managed to capture something of that atmosphere in my own work.

Dimitra Kouzi: It connects beautifully to what we discussed earlier – the courage to live differently. Do you hope the film might inspire people in that way?

Karin Pennanen: That would make me very happy – and I think my uncle would have liked that too.

World Premiere @Doc@PÖFF International Competition Best Film 2025

Credits

Director: Karin Pennanen

Script: Karin Pennanen

Cinematography: Pietari Peltola, Ville Tanttu

Sound: Ville Katajala

Editing: Markus Leppälä

Music: Markku Pennanen

Producer: Sonja Lindén

Financed by: The Finnish Film Foundation, YLE, AVEK, Konstsamfundet, Svenska Kulturfonden, Finnish Cultural Foundation, KMS, DFI, Den Vestdanske Filmpule, Viken Film Center

More about the film HERE

Articles, Doc-making, Festivals, Interviews

Amílcar at IDFA 2025 Envision: Miguel Eek in Conversation with Dimitra Kouzi

November 13, 2025 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

Dimitra Kouzi: You constructed the film using Cabral’s own words in a first-person voice-over. What were the ethical and emotional challenges of giving voice to someone who can no longer speak for himself, especially someone as politically and historically charged as Cabral?

Miguel Eek: It was an enormous challenge – a responsibility that at times frightened me – and one in which the complicity of experts, both from Cabral’s circle and from my own team, was essential. The film remains a speculative exercise based on Cabral’s letters, poems, and political writings. These form the raw material that sustains it, yet it is still a highly subjective selection of texts and moments, in dialogue with an image track where archival footage coexists with images I filmed myself, marked by chance and by the contemporary world.

Dimitra Kouzi: As a non-African filmmaker, how did you navigate the risk of re-colonising the narrative of an African liberation hero – not through military or economic force, but through cinematic authorship?

Miguel Eek: It’s a fundamental question, because that risk is always present. It would have been impossible to finance this film without an international co-production – one in which Europe, a continent that was and still is colonising in many ways, funds this story. This is not the first, nor will it be the last, film made about Cabral. The many dimensions of his life and work invite readings from different times, realities, and perspectives.

In my case, I focused on the global dimension of his figure. Amílcar Cabral is one of the most lucid personalities in history – not only African history, but world history. His lucidity enabled him to elevate the struggle for the independence of two small countries to a diplomatic level, turning it into an international issue while forcing societies to reflect on their own biases, prejudices, and privileges.

What I find most universal about Cabral is not only his international reach but his deeply humanist vision, expressed in his texts and letters, where love, learning, fear, and human rights are questioned and confronted as challenges of humanity itself.

Dimitra Kouzi: It’s quite daring to make a poetic essay about a politician. Of course, with Cabral it suits the subject, but it can’t have been easy to produce this film, since you’re both director and producer. Did those two identities ever clash?

Miguel Eek: All the time. It’s my daily struggle – how to direct films that I also produce. I spent years in discussions about form, trying to understand what I was doing. Amílcar is the first poetic essay I’ve made myself. My earlier films were more contemporary character portraits, and navigating between ideas, metaphors, and textures has been a real challenge – but one I’ve enjoyed. I often felt insecure, but I had a great team: Federico Delpero as editor, João Pedro Plácido as DoP, Alba Lombardia as co-writer, and all my co-producers, who reassured me that we were on the right track. It was especially important that Cabral’s compatriots felt we were honouring the promise I made to them. Although the film was co-produced by four countries, we made it on a very limited budget, which also conditioned the choices.

Dimitra Kouzi: I can empathise with you as I’m also working on a film about someone larger than life, and I understand how difficult it is to step out of the comfort zone of a conventional portrait. I imagine there were moments when no one – especially the financiers – believed in your vision.

Miguel Eek: It’s hard to convince people to fund a poetic essay about a politician. But Cabral was also a poet, and his sensitivity speaks through his texts and letters. It’s rare for the relatives of a historical figure to share such intimate correspondence, and that completely changed my approach.

At first I imagined a collection of testimonies, but I realised the film was full of myth and light, with no shadows. A portrait made only of light is unfair to the complexity of life – and boring. I needed to find new ways to approach him, including the darker aspects of his actions and thoughts. I had to move beyond fascination and approach him differently.

Dimitra Kouzi: How did you manage to avoid idealising him?

Miguel Eek: By choosing to tell the story entirely through his own words. That decision forced me to abandon any testimony that simply praised him. The challenge was to build a dramaturgy from the letters he wrote – to wives, comrades, friends – so that the story would unfold through those voices.

I also drew on documents from the Portuguese secret police, which reveal the tension between his utopian ideals and the harsh reality of war, betrayal, and racism within his own movement. These texts exposed how Cabral’s dream of fairness collided with circumstances he couldn’t control: corruption, mistrust, and discrimination even within the PAIGC. They helped me grasp both the complexity of his struggle and his humanity.

At the same time, we were aware that, as a foreign crew, we might arouse the same kind of suspicion that Cabral, as a Cape Verdean, once faced in Guinea. He was both African and an outsider, a bridge between Portugal and Guinea. That tension – between belonging and estrangement – was something we also tried to integrate into the film’s perspective.

Dimitra Kouzi: What was the filming process like? The film blends archival and contemporary material. When and why did you decide to work that way, and how did you use the archive, 16 mm shooting, and sound to tell the story?

Miguel Eek: The process and formal structure of the film were extremely difficult to find; it took 10 years to reach the final approach. Discovering Cabral’s intimate letters to his two wives changed everything – that was when I realised the subjectivity of the character would have to shape the film itself. I developed a kind of script – not a conventional one, but a guide indicating the images I needed to shoot in order to express Cabral’s poetic vision, the parts missing from the archives. For me, the key was how to convey the intimacy and subjectivity of the character – not only through his words, but also through the selection of images that reveal his attention to the land and to people, his way of observing and understanding the world.

Working with João Pedro Plácido, the director of photography, we shot on 16 mm film – a decision that imposed strict limitations. The cameras were old and fragile, often breaking down after two or three shots, so it was a constant alternation between repairing and shooting.

I was searching for what I call mantra images – long, minimal shots that allow the viewer to enter Cabral’s words, to immerse themselves in the visual rhythm created by his imagined voice. We tried to reconstruct the feeling of Cabral arriving in Guinea for the first time: an agronomist coming from the arid landscapes of Cape Verde, suddenly encountering the lush, humid abundance of Guinea – full of water, vegetation, and life. We aimed to embody that same curiosity.

I wasn’t working from a detailed screenplay, but rather from notes about textures and spaces. Later, in the editing room with Federico Delpero, we confronted the texts with the images, exploring how they could resonate with one another. For Amílcar, editing lasted four years. One of our key intentions was to blur the distinction between the archival and the newly shot material. Even though the archives include both black-and-white and colour footage, we didn’t want to separate them sharply. We wanted viewers to feel that they were inhabiting Cabral’s own perception – not watching an historical reconstruction, but entering a continuum of thought and feeling.

We deliberately sought a certain visual tension. I asked João Pedro not to film as a professional cinematographer, but as an amateur – to shoot from the heart rather than the mind. If he felt an impulse to move closer, he should zoom in; if the camera drifted or trembled, that was fine. We embraced those imperfections, because they reveal emotion. That tension enriches the film’s emotional subjectivity.

One of the main goals was to avoid the feeling of jumping between different times and types of archive. Of course, the texture changes, but once you’re in the story you forget these small differences. I hope broadcasters and distributors understand that we also need new approaches and narratives; we’re all a bit tired of the same portrait format. Emphasising subjectivity is something I hope can work for audiences.

One of the main goals was to avoid the feeling of jumping between different times and types of archive.

Dimitra Kouzi: Cabral often insisted that liberation could not be complete without the liberation of women, and that every person, man or woman, should have equal opportunities to advance as a human being. How did this aspect of his thinking influence the way you approached his story in the film?

Miguel Eek: A Guinean historian once told me that Amílcar Cabral was light-years ahead of his contemporaries. Since I first read him, I’ve felt that many of the struggles he identified remain unresolved today, which makes him profoundly relevant. He led a struggle in a territory marked by inequality and by deeply rooted tribal, social, and gender customs. He staked everything on mixture and diversity. No one was excluded from spaces of power or responsibility.

He brought women into positions that had previously been reserved for men. In the film, we see women learning to use rifles, training, marching, and dancing alongside men. I’m sure this was extremely difficult to realise in practice, given the social structures of the time. The fact that we still live in societies marked by hierarchy, bias, and privilege shows how radical and necessary his ideas are.

Dimitra Kouzi: In shaping a portrait of Cabral’s private and public selves, how did you balance the intimate with the iconic – the lover, the poet, the militant – without romanticising or diluting any one aspect?

Miguel Eek: Until 1966, Cabral was almost unknown on camera. Very few people filmed him. After the Tricontinental Conference in Havana in 1966, he became someone the press and filmmakers wanted to approach. Before that, we could only offer his subjectivity; we had some photographs, but his moving image is largely absent. After 1966, his image grows across different spaces and cinematographies. The film also evolves: from a figure who is hidden to one who increasingly appears in meetings and international contexts.

It was tricky to address viewers who already know Cabral and those encountering him for the first time. The political ideas had to be developed enough to convey the dimension of the thinker. Translating those ideas into images was one of the great challenges: how to say enough but not too much; how to avoid drowning in words and remain visual and emotional. The balance lives in the tension between Cabral speaking from the heart and Cabral speaking from the mind – the politician who liked to call himself “a simple African man.”

Dimitra Kouzi: What is Cabral’s political traction today – his relevance in a world of rising authoritarianism and disinformation?

