Documenting War: An Interview with Alina Maksimenko

Once a quiet town at the outskirts of Kyiv, Irpin became one of the first front lines of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. In February 2022, visual artist and filmmaker Alina Maksimenko found herself there, with a broken leg and her camera.

Her debut feature documentary, In Limbo (2024), captures the war’s first days through the eyes of her family. It is both a personal chronicle and a reflection on the ethics of filmmaking in wartime. Why make a film when life itself hangs by a thread? To preserve beauty or to confront the brutal reality of survival?

She escapes Irpin with one of the last evacuation convoys, seeking refuge in a nearby village with her parents. Snowed in and often without electricity, the family clings to fragile routines: her mother continues online music lessons, her father cares for the pets left behind by neighbours who fled.

What unfolds is a haunting film diary that reveals the brutal tension between everyday life and the devastation of war. As the war closes in, space contracts. The death of her father’s beloved cat becomes a turning point: should they stay or leave?

Produced by Wajda Studio, In Limbo premiered at Visions du Réel and was nominated for Best Film and Best Documentary at the 37th European Film Awards. It also screened at Millennium Docs Against Gravity.

– I.J.

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You were based in Ukraine before the war. Where are you now, and in what ways have those challenging experiences shaped your life and work as a filmmaker?

I’m currently in Warsaw, though I still consider myself an artist and filmmaker based in Irpin, Ukraine. In fact, I’m living between the two places, Ukraine, which is my home, and Warsaw. My parents are still in Ukraine, and I return often to check on them and the house. But in recent months, I’ve felt deeply exhausted, mentally worn down by the constant alarms and fear. Eventually, I realised I needed to protect myself somehow. It wasn’t an easy decision, but my husband and I rented a small apartment in Warsaw so I could get some rest and work in peace, without the fear of sirens or the danger of something literally falling from the sky.

Could you tell us a bit about your background, and what led you to make In Limbo, your debut feature documentary?

I came to documentary from painting. That was my original background, but over time I became increasingly drawn to nonfiction film. I first studied with Serhiy Bukovsky in Kyiv [an important director of the critical school of Ukrainian documentary filmmaking] and later graduated from a documentary course at the Wajda School in Warsaw. My first short documentary, Ptitsa (Bird), came out in 2022. It’s a pandemic story, also told in diary form. 

As I grew more comfortable behind the camera [laughs as her cat strolls across the Zoom screen], I started dreaming of new projects. I wanted to live and work through documentary. That was the plan. But of course, I never expected that my first feature would be about war.

In Limbo

War had always felt like something from books or films, not real life. And then it happened. Just before the war broke out, I had a strange accident: I fell on the street and broke my leg. It seemed a little bit weird, almost surreal. It just happened. But looking back, I sometimes tell myself that maybe there was already something heavy in the air and I just collapsed under it. I ended up in the hospital, and since I was already a documentary person, I brought my audio recorder with me. I started recording the sounds and conversations around me. It helped distract me from the pain, the thirst and the shock. My leg was so badly broken. And then the war began.

Because of my documentary approach, I captured conversations and sounds from the very first days of the war, right there in the hospital. Those recordings became part of my personal archive. I had just undergone surgery and was beginning to recover when, two days later, we were asked to leave the hospital to make space for wounded soldiers coming from the front line. So I returned home to Irpin.

I had only moved to Irpin from Kyiv a month earlier, not knowing this small, quiet city would soon become one of the hot spots during the first days of the Russian invasion. It ended up directly on the front line. Now, sadly, Irpin is known around the world for what happened there in the first month of the war. [She pauses as her cat walks into the frame.] Excuse me, he’s very involved in this process. He loves to participate in recordings. We’ll just say hello… and head to another room.

After leaving the hospital, I returned to Irpin and suddenly found myself right on the front line. The destruction was terrifying. I still remember the sounds – boom boom! [imitating the shelling noise] The war was coming closer and closer to my home. Because it all started so suddenly, my husband had just left to perform at a concert, and my daughter wasn’t able to come help me after my surgery. So I stayed alone with my cat. My camera became my companion. 

When you’re living through something like this, it’s hard to put into words how you feel. It’s a mix of so many confusing emotions. I decided to face the situation with my camera. I set it up and tried to document everything that was happening around me: the sounds, phone conversations, even myself struggling to take medicine. I wasn’t thinking much; I was just recording. 

I kept myself busy with practical things: changing memory cards, charging batteries, making sure everything kept working. I managed to escape Irpin on March 5th, the very last day it was possible. I found refuge at my parents’ home in Muzychi, feeling grateful to have gotten out. The next day, March 6th, we learned about the tragic shooting near the destroyed bridge in Irpin. That’s when the full-scale invasion truly began. 

I was lucky to have made it to my parents’ house safely. That’s when the idea of making a film took shape. I realised that the footage and recordings I had in my head and on my devices could become an important document of this time and of us.

In Limbo

The music really made a strong impression in your film. Could you share some insights into your approach to sound?

I was fortunate to have Vladimir Tarasov – my husband – compose the music. He is a person very close to me, and I truly believe he did a fantastic job. The music acts as another dramaturgical thread, moving us forward, from one scene to the next. I love the music deeply, it’s very meaningful for me.

The sound design was done by the Polish sound master Joanna Napieralska. She handled the post-production, cleaning up conversations that were sometimes recorded imperfectly, especially since I often used a small radio microphone hidden under the clothes. Joanna’s work was crucial in polishing the sound and placing it just right. She also helped shape the film’s dramaturgy, keeping in mind that the most powerful moments come at the end.

