Bohdan SlámaWhat We Lose Without a Moral Compass: An Interview with Bohdan Sláma about Shadow Country and his recent movies Hamed Sarrafi May 2025 Interviews Issue 113 In an era saturated with a seemingly endless stream of films released across festivals, platforms, and regions, it has become increasingly easy – even inevitable – to overlook some truly remarkable, challenging, or thought-provoking works. With so many titles demanding attention, even the most devoted cinephile cannot realistically keep pace – emotionally or physically. In such a landscape, the role of critics and passionate viewers becomes ever more crucial: to spotlight the films and filmmakers that might otherwise go unnoticed. It was in this context that I first encountered Krajina ve stínu (Shadow Country), a deeply affecting historical drama by Czech director Bohdan Sláma. The year was 2020, and due to COVID-19 restrictions, the London Film Festival was held almost entirely online. Watching films virtually might sound convenient, but the experience was often fragmented – disrupted by unstable internet connections and missing the communal exchange of ideas that festivals usually offer. Yet amidst these challenges, Shadow Country stood out. It was one of the few films that not only held my attention in that compromised format but has stayed with me ever since. Set in the village of Schwarzwald, on the border between Czechoslovakia and Austria, the film spans nearly two decades of historical turbulence – from the Nazi occupation to the arrival of the Allied and Russian forces. Through this lens, Shadow Country explores how ordinary people, once victims, can become perpetrators under shifting regimes. The film is a stark meditation on power, morality, and the fragility of human decency under pressure. Watching it, I was reminded of the tense balance of power in Sergio Leone’s The Good, the Bad and the Ugly – specifically the iconic desert scene where the gun moves from Blondie (Clint Eastwood) to Tuco (Eli Wallach), determining who holds control. But unlike Leone’s film, Shadow Country offers no entertainment or escapism. Instead, it presents a sobering reflection on cycles of violence and betrayal – echoes that feel frighteningly close to our contemporary reality. The film opens without promise of joy or fortune. A few moments in, we witness a birth – a child who becomes a metaphor for the village itself, or the divided land it inhabits. The father identifies with German heritage, the mother as Czech. From this first moment, Shadow Country introduces one of its central themes: the crisis of identity. Is identity rooted in blood and borders? In language, race, or culture? Or is it something more fragile – something that can fracture under the weight of history and fear? The film doesn’t provide easy answers. Instead, it shows how uncertainty about who we are – and where we belong – can be the first step toward collective tragedy. Bohdan Sláma The village itself is deeply divided. Some residents, seduced or pressured by Nazi ideology, begin to identify as German, hoping for better treatment. Others stay loyal to their Czech roots. When the war ends and the foreign occupiers leave, violence does not stop – it turns inward. Neighbours begin to accuse, humiliate, and betray one another. What begins as political compromise becomes personal retribution. Like some of the most pessimistic films of the past two decades – Yorgos Lanthimos’s The Lobster, Lars von Trier’s Dogville, Michel Franco’s New Order, Emir Kusturica’s Underground – Shadow Country shows how those who resist authoritarian systems can become just as brutal when they inherit power. It mirrors Friedrich Nietzsche’s warning: “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” In Shadow Country, humanity becomes the architect of its own torment, a world where man’s cruelty to man becomes inescapable. The identity crisis operates on two levels: one based on geography, ethnicity, and language; the other, on survival. The question becomes not just who are we, but what will we do to survive when the moral compass is shattered. Sláma shows how quickly people abandon values under pressure. In one unforgettable scene, a former revolutionary – now a local authority figure – cruelly humiliates a woman. Yet when her daughter steps in and comforts her, the camera lingers on the man’s face, capturing a flicker of lost tenderness – humanity buried beneath political cruelty. These brief moments of vulnerability pierce through the film’s bleak atmosphere, making its message all the more devastating. More than a war film, Shadow Country is a psychological and sociological study of a society unravelling from within. The foreign aggressors are not the heart of the story – they are only the trigger. What Sláma explores is how fear, ideology, and ambition corrode ordinary lives. The film shows that destruction begins not just on battlefields, but in classrooms, kitchens, and village squares – where trust collapses and violence festers. Watching Shadow Country felt like watching history itself – something I’ve observed both in the long arc of human history and in contemporary events: how political shifts can completely upend societies, turning prisoners