Miguel Eek: During the years of developing and producing this film, I kept wondering why Cabral affected me so deeply. Why did this distant guide from Africa resonate in a young Spanish filmmaker? I couldn’t answer for a long time, but I think it has to do with our current lack of inspiring leaders and with the public’s disaffection with politics – a theatre of posturing rather than a commitment to the common good.

In Cabral’s words I found what we may be missing in contemporary politicians: real conviction. Times like these require decisive choices, and you can’t always know how major changes or revolutions will end. Cabral still inspires because the problems of the 1960s haven’t been resolved: power, social justice, and the many forms of colonialism. Decades ago he pointed to issues that remain painfully current, and the clarity of his expression makes both his words and his life contemporary.

In Cabral’s words I found what we may be missing in contemporary politicians: real conviction. Times like these require decisive choices, and you can’t always know how major changes or revolutions will end. Cabral still inspires because the problems of the 1960s haven’t been resolved: power, social justice, and the many forms of colonialism. Decades ago he pointed to issues that remain painfully current, and the clarity of his expression makes both his words and his life contemporary.

Dimitra Kouzi: I imagine that also kept you with the film for 12 years.

Miguel Eek: Yes. Over those 12 years I made five other films, and I was often afraid that when financing finally arrived I would have lost Cabral’s inspiration or the energy to continue. Surprisingly, every time new support appeared, I reconnected immediately – even though my situation had changed. I grew as a filmmaker through this process. I began almost like a first-time director and finished with eight films behind me. I learned to navigate complexity.

Cabral’s armed struggle lasted ten years. This film took more than ten years of work – and, as he said, the struggle continues.

Dimitra Kouzi: How has this film affected you?

Miguel Eek: As a filmmaker, the experience has opened up new possibilities for essayistic languages that I hope to continue exploring. Immersing myself in Amílcar Cabral’s world for so many years has allowed me to believe again in certain forms of politics. It has healed a kind of disaffection towards what today seems a largely performative and empty political system.

Dimitra Kouzi: Did you ever have a moment when you felt like Cabral?

Miguel Eek: It may sound strange, but I’ve always been drawn to characters who are misunderstood. Since childhood, I myself was not understood – especially in wanting to make films, and to make them in my own way, which is in itself a kind of utopia. I wouldn’t compare myself directly with Amílcar Cabral but I recognise the same passion and commitment in him that I need to make films. I can almost smell it in his writings. That’s why I’m interested in people who, whether in politics or in art, are driven yet full of doubt. The ideas of doubt, fear, and fragility resonate deeply with me – they echo inside me.

This interview has been edited and condensed.

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Why ARNode, and how to define it

September 14, 2025 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

By Mit Mitropoulos, Galaxidi, Delphi Municipality, Greece June 2025 (This text follows my verbal response to Dimitra Kouzi’s request, which she filmed this morning in my Kavos studio, as part of her documentary on ARNode. I am writing this text as if I am addressing her live).

ARNode process is a pleasure to me re-visiting good people or baddies, occasions, discoveries, conflicts, failures, the warmth of teamwork, working on hopeful futures.
It is a context for me to make new connections of old concepts to works in different discipline platforms. Of concepts like Space as a Network, or the worn out Together/Separate, valid for my exchange with the nude girl I am drawing. And/or with communication at a distance, see the F2F series. And/or when I design articulations of space—architecture as such is present, but peripheral. Such connections may be separated in Time, or by Geography itself.
For this purpose I have been compiling 5 Guides. Guide-1 is a project that can serve as model to big scale environmental artworks using communications technology, an AST (Art-Science- Technology) prototype. Guide-2 uses as a spine, the series of EIKASTIKA 3/1983 to 3/1986 publications(a visual arts review in Greece, running on 5.000 each month) I contributed to instead of exhibiting works, and occasionally physically intervening whether with a razor-sharp obsidian piece, or sticking on one specific page the 2-monitors stamp (5.000 of them). Guide-3 uses as spine the series of papers in the Alzheimer’s Thessaloniki conferences (and the as many recorded verbal presentations—in the 9,5 years acting as caretaker for my mother hit by memory degeneration). Guide-4 Vol I uses as spine the long series of my Ekistics publications (editor extraordinary Psomopoulos) over the 49 years I have related to that Doxiadis group. Guide-4 Vol II and Guide-5 focusing on Islands, have been delayed due to my Intestinal Obstruction medical urgency—material for them is ready and waiting for me. The Guides are interdisciplinary, for instance in one Guide-2 visual arts review, we use the Space as a Network Environmental Psychology concept in the hands-on example for a MCA (Museum of Contemporary Arts) in downtown Athens—a presentation to the Pantion conference, organized by SYST, late 1970s. The Guides are re-visiting the Past, towards possible Futures, meaning neither Dystopian terrors nor Utopian wishful thinking.
ARNode process is pursuing work as if I am of age 30, and operating on longterm planning. It is for staying useful after I am gone, for instance see Notations for Complex Urban Systems. Or doing proposals that can be carried out in the future, upgraded versions of them (like D-Line ,or Sundown)—I also enjoy looking back, for instance on the 14th c. and asking what Galaxidi was really like, or, what aesthetics did people go by at the time. Or being modest and going back just for 60 years, back to 1966, having just passed the Academie entrance exams (cramming the official 2 years preparing for them, into 2 months flat—no kidding) and off to NYNY acting as translator on the Groote Beer liner, then back to Galaxidi till the end of summer, then return to Brussels for the Aca Royale 1966-7 academic year. This ARNode process stands also as a Delaying Mechanism, to delay (if not to avoid altogether) a possible memory degeneration: I am working on my Cognitive Reserves— that saved my mother, as she had plenty of them (see Guide-3).
Besides Questions you may have to ask me, whilst re-visiting, a few items get highlighted, prioritise themselves, stand out, like with Complexities, Preference to paper v. off the screen, Choices made over time, and Joys of a daily researcher’s schedule. Complexity keeps coming up, what with our capacity to adapt(to unavoidable changes), the incoming messages over distance, the growing number of choices over a longer life, and with over half of the planet’s pptn gone urban in the last decade—the latter bringing up the need of Notations I used for my 1971 Academie finals (they refused me to do my presentatioin,only to adopt a partial version 20 years later, named ‘Architecture Urbaine’). I do keep reading the Weekend FT and Kathimerini newspapers + keeping notes on the margins. Furthermore, I have observed how those running on an off the screen lifestyle leads to ‘Response People’,participating either as Opposers creating a ,lively debate fit for coffee houses,or as Followers contributing additional material they retrieve from tapping their tablet. Having to make a choice, it appears I run on two criteria: I don t want to become rich, and I don t care if I am not popular. Finally, I get intoxicated locating common denominators in disciplines I grew up with as separate by decisions useful, yet arbitrary: see AST, starting with the Art v. Science divide (and the joy of setting up and running the Edinburgh U course BAS (Basic Architectural Space). Same with sticking to (or re-discovering) ways I had worked out as a green student, like sleep on a problem (and letting the brain tackle it) rather than stay awake working for a solution. Same with ‘learning from the environment’ what with relevant events happening (and getting instant updates), and checking on irrelevant Found printed matter, when by reading a report/opinion, my brain somehow triggered and deals with subject matter relevant to me.
Same with checking I may be wrong in assuming work on the SN Notations was wasting my time (see the CAD that took over keeping the design process the same, only faster). But it was such fun doing it (and got me a Ph.D in the process), and I stayed in good company as it so happened: Phil Thiel, Don Appleyard, Kev Lynch, Brian Goodey, CA Trevarthen, and more good people.

Question: Am I wrong in assuming that the Pantion University conference paper MCA As A Network, introduced the Networks concept in the broader cultural (scientific and visuals arts) milieu in Greece? No credits received, but it is only natural in our No Credits Culture country: at the time I was teaching with the Thessaloniki Aristotelian U, where the assistant prof responded to my request to add a Bibliography to his paper, was “Knowledge does not belong to those creating it but to the people”— AVGI newspaper of the Left (of quality at that time) would not print Bibliographies (a rule overturned with my early 1980s full page presentation of using comms/info technologies to create networks made up of Aegean Sea islands as nodes).

Note: I will limit myself to one of your Qs “What is a Network to you?” Answer: A Network is made up of variable number of Nodes, each Node acting at same time both as Center and Periphery

Thank you Dimitra for having me.

(the links in the text are edited by Dimitra Kouzi) more about Mit Mitropoulos here

The following is Dimitra Kouzi’s text in preparation for filming us both (Mit and herself) (on June 4, 2025), in an exchange toward’s defining ARNode

ARNode is one Research Center-Node within ever-changing Networks. It addresses artists, scientists and researchers who may wish to pursue Mit’s interdisciplinary work(on on-going concepts, or on packaged tools ready for eventual use), all on the AST (Art-Science-Technology) platform. At the core of his lifework stands Communications, both with and without technology, and the initial concept of Space as a Network (rather than as Place). ARNode is physically located in Galaxidi (Delphi Municipality), Greece, a place for reflection into possible futures. At this moment in the ARNode process, he is considering- exploring possible legal structures, whilst organising his archive, and reviewing-updating-prioritising his body of work: he is creating new material.