This is the moment when my mother said that our space was shrinking, and we reflected that in how we built the soundscape, carefully arranging the sounds to follow that feeling. We used mainly my own recordings from the two places: Irpin, where I travelled from, and Muzychi, my parents’ village. Often, I’d leave my recorder outside the house while I hid inside, capturing the explosions and gunfire from a distance.

However, raw recordings don’t always translate directly on screen; sometimes they don’t feel quite real. Even though the sounds are authentic, we often had to adjust them during post-production to make them sound real.

How did your parents feel about you filming such a personal and difficult story? We see your father getting involved in directing. What was filming like?

Yes, this film really reflects an important line in our relationship. It’s me, Alina, who makes the film. And from the start, my father was supportive. He thought it was a good idea, and we began the film together. But as the story progressed and we faced the difficult choice of whether to stay or leave, everything felt more intense. Our space – and my mother said it in the film – literally started to shrink. This also changed our relationship to making this film: it became more nervous, more principled. 

I love this moment of tension because it captures a fundamental question every artist faces: Why are you doing this? Is the film for you, or for others? That responsibility is huge, and my father’s words on this have stayed with me.

My parents were comfortable with filming partly because I come from a painting background. I started my art education at age ten, and my parents were often my models. My grandfather, too, filmed family movies with his first camera, so having a camera around felt normal for my father. The camera is part of our life.

Still, when I was editing I wasn’t sure if my father would approve of the final film, especially using our personal conversations. When I showed him the near-final cut, I was nervous. Inviting both my parents to watch what I had in my hands was a special moment – it all depended on their approval.

I remember my mother crying at the end. My father was silent for a while, then said, “Okay, you did important work.” He gave me permission to include all our conversations, which I felt were essential to the film.

In Limbo

You’ve mentioned your background as a painter, and we also see some of your paintings featured in the film. Could you talk about how painting has influenced your approach to documentary filmmaking? Do you see a connection between the two?

First, a bit about the paintings you see in the film – they’re my father’s collection. These are my early works, paintings I’d personally rather burn or throw away… But he carefully collected them all and kept them in a small wooden shed outside the house. He regularly looks at them, analysing my style and even arranging little exhibitions at home. Sometimes it looks just crazy!

I had forgotten about many of these pieces and wouldn’t have shown them to anyone. But seeing how lovingly he preserves and displays them is so touching. His care and the way he curates these paintings in that small shed, the exhibitions made by his hand, mean a great deal to me.

Painting deeply affects how I work with the camera. Because I spent a long time painting en plein air – standing in the middle of the street and sketching scenes – I feel at ease to work with composition and light. When I’m filming, I don’t consciously think about framing or lighting; I just do it. I usually spend more time adjusting the tripod height than thinking about how to visually tell my story. I’m sure that comes from painting.

How do you view the growing number of documentaries about the Russian war on Ukraine, such as Sergei Loznitsa’s The Invasion (2024)? Are there any films that have stood out to you or influenced your perspective?

I think it’s great that so many documentaries try to capture what’s happening. Each documentary is unique and important because it’s drawing on personal experience. It’s a piece of life, something that a person saw and experienced. It’s truth. 

I deeply respect every artist and filmmaker who commits to telling their story, bringing their work to completion, and sharing it with the world. Each film plays an important role in documenting this history.

I’m less sure about fiction films on this topic right now – they might need more space for reflection. Maybe it’s too early to make a film about Bucha right now [site of a massacre of Ukrainian civilians and prisoners of war]. 

Ptitsa

Are there any documentary filmmakers or artists – whether from Ukraine or beyond – who have influenced your work or whom you personally admire?

This year I discovered Jafar Panahi. He uses a documentary approach to make fiction films, blending the two genres in a remarkable way. For me, he is a hero and a genius. His mastery of form and his ability to navigate the boundary between documentary and fiction is truly inspiring. I believe in everything he expresses through his films.

When it comes to documentary filmmaking, I must send all my love and respect to Marcel Łoziński. He is a legend of Polish documentary film. Coming to Poland, it was my dream to study under him and be part of his course. I even started learning Polish just to make it happen. At that time, he was nearly 80, so I knew I had to hurry.

I’m grateful to have had the chance to learn from him. I still feel his support today, his gentle hand and his strict eyes. He challenges you to ask: Why are you doing this? And how will you present your ideas and approach?

I am deeply grateful to Łoziński for being my mentor, my documentary father. He guided me through two of my films: first Ptitsa, and then my latest work. His support means a great deal to me, and I consider it a huge success to have him at my working table. Thanks to him, the Polish documentary school feels very close to me.

What are you currently working on after In Limbo?

Since In Limbo, I’ve been busy with promoting the film. It was nominated for the European Film Award, and that brought a lot of screenings, festivals, and travel. While this was great for the film, it kept me from sitting down to start new work.

As a painter, I felt completely stuck at the start of the war. My work usually focused on beauty, light, and pleasure, but suddenly I couldn’t create. I tried a few pieces, but I just couldn’t connect. I don’t even remember the details. I just felt that I was blocked.

That said, I do have plans. I’m developing my first animation film. Between meetings and travel, I’ve managed to draw storyboards and design characters. Now I have more space to focus on it. It’s very exciting! The short film, called Snail’s Farm, will be about ten minutes long. I’m really looking forward to bringing it to life.