into rulers, and rulers into prisoners. It reveals that vicious cycle where power changes hands, but little truly changes – because humanity, morality, kindness, and forgiveness are the first casualties. One regime is overthrown, another takes its place, and suddenly those once persecuted hold power. But as they begin to rule, it becomes clear: the tools of control – fear, revenge, and repression – remain the same, only in different hands. There are quiet, symbolic choices that deepen the film’s impact: the burial of cattle, a routine part of daily village life, is later echoed in the mass burial of village residents – a chilling transformation. Or the recurring image of the sewing machine: once gifted in a moment of hope, later stripped of its purpose and repurposed as a tool of propaganda. These small details speak volumes about memory, history, and the quiet violence of erasure. Sláma’s stark black-and-white cinematography enhances the realism. His emotionally restrained but nuanced cast delivers deeply human performances. The camera is both intimate and distant – sometimes observational, sometimes deeply empathetic – always attuned to the emotional weight of each scene. So moved was I by the film’s moral and emotional depth that I reached out to Bohdan Sláma for a conversation. He kindly agreed, and in the weeks that followed, shared with me several of his earlier works: Štěstí (Something Like Happiness, 2005), Venkovský učitel (The Country Teacher, 2008), Bába z ledu (Ice Mother, 2017), and others. Across his filmography, I noticed recurring themes: marginalised characters navigating personal crises, tensions between generations, and – most notably – the quiet strength and moral clarity of women. In a world coming undone, Sláma’s female characters often remain the most grounded and trustworthy. Although our interview was conducted shortly after the festival, it remained unpublished due to the film’s limited distribution. Thankfully, Sláma has since returned with two more thought-provoking films: Sucho (Dry Season, 2024), which explores ideological and environmental tensions between two isolated men; and The End of the World, which revisits the Soviet occupation of Prague through the eyes of a boy living with his Russian grandfather. Both films, like Shadow Country, offer intimate, humanist reflections on history and moral responsibility. Shadow Country After discussions with the editorial team at Senses of Cinema, we decided to revisit and expand our original conversation – placing Shadow Country at the centre, while also exploring Sláma’s evolving artistic vision. Personally, I’ve always tried to learn from cinema. At its best, a film can be like a slap in the face – a jolt that forces us to wake up. In these days of escalating horror, I believe we must avoid becoming like Saul Ausländer (Géza Röhrig), the protagonist of Saul fia (Son of Saul, László Nemes, 2015) – a man so consumed by past trauma and obsessed with the task he has been given that he becomes tunnel-visioned and numb to the suffering unfolding around him. That film, like Shadow Country, warns us that when we lose our connection to present-day reality, we risk not only losing our humanity entirely, but also destroying any hope – or any possible path – to salvation from the vicious cycles that entangle us. Shadow Country captures that sense of inevitability – the way power corrupts, the way personal grudges and repressed desires erupt when political systems collapse. Some characters seek revenge not in the name of justice, but from long-harboured frustration, acting out what they could never express before. Then there are the opportunists – like the shopkeepers – who adapt to every new regime, changing their allegiance like a sign above their door, surviving by staying on top, regardless of the cost. This pattern – where the oppressed become the oppressors, not to build a better world, but to settle old scores – is something I’ve seen firsthand. That’s why I connected with Shadow Country so viscerally. I felt it in my body because I’ve lived it. I’ve witnessed it. It is both the past and the future – it is a warning. The film shows how brutality begets brutality, how revenge dresses itself as justice, and how easily the roles of victim and perpetrator blur. But as Shadow Country so powerfully illustrates, picking up a gun does not make you just – it makes you part of the same cycle. It turns victims into tyrants and erases the line between right and wrong. Paying attention to war – especially its psychological toll on individuals and communities – is more necessary now than ever. War is not only about the destruction of buildings. It is the slow devastation of memory, morality, identity, and trust. As violence and polarisation rise again in our world, films like Shadow Country serve as both a warning and a guide. They help us reflect on who we are – and who we might become. Shadow Country is not only one of the most important Czech films of the past decade – it is a vital moral inquiry. And perhaps, in a world still scarred by war, nationalism, and injustice – from Europe to the Middle East – Sláma’s work reminds us: without a moral compass, we risk becoming the very forces we once resisted. But