Το ARNode είναι ένα Ερευνητικό Κεντρο-Κόμβος μέσα σε συνεχώς διαμορφούμενα Δίκτυα. Αφορά καλλιτέχνες , επιστήμονες και ερευνητές που θα θελήσουν να δώσουν συνέχειες στην διεπιστημονική δουλειά του Μιτ Μητρόπουλου (έννοιες διαχρονικές , ή συγκεκριμένα εργαλεία έτοιμα για μελλοντικές χρήσεις), πάνω στην πλατφορμα AST (Τέχνη- Επιστήμη-Τεχνολογία). Στο επίκεντρο της εργασίας του είναι οι Επικοινωνίες με ή χωρίς τεχνολογία, και η αρχική έννοια Χώρος σαν Δίκτυο (αντί σαν Τόπος). Η φυσική παρουσία του ARNode είναι το Γαλαξείδι (Δήμος Δελφών), ένας χώρος διαλογισμού για εφικτές μελλοντικές χρονικές περιόδους. Στην σημερινή περίοδο διαδικασιας ARNode, ο Μιτ εξετάζει την νομική-ιδρυματοποιημένη μορφή, ενώ οργανώνει το αρχείο του, επισκέπτεται-επικαιροποιεί-προτεραιοποιεί την δουλειά μιας ζωής: δημιουργεί νέο υλικό.

Child of Dust – 50 Years Since the End of the Vietnam War

May 3, 2025 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

Sang, the protagonist of Weronika Mliczewska’s Child of Dust, is one of countless children left behind by American soldiers after the Vietnam War. Stigmatized and abandoned, he spends a lifetime longing for the father he never had. When he unexpectedly locates his gravely ill father in the United States, he is determined to meet him, even at a heavy cost—leaving his wife, daughter, and grandson behind.

The Vietnam War (1955–1975) left lasting scars on millions, particularly the estimated 300,000 Amerasian children, like Sang, born to American servicemen and Vietnamese women. Dubbed “children of dust,” they were often abandoned, stigmatized, and marginalized due to their mixed heritage. In Vietnam, where paternal lineage defines social standing, growing up without a father rendered these children nearly invisible. A Vietnamese saying captures this sentiment: “A child without a father is like a house without a roof.”

After the war, many Amerasians faced extreme discrimination, seen as reminders of the enemy. They were denied education and economic opportunities, and their mothers—often ostracized for their relationships with U.S. soldiers—sometimes destroyed any evidence of their children’s American heritage, making it even harder for them to trace their roots.

In the 1980s, the U.S. passed the Amerasian Homecoming Act, offering Amerasians and their families the chance to immigrate. However, the transition was fraught with challenges. Many arrived in the U.S. only to encounter racism, cultural barriers, and economic hardship. While the law acknowledged their American lineage, it did not ensure their integration into society. Sang, like many before him, arrives in a country that recognizes him on paper but leaves him to navigate an unfamiliar world alone—illiterate, disconnected, and without the support system he once had in Vietnam.

His experience reflects the broader struggles of immigrants and refugees today—whether it’s undocumented individuals seeking asylum, DREAMers fighting to stay in the only home they’ve ever known, or families separated by shifting policies. America has long been seen as a land of opportunity, but for those who don’t fit an idealized image of belonging, that promise often remains out of reach.

For over 50 years, Vietnam and its people were denied a human face in American war narratives, allowing propaganda to justify past violence. Child of Dust challenges this erasure, asking how nations reckon with the long-term consequences of war. It serves as a stark reminder that unchecked nationalism and unexamined history leave the door open for future conflicts. Through Sang’s journey, Child of Dust sheds light on this forgotten history, revealing how the legacy of war continues to shape lives today.

**Weronika Mliczewska**, Director/Producer, Child of Dust

INTERVIEW WITH THE DIRECTOR

WERONIKA MLICZEWSKA, Child of Dust, by Dimitra Kouzi

Weronika Mliczewska is a documentary filmmaker and cultural anthropologist. Child of Dust is her feature-length documentary debut as a director and a producer - a project she has worked on for over eight years.

Child of Dust explores the long-term consequences of war. Half a century after the Vietnam War, what echoes of its impact do you see in today’s world?

The Vietnam War may have ended, but its consequences—displacement, trauma, and the struggle for identity—are still deeply felt. The film serves as a reminder that war doesn’t simply end when the fighting stops—it continues in the lives of those forced to navigate its aftermath. In Child of Dust, the protagonists can no longer suppress their past; they must confront it, as it defines their future. These themes resonate strongly today. From conflicts in the Middle East to the war in Ukraine, we see cycles of forced migration, rape, sending children to camps, exposing them to propaganda, and inherited trauma. If the wounds of war are not transformed into healing, history will inevitably repeat itself. This film is not just about the Vietnam War—it’s about all wars and the scars that remain unseen.

Displacement and identity are major issues in today’s migration crises. Looking at today’s rising nationalism, do you see parallels between the struggles of Amerasians after the Vietnam War and marginalized communities today?

Amerasians embody the lasting scars of war—caught between worlds, unwanted by both sides. Today, children born in war zones face the same fate, pushed to society’s margins as painful reminders of the past. Sang refuses to stay trapped in this role, but escaping it is not easy. His struggle mirrors those of many marginalized communities today, especially amid rising nationalism. They are blamed for simply existing, yet their displacement is the result of political choices made long before them. This film isn’t about blame.

Sang’s journey is about the search for identity in a world that constantly defines you. What does his story reveal about self-discovery and belonging?

At the world premiere at Thessaloniki Documentary Festival 2025

Sang’s journey begins with a deep longing for belonging, shaped by a culture where fatherhood defines identity. Without love and acceptance as a child, he carries a lifelong sense of inadequacy. Over time, he realizes that identity is not fixed but shaped by experience, displacement, and self-discovery. Rather than providing a definitive answer, the film explores what it means to define oneself in a world that imposes labels. By the end, Sang is free from the pain of the past and culture-based expectations. He no longer seeks validation—he follows his own path, breaking free from childhood trauma and forging his own sense of self.

How do you see Sang’s story resonating with contemporary refugee and immigrant experiences? Does his journey reflect the broader impact of immigration policies on those seeking a home in America?

Sang’s journey mirrors the struggles of many immigrants—caught between cultures, seeking belonging in a place that defines them as “other.” More than legal barriers, the film explores the emotional cost of migration—the longing for home, fractured identities, and the need to prove one’s worth. His American family assumes that moving to the U.S. is the best thing for him, but his journey isn’t about seeking a better life—it’s about healing. Branded an outsider since birth, he longs for acceptance and love, only to realize that no place or person can fill that void. The true transformation happens within him. This film also challenges how we perceive migration. We rarely ask why people leave. Conflicts may seem distant, but their ripple effects shape global politics and individual lives, proving how deeply interconnected we all are.

The film’s climax centers on Sang’s realization that true healing does not come from proximity to his father but from accepting the past and reclaiming his own narrative. How did this shape the film’s resolution?Sang’s realization that true healing comes not from finding his father but from accepting his past and taking control of his own story deeply influenced the film’s resolution. Rather than offering a conventional reunion or closure, the ending reflects the complexity of identity and the emotional weight of intergenerational trauma. The film shifts from an external search—finding a father—to an internal journey of self-acceptance, emphasizing that healing is not about rewriting the past but about redefining the future. By the final moments, Sang is no longer seeking validation from someone else. Instead, he begins to see himself as whole, regardless of the unresolved pieces of his history. This quieter, more reflective resolution stays true to the film’s observational approach, allowing the audience to sit with the ambiguity of his journey, just as Sang does.

Sang's Sister Mel Tores and Cinematographer Mikael Lypinski, Director - Producer Weronika Mliczewska, Dimitra Kouzi Audience Developer and Co-Producer Michał Sikora in Thessaloniki.

The film follows both Sang and his American family, who discover they have an unwanted member they never knew about. Why did you choose to jump between these two worlds?

In Child of Dust, I wanted to show a rare example of a family taking responsibility for their actions, despite how difficult and uncomfortable that process is. It is deeply concerning that even veterans, who lived through the war, still struggle to see the full scale of its impact—not just on the Vietnamese, but on their own people. Many who killed during the war still justify their actions through propaganda, telling themselves they were fighting communism. This mindset hasn’t faded, and for over 50 years, a human face has been denied to the Vietnamese people. There are no winners in war, and this lack of reflection leaves a dangerous window open for future violence fueled by nationalist and imperialist agendas—without truly understanding the cost.

You used an observational, character-driven approach for your first feature-length documentary. Why did you choose this style over a more traditional “interview” format?

I chose an observational, character-driven approach to immerse viewers in Sang’s world, allowing emotions to unfold naturally. This story is full of raw, life-changing moments, and I wanted the audience to experience them as they happen, rather than through guided explanations. Everyday interactions, body language, and silences often speak louder than words, creating a deeper emotional connection. Skipping direct interviews was an intentional choice—a matter of trust. I trusted the audience to interpret Sang’s journey, and I trusted Sang to reveal himself through action.

How did you use cinematography and sound design to reflect Sang’s emotional journey in the film’s natural soundscapes and visual metaphors?

We used cinematography and sound design to mirror Sang’s inner world. In Vietnam, a handheld camera captures his turmoil with intimate close-ups. In the U.S., wider, static shots emphasize his isolation. Natural soundscapes—traffic hum, distant voices, rustling leaves— immerse the audience in his experience. Instead of a heavy score, silence and subtle ambient sounds amplify his loneliness and moments of connection. By embracing quiet observation and poetic realism, we allow the audience to feel Sang’s journey rather than dictate it.

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What are your main influences in cinema or other art forms?

My biggest influences come from filmmakers who master visual storytelling with a rich atmosphere, character-driven narratives, and subtle humor. Jim Jarmusch has been a major inspiration—his minimalist yet poetic style captures the quiet awkwardness of human interactions. His characters don’t always find resolution, but their journeys—both external and internal—are deeply felt. Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation also influenced me, particularly its introspective tone and themes of alienation. The unexpected, often humorous cultural clashes in that film reflect my own experiences navigating different cultures, especially in Tokyo. For the second part of my film, I drew inspiration from Alexander Payne’s humanistic storytelling. He masterfully balances humor and melancholy in his portrayal of everyday life, an approach that helped me frame Sang’s journey—not just as one of hardship, but of self-discovery, and even moments of quiet absurdity.

How did your studies in anthropology and directing actors influence your filmmaking? My background in anthropology allowed me to approach Child of Dust with deep cultural sensitivity, ensuring Sang’s story was told with authenticity and respect. It helped me observe without imposing, allowing moments to unfold naturally rather than shaping them to fit a preconceived narrative. At the same time, my experience in directing actors influenced how I worked with real people—paying close attention to body language, subtext, and emotion to capture deeply personal, character-driven storytelling. This combination of anthropology and cinematic direction helped create a documentary that feels both observational and immersive, blurring the lines between reality and narrative cinema.

What were the biggest challenges in earning Sang’s trust and authentically portraying a Vietnamese story as a Polish filmmaker?

Sang trusted me because, for the first time, someone truly listened. He knew this film could give voice to a forgotten history. I was fortunate to have a strong Vietnamese team who helped build trust and preserve cultural authenticity. Their insights ensured that Sang’s story was told with care and respect. What moved me most was his strength—the courage to challenge his fate. Despite abandonment and uncertainty, he took control of his story, embracing change even when it meant struggle. His journey is a testament to resilience, proving that identity is not just inherited but shaped by choice.

You are both the director and the producer of this film. Did being the producer influence your creative decisions?

Co-Producer Michał Sikora, Director - Producer Weronika Mliczewska, Sang's Sister Mel Tores and Cinematographer Mikael Lypinski

This film would not have been possible if the roles were different. Who else would have taken on such risks or gone into debt for years to bring this story to life? While I had experience as a producer, this was my first time producing and directing a feature-length documentary. After early setbacks—when no one believed in the project—we ended up securing five co-production partners and two TV stations. That alone speaks to the universal nature of this story. In the end, persistence and unwavering belief made this film happen. I am incredibly proud of the team behind it. Wearing both hats allowed me to maintain creative control while staying adaptable, ensuring that every decision—both artistic and logistical—served the heart of Sang’s journey.

During production, you had a baby. How difficult was it to balance filmmaking, family, and travel across three continents? As a female director, was it particularly challenging to manage a documentary shoot that couldn’t wait?

It was incredibly difficult, but it proved that nothing is impossible. If a female director wants to balance filmmaking, family, and a fulfilling personal life, I can now say: Go for it. It is possible! Rather than conforming to existing structures, we shape reality to fit our needs. I had immense support from my husband, which allowed me to shoot in Vietnam while four months pregnant. I remember sweating in a cramped, sweltering corridor with our protagonist and his family, thinking—this is my dream come true. It wasn’t about comfort; it was about passion. With the support of my husband, his mother, and his sister, we made it work—filming while pregnant, then traveling with our son, ensuring he felt loved and cared for through it all.

How do you see the role of fathers evolving in Western societies?

Fatherhood is shifting beyond the traditional role of provider, with fathers now expected to be more emotionally present. This evolution is why I wanted to explore fatherhood in my film—to question and redefine it across cultures. Regardless of where we begin, being a father reshapes identity, just as it does for mothers. The film suggests that parenting may be our most profound impact on the world, shaping future generations. As my protagonist says, “My home is my family”—a reminder that love, not politics or divisions, should be our foundation.

Weronika Mliczewska and Dimitra Kouzi in Thessaloniki

How did your personal experiences influence your approach to this story?

As a teenager, I was bullied and often felt like an outsider, which drew me to stories of displacement and identity. Beyond filmmaking, I’m also a cultural anthropologist, having studied in the UK, USA, and Poland. All my films have been made in Asia—Japan, India, China, and now Vietnam—exploring characters who exist between worlds. Navigating different cultures shaped my perspective, allowing me to connect with Sang’s journey on a deeper level and portray his story with empathy and authenticity.

What is the most important message about intergenerational trauma in Child of Dust?

Intergenerational trauma isn’t just history—it shapes identity, relationships, and belonging in the present. Sang’s journey asks whether breaking free from this cycle is truly possible. The outcome of his story is unexpected, unfolding in ways we couldn’t predict—just like life itself. We can’t always control what happens to us, but we can choose how we respond. And that’s Sang’s greatest strength. Some may see his story as tragic, but to me, he’s a winner. He took a risk, fulfilled his dream, and finally moved forward. If his journey inspires even one person, I’ve done my job.

What kinds of audiences do you seek for this film? How do you think different audiences will relate to Sang’s quest for identity?

This is a film about human connection, loss, and resilience—themes that transcend borders and speak to a global audience.

What do you hope for Child of Dust and its impact on global conversations about war, trauma, and reconciliation?

My goal is for the film to not only shed light on the forgotten stories of Amerasians but also to show how the consequences of war continue to shape lives across generations. More than anything, I want this film to highlight how imperialism and propaganda create divisions, fueling violence while justifying violence, even genocide. By making this film, I am making a statement: we need to heal from the past and focus on offering love to our children, ensuring history doesn’t repeat itself.

The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Child of Dust won a Special Mention at the Thessaloniki Documentary Festival 2025 International Competition

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Interview with Zaradasht Ahmed

April 29, 2025 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

Director of The Lions by the River Tigris, produced by Thorvald Nilsen.

A documentary about the aftermath of war

I first met Zaradasht Ahmed in 2016, when he premiered Nowhere to Hide at IDFA (produced by Mette Cheng Munthe Kaas). We collaborated on the film’s launch, which went on to win the main competition award for its unflinching portrayal of war’s human cost. That film marked him as a filmmaker with a rare ability: to capture the aftermath of conflict—not through statistics or spectacle, but through deeply personal stories that give terror a face and memory.

When his producer Thorvald Nilsen at Indie Film reached out about The Lions by the River Tigris, his new documentary set in Mosul, I was both honoured and intrigued. Nearly a decade later, we found ourselves working together once again, returning to the themes he knows best—resilience, memory, and the fragility of cultural heritage. What follows is a conversation about craft, the emotional weight of returning to a war-torn region, and the enduring power of storytelling in the face of destruction.

Dimitra Kouzi: How has your background influenced your approach to this story?
Zaradasht Ahmed: Even though I am Kurdish, Iraq’s culture is deeply familiar to me. We grew up with the same history—Assyria, Mesopotamia, the rivers, the mountains, the deserts. These are embedded in my identity. I understand how people there think and feel. It’s not foreign to me. I don’t experience culture shock. Instead, I carry the pain of seeing my country go through so much change and hardship. That emotional connection shapes my filmmaking. I don’t just observe; I feel. That’s why my approach differs from that of an outsider.

Q: You once said, “I come from the Middle East, and it will always be a part of me.” Yet after making Nowhere to Hide, you said you would never make another film in the region. What changed your mind?
Ahmed: When I finished Nowhere to Hide, I was deeply traumatized. So much was at stake, especially the life of the main character, Nori, and his family. He could have lost his life. I lived with constant anxiety, fearing that something might happen to him and that I would bear some responsibility. Beyond that, working in Iraq is extremely difficult. Security is unpredictable, and you are immediately viewed with suspicion. People assume you might be a spy or have ulterior motives. Authorities don’t like you, and neither do many locals. As a filmmaker, you are often unwelcome. Filming in Iraq is always a challenge. People are suspicious of cameras. Authorities fear being exposed. They forbid you to film without explanation. You are constantly accused of having hidden motives. When I first started researching in 2020, people thought I was crazy. Mosul was still considered a minefield. But I found people who helped me—locals who trusted me. That trust made all the difference. They saw I had traveled thousands of kilometers from Norway to Iraq to tell their story. Being a member of the Iraqi Journalist Association also helped. Even so, I was stopped by police and security forces many times. There were aggressive encounters—questions like, “Why are you filming my wife? Why are you filming me?” And beyond the physical challenges, there was the emotional weight of going to a war zone. Working with people, witnessing their feelings, seeing Bashar’s pain—his tears welling up so often—those were the hardest moments. Yet, no matter how far I go, Iraq is always a part of me. It isn’t a chapter that simply ends.

Q: With global conflicts ongoing, do you see parallels between Mosul’s story and other war-torn regions?
Ahmed: Absolutely. When I started this film, there was no war in Ukraine or Gaza, Lebanon had not erupted, Syria was relatively quiet. I visited Mosul as part of research for another film and was shocked by the devastation. When the war in Ukraine began, I saw the parallels in the destruction of cities and the human casualties. And then, an even more brutal war started in Gaza. Journalists reporting on Gaza even used Mosul as a reference point: “bombed like Mosul.” Eventually, the destruction in Gaza surpassed what we had seen in Mosul. War—like in Sudan now—brings the same devastation everywhere: displacement, destruction, and death. It is a brutal cycle that keeps repeating.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is C0097T01-4-1024x576.jpg

Q: The two lions in the film hold deep symbolic meaning. What do they represent?
Ahmed: The lions are more than just stone carvings—they are a link to the past. For Bashar, they are the last piece of his home. As long as they stand, the house still exists in his memory. They give him hope that his house can be rebuilt one day.

For Fakhri, they are artifacts in danger. He fears they will be lost like so many other ruins. He sees them as part of the city’s identity, a cultural inheritance that must be protected.

Q: Bashar, Fakhri, and Fadel each have unique relationships with the city. How do their stories reflect the larger themes of memory, loss, and identity?
Ahmed: All three belong to Mosul. They were born there, and their families have lived there for generations. The city is their home. It defines who they are. ISIS destroyed that shared identity. They split people into “good” and “bad.” Musicians like Fadel were silenced. Collectors like Fakhri were marginalized. Fishermen like Bashar were only tolerated if they complied with harsh rules. Bashar never wanted to leave. His life, his memories—everything was rooted there. He represents the everyday victims whose stories often go untold. Fakhri returned after the fall of ISIS and saw a cultural vacuum. The museum was destroyed, artifacts looted or turned to dust. That loss ignited his passion to collect and preserve what he could—not for profit, but for preservation. Fadel, forced into silence for years, finally played his violin again. For him, music is defiance, but also healing. Teaching music is his way of rebuilding minds and spirits.