with one, there remains a path forward – toward survival, truth, and perhaps even redemption. – H.S. * * * Shadow Country was my introduction to your work, as your earlier films haven’t been widely released in the UK or at festivals here, though they’ve been celebrated internationally. I was surprised to learn you’re ranked among the top 10 Czech directors on IMDb. I noticed a significant shift in your career after 2012. Until then, you released a film every three years, but afterward, you became incredibly busy, working on TV series and films leading up to 2017. Could you share what happened during that period and why you pivoted to Shadow Country instead? Well, those TV series didn’t require as much creative or mental investment as my films do. For me, my serious and important work has always been my films. I’m also a screenwriter – except for Shadow Country, I wrote all my previous films – so a lot of my time is spent on writing and developing projects. I read that your next project after Shadow Country was initially planned to be a film about a 10th-century saint, but it didn’t materialise. Regarding Saint Adalbert project – his Czech name is Vojtěch. I’ve been thinking about making that film for 30 years. It’s deeply personal because it touches on spiritual themes and how our country is connected to Christianity. I’m not a religious person at all, but I feel very connected to Christian culture – how it has shaped our values and our way of thinking about life. Saint Vojtěch started his mission in Bohemia at a time when almost no one was religious. It was the very beginning of Christianity here. He was educated in Germany, highly intellectual, and had strong connections with the European elite of his time. But when he returned to the Czech lands as the first bishop, people didn’t want to accept his teachings. To them, religion was just a tool for business and politics. So here we have this intelligent, high-ranking man trying to introduce deep spiritual values to a society that simply didn’t care. That struggle feels incredibly relevant today. We live in a very pragmatic world where everyone is focused on securing a comfortable life, which is completely natural. But in doing so, we often lose touch with something deeper – a spiritual foundation that gives life meaning beyond material success. That’s why I wanted to tell his story, to show a man fighting against a society that was resistant, even brutal. It’s a story that still speaks to our time. I’m still working on it. I’ve been writing the script, collecting ideas, and developing the story this whole time. In the meantime, I made two other films, but Vojtěch has never left my mind. I’ve remained fully engaged with it, even though it hasn’t come to fruition yet. It’s been on my mind for at least 15 years now. The story is deeply connected to questions of religion, human identity, and the imagination – specifically, trying to picture how people lived in that time. It’s not just about writing a script from a psychological perspective; it’s about understanding an entire cultural system, the rules of the era, the mindset of the people. That’s why it’s so complex for me. I’m trying to build a world that no longer exists. And honestly, sometimes I feel afraid – like maybe it’s not even possible to fully step into that world and bring it to life. But then, at other times, I feel hope that it is possible. What fascinates me most is the idea of a man standing against the social norms of his time. This was an era when Christianity was still a rare concept in Europe – most people didn’t fully understand it. And yet, Vojtěch took it seriously. He truly believed in something that was completely against the existing system. Even today, religious questions remain deeply relevant. Whether someone believes in God or not, almost everyone wrestles with spiritual questions in some form. That’s why this story still feels alive to me – it speaks to something timeless. Ice Mother Speaking of fragile characters, it seems like you’re naturally drawn to them. It’s not just in Shadow Country – when I look at all your films, from Ice Mother to Four Suns and even The Country Teacher, your stories focus on ordinary people. They may seem like typical characters, but they all have something fragile in their lives. They face unexpected hardships that make them even more vulnerable. I’ve never really analysed it in that way, because when I start working on a film, I always begin with the characters. I ask myself: Who are they? I don’t intentionally set out to create fragile characters, but it often turns out that way. I think I’m drawn to people who have the capacity to change, to grow in some way. We all live in relationships – whether it’s with family, friends, neighbours, or colleagues. In an ideal world, relationships should be harmonious, but conflict is a natural part of life. The real question is: Do these conflicts lead to destruction, or do they push us toward something meaningful? That’s always my hope – that the stories I tell will explore how relationships evolve, how they become more intense or take on deeper meaning. And I think we’ve all been reminded of that recently, especially during the COVID-19 pandemic. It showed