Zaradasht Ahmed and Thorvald Nilsen, Indie Film

Q: Why is protecting cultural heritage so important in post-conflict societies?
Ahmed: When we talk about war, we count human casualties—dead, injured, displaced. But cultural loss is just as serious, and often ignored. During conflict, cultural heritage is left unprotected. When cities are bombed, centuries of history are erased. International bodies rarely prioritize this. But heritage is what anchors us. It’s what we pass down. Without it, we forget who we are. I remember the Taliban destroying the Buddhas of Bamiyan—it was heartbreaking. If something happened to Norway’s old stave churches, it would be just as devastating. These places belong to the world, not just the countries where they stand. In Gaza, ancient sites have been erased—many older than any modern state. That’s a war crime. And yet it often goes unspoken. Cultural heritage is like our collective memory. Destroying it is like erasing our identity.

Q: How do art and music help in the healing process?
Ahmed: Art and music are food for the soul. They are not material things—they are emotional, spiritual, and imaginative. When you hear music or walk through a historic site, something inside you awakens. Art reminds us that we are human. It connects us to something bigger than ourselves. It gives us hope.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is IMG_2083.jpg — Thorvald Nilsen, Producer Indie Film, with Zaradasht Ahmed, Dimitra Kouzi, and Eva Hillström, the film editor, after the CPH: DOX 2025 world premiere.

Q: What is the most challenging aspect of rebuilding Mosul’s identity?
Ahmed: The Old City is still a wound—open and raw—even eight years later. Whole neighborhoods were flattened. Bashar’s neighborhood alone lost over 500 buildings. It’s hard to imagine it being rebuilt. Before ISIS, there was Al-Qaida. Then came the U.S. occupation. Mosul was a closed-off city. Real development didn’t start until after 2017. Now, the Old City—especially near the river—is mostly empty land.

People don’t trust the authorities or their plans. There’s no transparency. No one knows if the city will be rebuilt in its traditional style, turned into a museum, or replaced with something else entirely.

Mosul is one of the world’s oldest cities. Like Jerusalem or Aleppo, it has a poetic, almost mystical connection to the Tigris River. There’s potential for so much—craftsmanship, agriculture, tourism. But trust and vision are needed for any of that to be realized.

"Ahmed doesn’t need to include war footage for us to feel its weight and understand its shadow."
Eye for Film

The Last Expedition, interview with the director Eliza Kubarska

November 15, 2024 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

The director Eliza Kubarska

Pioneering Polish mountain climber Wanda Rutkiewicz disappeared in the Himalayas in 1992. What happened on that final climb? Filmmaker and mountaineer Eliza Kubarska traces Wanda’s footsteps on the world’s highest peaks in a journey into the mystery surrounding the fate of the first woman to summit K2. Could Wanda be still alive, in a monastery in Tibet? Weaving together Wanda’s own, previously unseen diaries, audio and video archives from her Himalayan expeditions, interviews with legendary climbers, Sherpas, Buddhist nuns and monks, this is a riveting account of the emotional struggles and aspirations of a woman who rose above a world that often sought to limit her and charted her own path to freedom.

Dimitra Kouzi: Is Wanda’s (Rutkiewicz's) story still relevant today?

Eliza Kubarska: Of course. Although this story happened 30 years ago, it is still relevant. We made a film about a woman who had vision, passion, and dreams. She wanted to live her own way and at that time most women thought that was impossible.

I think that the situation of women in many countries today, even in Europe, is still not good. A lot of things need to change everywhere – in the film industry, in business, politics, sport, at home – women’s status is not the same as men’s. And I’m not talking about feminism only. To me, it’s about women and men having the same right to decide about themselves, to make their own decisions. Both men and women should have this right equally.

The world of mountain climbing – especially scaling the highest peaks – remains predominantly male-dominated, with a narrative shaped by men. Naturally, fewer women are involved. If only for biological reasons, a woman's price for being a climber will always be higher, and it will be harder for her to lead a normal life outside of this passion. Therefore, I believe that if a woman wants to climb the highest mountains, the mountain community must support her. It is not a question of whether they like it or not.

Dimitra Kouzi: What elements of this story were most interesting for you?

Eliza Kubarska: This story unfolds in the highest, most challenging mountains, the Himalayas, and is about a woman who wants to make her own choices. For her, personal freedom is what’s most important, to be able to say what she wants and be clearly heard.

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Dimitra Kouzi: In your film, you reveal for the first time Wanda’s incredible personal archive. What was your approach to navigating and exploring this wealth of material?

Eliza Kubarska: We didn't know about this archive, which has several dozen boxes. I received the material from Wanda's sister, Janina Fies. We had no budget to digitise it, no people to work on it. I was alone. At some point Daria Sieracka joined me to help.

There are more than thirty 16mm film tapes from the 1970s and ’80s, and dozens of video tapes in various formats. There are also a few thousand slides from the Himalayas, including from Everest ’78, or even earlier, from the 1960s. I started from the slides by myself, I went through 5,000 slides, but there are still more. I didn’t complete this work because I saw the possibility to scan all the tapes. Luckily, we got support from the Documentary and Feature Film Studio in Warsaw (WFDiF).

There are private letters, expedition documents, original typescripts of books, articles, and important writings. There is a box of letters to Wanda from her fans, which she never opened because there were simply too many of them.

There were also thirty audio tapes. On two of them I found very strange recordings of trekking in the Himalayas, a kind of Wanda’s personal journal. Here, she asked herself many questions, questioned some of her life choices. She related what she experienced along the way, poor Nepalese villages, local families, to herself. She wondered if she could live there, why she didn't become a mother, even though she had wanted to. She talked about why it was difficult for her to find a life partner and about Kurt Lyncke, the man she loved, who died in the mountains. I don't know what her purpose was in recording these intimate thoughts. I decided to use them in the film.

I know exactly when she recorded this material: in 1991, less than one year before she disappeared. It was during an expedition to Kanchenjunga, the same mountain, but from a different side. She hadn’t succeeded in 1991, and then she went back in 1992. On these audio tapes, she stated that she didn’t belong to any world, that there was no way back for her, that perhaps at a certain moment she changed from the ‘travelling Buddha’ to the ‘settled Buddha’ – but this is not the time to talk about that.

She was able to give a name to certain feelings, and I think that was the moment when she realised that she had paid a very high price for her choices, and there was no way back for her. She recognised that she had crossed the line. If only there had been someone to point out to her that this was not the end, that it was still possible for her to change her life… I’m not talking about the physical possibility. She experienced a level of depression so high that she could not stand it.

Dimitra Kouzi: What was the high price she paid?

Eliza Kubarska: She was extremely lonely at the end, and she didn’t want to be lonely. She was a woman who wanted to have a life partner, to have a family and children. And I know this from her audio diary and from her sister, who told me that Wanda, who was already an outstanding climber, visited Janina when she gave birth to her daughter and said that she was jealous of her having a child. Wanda also wanted to climb with other people but sadly she was partially excluded from the community.

Dimitra Kouzi: And what was the line that she crossed?

Eliza Kubarska: She couldn't be happy here in the lowlands anymore, but she couldn't stay in the Himalayas all the time, either. When you're a climber, you're often in life-threatening situations, between life and death. That's – as Messner said – one of the most powerful experiences a person can have. And maybe you get addicted to it. When you return to this lowland reality, it becomes very difficult to live normally, especially if you don't have family here who can support you emotionally and help you readjust. If Wanda had survived, if she had come back, she might have become a filmmaker, as she always had a photo camera and a film camera with her. That’s what happened to me. I used to be an alpinist too, I went on mountain expeditions. Now I look for that same chemistry in my brain when I work on film productions. It’s also associated with stress, instability, a lack of security. I’m probably addicted to that as well; that’s why I make documentaries.

Dimitra Kouzi: These experiences as a climber and traveller are very inspiring. What other sources of inspiration do you have in your work as an artist?

Eliza Kubarska: Relationships with other people are very important to me, both those around me and those from other cultures I meet while travelling. Human psychology and nature have always fascinated me. While travel provides an interesting backdrop for my stories, my primary focus is on human relationships. I'm always intrigued by why people behave the way they do. And also nature inspires me. I love being outdoors, but it’s the interaction between humans and nature that is my main interest. I love making films exploring these themes.

Dimitra Kouzi: What role do the personal accounts by these iconic climbers play in the film?

Eliza Kubarska: When I received Wanda’s private archives, I discovered her own perspective. But I wouldn’t have been able to build this topic without other people who knew her. I met over thirty people, including Wanda’s sister and friends. Wanda was friends with some very interesting women. But I also met some men and women from the climbing community who had issues with her. And I wanted to do this film because the narrative about Wanda is controversial. On one hand, you have an amazing woman, who gave us a lot of inspiration. But on the other hand, I heard voices from some in the climbing community, that she was an egoist who was focused only on her own goals at all costs.

Dimitra Kouzi: And what about Reinhold Messner?

Eliza Kubarska: I needed a strong, informed person to give me a statement. And I knew the only person who could do that was Messner. There is no discussion, he is the most renowned mountaineer and he’s been in the climbing community for more than fifty years. He’s the first person to climb all the highest peaks. Also, he’s a philosopher; he has a way with words; he knew Wanda, and he is from the same generation. They met each other on expeditions many times. They never happened to be on the same expedition, but they were on the same mountain, in the same Base Camp. He knew her from the very beginning: the first time they met was in 1975 in Karakoram.

He refused to be interviewed two or three times but I insisted, and finally he accepted. I didn’t know what he would say, but what he says is right on point. And he gave a beautiful reply to the common question why people climb, why they take such risks.

Carlos Carsolio from Mexico was the last person to see Wanda. He’s also one of the first who completed the eight-thousand-metre peaks. Carlos is the fourth who did it; Krzysztof Wielicki is fifth. Their achievements are at the highest level, yet all of them have different perspectives. Carlos is a very spiritual person. He was 30 and she was 49 at the time when they climbed Kangchenjunga in 1992. His young team called her “Abuela,” which means “Grandmother.” And when I asked him about the relationship between him and her, he said that it was a platonic romantic relationship. Carlos faced a very difficult situation when he passed Wanda at 8,300m. She did not want to come down with him. And he, as he relates, had no right to tell her to.

Krzysztof Wielicki from Poland, first a student of Wanda's and then a mountain friend, was the leader of the Annapurna expedition in 1991, during which Wanda was accused of falsely claiming to have reached the summit. In an official statement, Krzysztof stated that Wanda had conquered the mountain.

Dimitra Kouzi: What were some of the most challenging aspects of filming in the Himalayas, both technically and logistically?

Eliza Kubarska: My film crew were talented filmmakers but not great outdoor adventurers. For instance, while filming “The Wall of Shadows” in 2017–9, a film about Sherpas, with producer Monika Braid, when we were in fact already producing material for “Wanda”! I knew we would not be able to come back to the same places because it’s too far, too high and just too complicated and expensive. We had to stay with our film crew at an altitude of 5,000m on a glacier for over three weeks, in winter in the Himalayas! Monica is such a great producer: she’s brave, she trusts me and she organised such complicated film sets.

Sleeping, filming, and even copying footage on the glacier was extremely difficult, especially with limited access to electricity. As an experienced climber and climbing instructor, I was more comfortable in that environment. But it was a constant challenge to ensure the safety and well-being of our less outdoor-savvy crew. We always have to be very sensitive to that.

Dimitra Kouzi: Were there any parts of the story that were difficult to convey on screen, that you really wanted to show but didn’t know how to tackle?

Eliza Kubarska: When you go to Nepal or Sikkim and you visit Buddhist nunneries and spend time with the women there, which I did and then Monika joined me, after a while we were in a completely different world. I mean, in a spiritual sense. I am a fulfilled person, and I have a reason to come back. But when I was in these nunneries, at one moment I got the feeling – and I love adventures and I’m really bored when I do nothing, you know – but at one moment I was sitting there and thought, “Hey, I could stay here much longer. I feel so good. I would just like to be here.” And then I realised Wanda might have felt the same and done that.

Director Eliza Kubarska and producer Monika Braid

Dimitra Kouzi: Are there any moments in the film, or during the entire process, when you felt transformed personally and as a filmmaker?

Eliza Kubarska: Definitely. It holds special meaning for me as a woman climber. If I weren’t a climber, the story would be different. I watched Wanda through my own eyes, through the perspective of a filmmaker and an alpinist. Initially, when I learned about the price she paid, I felt deep sympathy for her. I thought, “This is how it went for her in this world.” I believe the price she paid was her incredibly painful loneliness. Being excluded from society and feeling like you don’t belong anywhere. I used to think that this was a price she paid. Yet, now I realise that she followed her own path. I came to see that she wasn’t a loser; she was a winner. She remained loyal to herself until the very end. When you look in the mirror at any moment in your life, you should ask yourself if you are being true to yourself and to what you believe is right for you.

Wanda had strong values. When the events at Annapurna happened – when she was accused of being dishonest – it was devastating for her because honesty was paramount to her as an athlete from the very beginning. That accusation broke her completely. Unfortunately, I have had a similar experience as a climber myself, where I was accused of dishonesty about a climb during my expedition. It almost destroyed me. And then, for many years, I’ve felt ashamed that such a thing happened to me, that I allowed a group of people to hurt me so. Being slandered became one of the hardest experiences of my climbing life. Wanda described her experience of Annapurna in the very same terms. We both felt tainted. When I discovered that very word in her archives, I felt angry that she, too, had to go through this difficult experience. I thought, “No, I’m not ashamed anymore. It is not I who should be ashamed, but the people who unfairly slandered me.” That realisation was transformative for me.

Dimitra Kouzi: Therefore, you believe that Wanda may have had reasons not to want to come back?

Eliza Kubarska: Absolutely, without a doubt. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not; we have nobody to confirm her fate. You can never be one hundred percent sure that someone is dead if the body has not been found.

The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

The international Premiere of the film is at IDFA 2024, Luminous

Find out more about the film's background, protagonists, creative team in the Press kit

KinderDocs Industry Event – spotlight on Young audiences – Marije Veenstra, Head of Education at IDFAKinderDocs Industry Event

October 27, 2024 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

This is the documentation of KinderDocs’ first Industry Event, titled ‘Documentaries for children and young people: International Approaches and Perspectives'. With its primary goal of illuminating effective strategies and creative approaches for engaging the coveted young audience, KinderDocs and its founder Dimitra Kouzi joint forces and invited acclaimed film professionals and representatives from prestigious festivals in the Netherlands (IDFA) and Germany (doxs Ruhr). Each presentation offered valuable insights into this multifaceted subject, encompassing filmmaking, content, programming, production, distribution, financing, and partnerships. The event took place in October 2023 at the Goethe-Institut Athen, and the Benaki Museum as part of the 8th KinderDocs International Documentary Festival for Children and Young People.

Marije Veenstra | Head of Education, International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam (IDFA) (additionally watch her interview here)

Thank you for inviting me, Dimitra. I'm Marije Veenstra, the Head of Education at IDFA, which stands for International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam. Today, I'll be discussing our approach to and perception of documentaries, particularly focusing on youth documentaries.

First, I would like to provide you with an overview of what we do at IDFA in this regard. In the Netherlands, we produce approximately 20 youth documentaries annually, funded through a pyramid scheme involving broadcasters and producers. Each Sunday evening, there's a dedicated slot on television where a youth documentary is broadcasted by the public broadcaster. Additionally, we have two major festivals for youth documentaries: CineKids and IDFA. As a new development in the Netherlands, we've also put out a call for full-length documentary films, in which Martijn Blekendaal is working as well.

At IDFA, we hold a competition specifically for youth documentaries. This year, aiming to give the youth competition a little bit of a boost, we invited Niki Padidar to be an external programmer. As a filmmaker, Niki brings a truly interesting perspective on youth and documentaries, and I'm very proud of the selection she curated. Among our initiatives are the IDFA-Junior, a family day held during the festival, and the school program, which falls under my responsibility. We also offer training programs for documentary development throughout the year, and we host a forum dedicated to youth documentaries during IDFA.

Our school program reaches approximately 10,000 students who attend IDFA over ten days. We start from 8 years old students and target all educational levels, collaborating closely with numerous theaters across the country. Film selection for the school program involves teachers and students, as we conduct test screenings at schools to get feedback before finalizing our lineup. Furthermore, we complement screenings with educational materials and post-viewing discussions. Additionally, we've launched Doc School Online, a free online tool designed for schools to utilize documentaries in the classroom. We recognize that some students may lack access to theaters or the resources to visit cinemas. The platform offers filters for various topics such as history, climate change, and justice, along with educational material for teachers.

Moreover, we organize activities for professionals, including training and pitching sessions during the forum. So, our focus isn't solely on showcasing documentaries; we also prioritize nurturing the development of youth documentaries, aiming to elevate the genre each year.

Now, what exactly do we mean by a youth documentary? We believe that one of the foremost criteria is that these films are made for children but not exclusively about them. The documentaries we showcase should leave room for imagination and reflection, avoiding fixed endings or solutions to problems. Our aim is to take the genre seriously and select films that also take the audience seriously—that’s why we collaborated with Niki this year. By this, I mean that we are open to all kinds of topics for children; there is no topic we would not screen. However, it's important to be aware of the context and facilitate discussions afterward.

Why do we do all this? Primarily, to cultivate empathy which is a vital necessity in today’s world. To broaden children’s horizons, encourage them to travel mentally and discover new perspectives. Additionally, when it comes to documentaries, an exceptionally important goal is to excite the audience, while also considering the artistic challenge of introducing them to something entirely different.

Two years ago, while already working on education and making my film selections, I was thinking of my starting point and connected it with youth literature, a significant area with ongoing research. So, three key considerations guided my program selection. For children aged 8 and above, youth literature reflects an experimental stage. Thus, we don’t have documentaries for children that are younger, recognizing the expanding worldview of an eight-year-old as an intriguing starting point for a documentary film platform. As children reach 10, individual differences become more prominent, so we aim to challenge them a bit more with the selected films. By the time they're 12, children transition to a more personalized and contemplative perspective, making it a favorable moment to introduce a diverse range of films with varying artistic values. In general, the ability to reflect increases with age, allowing us to experiment and tailor our programming as a festival.

Given my educational background, when facing difficulties, I often turn to Vygotsky, a Russian psychologist from the first half of the 20th century. Vygotsky identified different zones of learning that are well-known in the Dutch educational system. In the yellow zone, people can actually learn something but it’s important to have some guidance or a conversation afterward to reflect on the film. When selecting documentaries for schools, we can focus a bit more on the blue zone, which may offer comfort and enjoyment, but not necessarily contribute to significant learning or offer new experiences. On the other hand, films in the red zone risk leaving audiences frustrated without appropriate context or discussion afterward. As a teacher it is beneficial to focus on the stretch of the yellow zone.