us who we really are. If you have strong, meaningful relationships, you could share and support each other through difficult times. But if you’ve spent your life pushing people away, if you’ve only focused on yourself, then isolation makes you even lonelier. It doesn’t matter how much money you have – if everything is shut down and you have no one to share life with, what do you really have? That’s why my films always come back to human relationships. I care about exploring those connections. Now, you mentioned earlier that my stories usually revolve around “normal” people, and that’s true. But my project about Saint Vojtěch (Adalbert) is an exception. He was an extraordinary figure, yet his story still ties back to human relationships. Vojtěch lived in the 10th century, and while that feels like an entirely different world, in many ways, people haven’t changed much. The way we navigate relationships and society is still very familiar. He had a younger brother, Radim, who was just an ordinary young man. He wanted to enjoy life – chase after women, go hunting, fight, and just live like a regular guy. But their family forced him to stay by Vojtěch’s side, to take care of him because they saw Vojtěch as somewhat of a madman. Vojtěch, as the first bishop of Prague, struggled because no one in Bohemia really cared about Christianity at that time. Religion was just a tool for business and political influence. He couldn’t accept that, so he escaped – twice. He fled to Rome and lived as a monk, but the Church wouldn’t let him stay because he had abandoned his post. Eventually, he left to spread Christianity elsewhere, traveling to what is now Russia and Latvia, trying to convert the people there. He told them their gods were false and that they must worship the Christian God – and, of course, they killed him for it. What fascinates me is Radim’s journey. He started as this ordinary young man, but after witnessing everything, he eventually became the first bishop of the Polish Church. In fact, one of the earliest legends about Vojtěch was written by Radim himself. But here’s the interesting part – these early Christian legends were not objective histories; they were shaped for political purposes. They had to fit a certain narrative. So, my idea for the film is about Radim and his transformation. He starts as someone who just wants a normal life, but he ends up carrying the weight of his brother’s story, shaping the legend that we now know. It’s a fascinating process – how history is written, how legends are created, and how personal experiences become something much larger. The Country Teacher When you describe Vojtěch now – this man who stands against the established rules of society – it also makes me think about a pattern in your work. Many of your films feature main characters who, in some way, reject or resist the expectations placed on them. For example, in The Country Teacher, the protagonist leaves behind the world he knows to live in a rural environment, isolating himself from the norms of his past life. Then, in your upcoming film Dry Season, you have a character who isolates himself and ends up in conflict with another man and a system. Even in Shadow Country, there’s this idea of individuals struggling against the forces of their society. And now, with Vojtěch, you are again drawn to a character who refuses to conform. You know, I don’t really consciously focus on this as a theme. Maybe from an outside perspective, it seems obvious, but for me, it’s much more intuitive. When I create characters, I don’t start with a fixed idea like, oh, this character must be a rebel. It’s not something I plan rationally. I just follow my instincts – thinking about who these characters are, what drives them, what conflicts they face. And somehow, again and again, I find myself drawn to people who don’t fit neatly into the structures around them. Maybe that’s just something inside me. Something I recognise in the world. But I don’t sit down and say, I need to write about rebellion. It just happens. Let’s talk about Shadow Country. Compared to your earlier works like Ice Mother or Four Suns, which focus on intimate relationships within small communities, this feels like your most ambitious project yet. It’s a historical drama spanning 16 years, set during and after World War II, and it’s the first of your films I’ve seen that isn’t set in contemporary times. The scale is much larger – more characters, a bigger cast, and a broader historical and political context. Given your interest in the Saint Vojtěch project, it seems you’re moving toward stories with greater scale and scope. What drew you to Shadow Country as your first major step into this kind of filmmaking? Yeah, it’s actually a funny story. I was working on the Vojtěch script with Ivan Arsenyev – the same writer who wrote Shadow Country. While we were working together, I was aware of Shadow Country from a distance because, at first, it was supposed to be directed by someone else. I saw how the project was developing, and then things started to go wrong. They didn’t get the funding they originally planned for, and that led to misunderstandings between the producer and the original director. Eventually, the whole thing