Sometimes, a film initially seems suited to the blue zone. It's comfortable, pleasant, and enjoyable, but why should we actually screen it? What does it have to offer? To truly engage and facilitate learning, we need to strive for the yellow zone, which requires the assistance of a teacher, some guidance or a post-viewing discussion to enable reflection on the film. It's possible to challenge audiences and seek films in the yellow zone, but it's crucial to ensure that screenings are followed by discussions for the experience to be more sustainable. Screening only red zone films without providing the right context or post-viewing conversations can lead to frustration among audiences, who may leave the cinema wondering what they actually saw and feeling like they didn't gain anything meaningful. So, this approach guides my selection process.

Let me share some examples with you. First up is "Our Island," which we initially screened for children aged 8 to 9. However, we later found it might have been quite simplistic for 10-year-olds. While it's a delightful film, many children might find it too gentle for their age group, thus staying in the blue zone. It's perfect for 8-year-olds but lacks the challenge for 10-year-olds.

The next film, “Tungrus” is quite different. When we screened it at IDFA, many children asked, 'Why are you showing this to me, actually?' They enjoyed it and laughed a lot, but they also felt a bit disconnected. Their reaction was, 'It's not about us.' So, this was a film that required a conversation afterward. We started asking who has a pet, what kind of pet they have, how they deal with it when it doesn't behave as expected, and what the possible solutions are. This led to a meaningful discussion, transforming a film that initially fell into the red zone into one that resonated in the yellow zone, making it meaningful for many kids to watch.

Another film I'd like to share was selected by Niki this year. Initially, when we presented “Figure” to adults, particularly a special group funding IDFA, there was skepticism. As an entry for the Youth Competition, they questioned whether it even qualified as a documentary. However, through meaningful dialogue, we saw that it's possible to transition from the red to the yellow zone again. Such conversations are necessary and important for this transition. Even though it might raise questions for some people, I believe perceptions can change when engaging in an interesting dialogue with children afterward.

It would also be beneficial to have both the filmmaker and the programmer responsible for the film present in the screening room, to facilitate a discussion related to questions such as, "Why do you think this is a documentary?” Why do you think it's not?" “Is it important to have a close distinction?” ‘’How flexible can it be?” Through such conversations, we can transition from the frustrating red zone to a more engaging yellow zone. As the Head of Education, it's essential to keep this in mind when developing programs or selecting films. Sometimes, we may step into the red zone, but it's crucial to ensure that we provide educational context so that the experience is meaningful for many children.

As mentioned, it's both interesting and important to diversify the selection. Just as teachers approach youth literature in class by ensuring that all children are provided with something interesting to read, the same principle applies when developing an educational film selection for a festival. It's about offering a variety of films—some may be challenging, while others are more easy-going. That's perfectly fine. However, as a teacher or as the head of education, make sure that you add something to the mix, so viewers can stretch their understanding, delve deeper, and learn from the experience. Also, it’s important to note that the more a child reads, the more their ability to reflect grows. This is particularly significant when considering youth documentaries as well; maintaining a consistent presence throughout the year is crucial, rather than just once or twice annually.

So, how do we effectively reach them? In the Netherlands, broadcasters and film promoters discuss strategies for marketing these films, likening it to selling broccoli or sprouts. The notion that “they just have to learn to eat it” is quite disheartening, in my opinion. Similarly, a Danish Film Institute’s report published in May, highlighted as one of its key findings that young audiences prefer edgy narratives, genre play, boundary exploration, over social realism and 'the all-too-nice'. This underscores the importance of not underestimating our audience; they are capable of handling more than we often credit them for.

Another interesting point I'd like to share is related to the promotion of the film “Shabu”. The film also had a theatrical release in the Netherlands. I had a conversation with the person responsible for its sales, discussing her approach to promotion. She mentioned creating a commercial for a public broadcaster where she didn’t explicitly label the film as a documentary; instead, she referred to it as a family film. It's not about a definitive right or wrong approach, but rather an alternative one that may be worth considering. Ultimately, what's more important than just determining whether we’re selling sprouts is how we’re presenting and marketing them to our audience.

I would also like to emphasize the importance of keeping in mind that every child attends school. Thus, in my view, the gateway to reaching children is through schools. While it's advantageous to target families and encourage their participation in festivals, as we do at IDFA, I firmly believe that genuine change occurs through engagement with schools and the educational system.

Furthermore, it’s important for films to align with educational projects, so they are on the same page as the educational fields, enabling their collaboration and intersection. Additionally, new media and different platforms present some challenges too. At IDFA, we're still exploring ways to integrate these technologies, as it can be quite complex. For instance, while we're keen on screening VR projects in schools, it's challenging due to the required materials.

Finding suitable venues and partners interested in youth, especially when focusing on individual experiences, is also intriguing. Dimitra Kouzi asked me about the types of subjects we encounter or search for. While we come across a great amount of stories about children facing social and emotional challenges, which are both important and educational, I believe it would be equally interesting to see more films about art or history. For instance, I am struggling to find a compelling film about the colonial history of the Netherlands, that strikes the right balance between educational value and engaging storytelling—this would be valuable for schools as they are always seeking such quality content. Therefore, I believe youth documentaries should broaden their scope beyond solely focusing on children having problems that we can or can’t solve.

Lastly, empowering stories are particularly significant to me. Given the numerous conflicts in today's world, children are increasingly aware of these issues. Therefore, exposing them to these kinds of stories would be immensely beneficial, inspiring, and hopeful.

The event took place with the support of the The Dutch Embassy in Athens

Dad’s Lullaby, Lesia Diak interviewed by Dimitra Kouzi

August 10, 2024 Dimitra Kouzi Leave a comment

I met Lesia Diak at the Doku Rough Cut Boutique workshop in Cluj in 2023. A young filmmaker, she appeared serious and was an attentive listener. Now, a year later, her film is set to premiere at the Sarajevo Film Festival. I sense it will travel far; I'm confident she'll make it to the European Film Awards. An interview is an opportunity to discuss both publishable and unpublishable matters, to foster mutual understanding. Lesia was generous and trusting. While speaking with her, I felt transported to the intimate moments captured in her film—the honest atmosphere of a small apartment and the intensity of the editing room. Lesia said, 'I need to have eye contact with my protagonist,' even as she operated the camera. Feeling responsible for sharing her subjects' private moments, she decided to reciprocate by revealing aspects of her own life as well.

What inspired you to create ‘Dad’s Lullaby’?

I’m not quite sure that ‘inspiration’ is the best word to use when talking about the reasoning behind the creation of ‘Dad’s Lullaby.’ I was in pain observing my boyfriend during his short rotations, when he was serving in the Ukrainian army in the East of Ukraine in 2017. The pain tripled when he came back to a ‘peaceful reality,’ and we could not reach an understanding; there was such a void in our communication. My words, my silences, other people’s words – everything would trigger and upset him, and I was the closest to deal with his reaction. The easy way would have been to leave the relationship, but I didn’t want to leave; I loved him. I wanted to try to make a film about this issue and to try to understand it deeply.

How did the film address the complex issue of war-related trauma and its impact on family dynamics?

When I started developing the project, I tried to be very gentle and not ask questions that could hurt anyone’s feelings. I consulted with a psychologist on how to approach filming kids. I was witnessing the life of this family but at the same time I tried not to intervene in their lives. I would never bring a big crew into their tiny flat; I was filming by myself. I would only come on the days when they allowed me to come. The characters were living their lives. I think that the fact that we were sharing space, time, and loneliness brought us closer. At some point in the life of the Zinchuk family, I became a family friend. Of course, for documentary filmmaking, it is a tricky path. You start wondering whether you’re compromising your art because you want to be a good friend.

Poster designed by Dasha Podoltseva

How did you prepare yourself mentally and emotionally for the exposure and vulnerability?

For the final year of my work in the communication agency ‘One Health,’ I worked on the communication of a project dedicated to mental health in Ukraine. I learned that speaking out about your issues makes you feel stronger. In 2019, I wrote a column about my depression, and it was published.

I also felt that, from an ethical point of view, I would feel better if I exposed myself as the family was filmed in a very intimate way, and I feel responsible for giving away private moments from their personal life. And I decided to give away my private life, too.

There is nothing to lose. My country suffered so many losses. I believe it is the right thing to do – to expose myself so that other people feel engaged in the Ukrainian story. We are releasing ‘Dad’s Lullaby’ four years after I finished the filming. I am in a safer place because that phase of my life and that break-up is not my present.

How did being part of the film influence your creative decisions during the production process?

Initially, I was not planning to be part of the film. Most of my material was filmed in an observational style. But in documentaries, not everything goes as planned. Towards the very end of production, I changed my approach towards a participatory film; I believed I needed to open up to Serhiy, and I saw that in that moment of sorrow he wasn’t very comfortable being filmed. I gave the camera to him and said that he could film me instead, if this would make him feel more at ease.

How has this unique experience of being both director and participant influenced your growth as a filmmaker?

I would say it pushed me to grow as a person, which is obviously beneficial for filmmaking. At first, it was a challenge to see myself on the screen in an editing room. Probably because I had a wrong image of myself, maybe I thought that I was prettier and smarter in real life. It took me some time to realise that the fragility of a young woman without makeup or things to hide is a beauty in itself.

I wish I could step into 28-year-old Lesia’s shoes again. I believe that both watching and making films have a huge healing potential in the long run, but in the short-term perspective, we can’t expect that from a film. When I think of survivors from Mariupol and the long lines for mental health care in Ukraine nowadays, I know that watching a documentary will be no cure for them.

What emotions did you experience the first time the camera was pointed at you?

I wasn’t really noticing it. I wasn’t concerned with being filmed. Documentary filmmakers should be at peace with being exposed. It’s about exposing people, so you know at some point you need to be documented as well. It’s a natural process. I didn’t really think a lot about it. But I think it was a more difficult moment when I was holding the camera and I was thinking, okay, I need to have eye contact with Serhii when I’m speaking to him. And eye contact was important, yes. Because once he was about to cry and he needed to speak about something really painful, I would rather focus on him instead of holding the camera. And it was a bit awkward.

How did you overcome this?

As you see in the film, he’s not always in the centre of the picture. I would opt for eye contact.

What were some of the most significant challenges you faced while making this film?

When Serhiy separated from the family and moved out of their home, he was feeling very down and didn’t want to socialise. He didn’t pick up the phone for half a year. But I felt that I needed to give more space to his vulnerability, that I needed to portray him with empathy, not just end the film with him leaving. I would formulate the most significant challenge like this: How to approach someone who is in grief after being separated from his family? I needed to have that final conversation, and I just knocked on the door of Serhiy’s parents’ house, where he was living, and he opened.

The other challenge came when we were showing the material during the Docu Rough Cut Boutique sessions. It came out that there are some things which are obvious for Ukrainians and other cultures that were affected by military conflicts, but not so obvious for people who have never experienced war. It was a challenge to make the visual language and the dialogues work for all audiences. However, it is an impossible task to cater to everyone’s needs. Watching a film is a subjective experience.

How about the editing process?

It was quite a journey to find an editor for ‘Dad’s Lullaby.’ During the production phase, I was editing the scene selection with Semen Mozgovyi.

Upon completion of my studies at DocNomads, I already started working with Monica, and she suggested Andrei Gorgan as an editor. We reached understanding with Andrei quite soon. He is very talented and humble. For Andrei, editing is his main craft, and he is truly devoted to it.

I think that in Monica and Andrei I found my allies in including me as a character present both visually and sound-wise. We were on common ground finding this decision organic for the story. The challenge was how to edit these dialogues in order to preserve their authenticity. We stayed with the approach of focusing on the bits where Serhiy talks about his backstory from the war front, and when his understanding of love and relationships collides with mine. Through challenging me, he challenges himself, and we realise that all these questions he asks me, he has asked himself many times before.

In the editing room, it wasn’t easy to look at myself and notice some of the reactions – for example, the expression of anger and frustration. But I managed to come to terms with it. The film needed this female director to be expressive, and I needed the viewers to realise her bitterness. We used the material showing me with facial expressions that I found unpleasant at first glance. Andrei helped me a lot to develop a distance while looking at myself in the editing room.

What impact do you hope ‘Dad’s Lullaby’ has on the current discourse surrounding the war and its consequences?

There are four levels for the impact, if not more: the international, the national, the local community level, and the individual level.

I know that there will be no impact of the film on international politics and on the destiny of Ukraine as a whole. My film will neither stop the war nor motivate the countries which are constantly creating hindrances for the weapon supply to Ukraine to simplify their inner processes. In terms of the community level, the film screenings and the discussions that follow could give viewers a sense of togetherness, belonging, and sharing the pain. Will the film bring the couples who have similar stories back together? No. But it can create a space for dialogue, or for dialogue between those struggling to maintain relationships. In terms of individuals, I believe that the film can help people to cope with guilt and sadness, to realise that there is an external force – the war – and one single individual can’t cope with it. I do hope that my film could lead people to realise they need to ask for help from the community or mental health professionals.

I remember that once, after pitching my film in Thessaloniki, I overheard two ladies saying about my project, ‘How come he is so mean with the kids?’ I didn’t want to jump into their conversation, or to ask them where they came from. It is kind of simplistic to label people with the word ‘mean,’ though it is an instinctive response. It is much harder to try to understand different behaviour.

Being also the film’s main producer, what challenges did you face in balancing this role with your responsibilities as director?

A director needs to nurture their imagination; it is constant, very intense work, and it requires time for your mind to stay focused, and then time to rest and reinvigorate the capacity for creativity. A director needs time for emptiness, to gaze on the landscape, listen to the silence.

The producer is a business strategist that makes rational decisions. The producer needs lots of energy to drive the project, passion to develop it, to interact with experts in the field, potential partners, to present the project. A director needs a sense of security. They need to understand that things will happen. And the producer gives this feeling of security to the director. That’s a healthy way to make films. But in my case, I worked hard to enhance the film creatively, while at the same time trying to find partners in order to respond to all the needs of the film. I often remember the lyrics from Sinéad O’Connor’s song ‘8 Reasons’:

You know, I love to make music
But my head got wrecked by the business

The good thing is that at some point I had Monica, Elena, and Hrvoje, who could take control over certain areas of the project. This was bliss. Monica has been working as a director and producer of creative documentaries for more than 20 years. She knows the hidden obstacles, and she advised me on how to navigate them.

How many hours of filming did you have?

I filmed 100 hours over three years.

Have you ever stayed over at the family’s house?

I always returned to my own place, in Kyiv. I aimed to establish a boundary. Observing what was happening in their house was sometimes upsetting, especially involving the kids, when they shared nightmares or missed their parents’ attention, who were busy working. There were different reasons. When their daughter was born, I cried inside with happiness, but didn’t show my tears. It was a complex emotional experience, very therapeutic for me as a filmmaker.

When I was 16, my mom went to work abroad, and I stayed with my father, witnessing his pain and responding to it. For men in Ukraine, it’s not easy when the woman goes abroad to work. He felt abandoned, and it was challenging for my father to raise teenagers, me and my brother. He was struggling a lot. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I have such deep empathy for male characters in my film – and for men in general, because I witnessed it so closely, and it really broke my heart. When I witnessed similar experiences in the Zinchuk family, for instance why they are not more understanding of each other after this long separation, how they need to learn from scratch how to live their lives together again, it reminded me of many cases of separation, not least the case of my own family.

Are there any upcoming projects you can share?

At the moment, I am working on a short documentary, or docu-fiction, based on my personal analogue archive. I used an old analogue camera I had from my father for years. I participated in a residency in Finland focused on analogue film. I worked in the dark room, developed my own films, working with my hands, and it helped me recover my love for cinema. I’m currently editing this film, which is a story about a female artist who sacrificed personal happiness for the sake of her work, and I need to step out of myself to make this film good. The working title is ‘My days Are Being chopped.’

Are films made by women different?

There is a female perspective in documentary filmmaking, and it’s linked to the limits we have, in comparison with men, limits that family bonds or having a child place on us. We really need to be focused and close with the baby, with the child, if we have a family. And we can’t film in some situations that are accessible to male directors. We can’t film in a super dangerous environment, unless we have very good training. There are cases where female directors went to dangerous places, and it didn’t go well. At the same time, being a woman opens up other possibilities.

Thank you, Lesia, for the very inspiring discussion.

The conversation has been edited and condensed.

MAIN CHARACTERS

Serhiy Zinchuk, Nadiia Zinchuk, Olexandr Zinchuk, Artem Zinchuk, Nikita Zinchuk, Marharyta Zinchuk, Lesia Diak

Serhiy

A 45-year-old war veteran who served in eastern Ukraine for three years, Serhiy was a war commander, responsible for his soldiers’ lives. He is a person of heart, with a sense of dark army humour and pessimistic views on humanity. He works night shifts at the supermarket to support his family. He is a loving father but the war experience prevents him from fulfilling his dream of living a peaceful life with his family.

Nadiia

Serhiy's wife cared for their three sons while he served in the war. She is a very strong woman, a mother both strict and tender. Raising three boys made her extremely resilient. It's difficult for her to express her emotions and fragility. She doesn't work outside the home and mostly performs parental duties. She rarely has time for herself, or time alone. She gives everything she has to her children.

Sasha (11)

Eleven years old, Sasha is an introverted pre-teen who keeps his emotions to himself. He is going through adolescent insecurities and understands better than his brothers how much their father has changed. The tension between Serhiy and his oldest son, Sasha, grows throughout the film. The more Serhiy demands from Sasha, the more the boy rebels. By the end of the film, Sasha's behaviour will have changed, showing increased aggression towards his youngest brothers. Sasha also takes on more responsibility in caring for his newborn sister.

Artem (8)

Eight-year-old Artem is the most vulnerable child in the family. He is a very reflective boy. He cries and disagrees with his parents and brothers. Artem is fascinated by his father and his stories from the war; he learns war songs written by soldiers of the Russian-Ukrainian conflict. This son of Serhiy's has great empathy for his dad.

Nikita (3)

Three years old, Nikita is the youngest and sunniest child. He is the most open among all the children and the most cherished by his parents. He also becomes affected by his dad and the violence of his older brothers.

Marharyta

The newborn daughter, Marharyta – the only daughter among sons – brings hope to the family.

Lesia

A 29-year-old woman, the film director, is going through a break-up with a war veteran. She is making a film about Serhiy's family to understand the impact of war on love and family relationships.

Producers Lesia Diak (main Producer), Monica Lăzurean-Gorgan, Elena Martin, Co-Producer Hrvoje Osvadić

Dimitra Kouzi – Kouzi Productions

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Amílcar at IDFA 2025 Envision: Miguel Eek in Conversation with Dimitra Kouzi

Why ARNode, and how to define it

Child of Dust – 50 Years Since the End of the Vietnam War

Interview with Zaradasht Ahmed

The Last Expedition, interview with the director Eliza Kubarska

Find out more about the film's background, protagonists, creative team in the Press kit

KinderDocs Industry Event – spotlight on Young audiences – Marije Veenstra, Head of Education at IDFAKinderDocs Industry Event

Dad’s Lullaby, Lesia Diak interviewed by Dimitra Kouzi

MAIN CHARACTERS

documentary production | outreach | audience development | storytelling

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Find out more about the film's background, protagonists, creative team in the Press kit

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MAIN CHARACTERS

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documentary production | outreach | audience development | storytelling