fell apart. It just so happened that at that exact moment, Ivan and I were sitting in a room together, and he suddenly said, “Oh my God, the project has collapsed. It’s a disaster.” I just laughed and said, “Come on, Ivan, the world is full of directors. No big deal.” Deep down, I kind of expected him to ask me if I’d be interested, but he didn’t. He just left. The weekend came, and I was sitting there thinking, Will he call me? Will he ask? But nothing. By Monday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up the phone and said, “Ivan, why don’t you let me read the script?” He was surprised and asked, “Really? You’d be interested?” He always thought I was only into small, intimate films about a few characters – just like you were asking me earlier. I told him, “Come on, just give me the script. I’ll read it anyway.” The truth is, I had already been thinking about making a historical film which was full of historical events and complex characters. So, in a way, I was already mentally prepared to take on something bigger. Then I read the script. And honestly, at first, I wasn’t that excited. The beginning felt a little predictable – Jews are forced out, Germans are wealthy, Czechs are poor. It was something I had seen before, and I wasn’t particularly drawn to it. But then came the second half. Suddenly, neighbours were turning on each other, locking each other up in cells. I was reading it thinking, Wait, what? This can’t be real. They’re insane! They’re actually killing each other?! It completely shocked me. I called Ivan right away and told him, “Listen, I think the first half of the script needs work, but I’m really interested.” The producer was thrilled because, after all the setbacks, he finally felt like the film could be completed. From there, everything started coming together. I found a way to approach the film visually – shooting in black and white, using long, immersive shots, and staging the confrontations in a way that pulled the audience right into the tension between these people. Another big decision was to keep everything in one location. In filmmaking, every time you change locations, it adds to the budget. But we set the entire film in one village and maximised it to the fullest. And here’s the funny part – that village is where I actually live. I even cast some of my real neighbours in the film! Because of all these choices, we were able to make the film on a relatively small budget – about 1.5 million euros, which isn’t much for a historical drama. We used real film stock and classic filmmaking techniques, which gave it a raw and authentic feel. We also cast actors who aren’t mainstream movie stars, which helped keep the focus on the story rather than on famous faces. So, that’s how it all happened. It wasn’t planned – it was just the right moment, the right story, and the right people coming together. Shooting Shadow Country Watching Shadow Country felt like seeing the history of my own country, Iran, unfold. Your film captures how political shifts turn society upside down – how prisoners become rulers, and rulers become prisoners. It shows the vicious cycle where power changes hands, but in the end, humanity, morality, kindness, and forgiveness are shattered. This brings me to my question: Do you believe power – especially the power of a gun – determines morality? What, to you, was the most compelling or devastating part of this story, and what drew you to it? At its core, the film is really about human relationships – how we interact with each other in times of crisis. What happened in that village was a direct result of political regimes – first nationalism, then fascism, then communism – but the real problem was deeper than politics. It was about people losing their moral compass. When that happens, society is doomed to collapse. Throughout the film, we see characters who adapt and survive – opportunists who always find a way to stay on top. But then there are those rare individuals who stay true to themselves, like Maria, this fragile woman, and the little girl – two characters who remain pure-hearted despite the chaos around them. But they are alone. And that’s what’s really terrifying. For me, the film was an exercise in asking: How would we act in such a situation? When morality is tested, can we hold on to it, or do we just become part of the cycle? That question is what drove me to make Shadow Country. I wanted to put contemporary audiences in the shoes of those people and force them to think: What would I do? Would I be any different? It was tough for me to make this film because it deals with such dark aspects of human nature. I kept asking myself, why am I telling this story now? Who will care? At the time, things seemed relatively stable. Then the COVID-19 pandemic hit, and suddenly, society changed. People started thinking differently about community, about individualism, about survival. It reinforced why stories like this matter. We have to think about history. We have to ask ourselves what could happen in the future if we don’t protect democracy and moral values. Because history shows us what happens when we don’t. What you described about Iran is something I’ve seen in my own life as well. I grew up during communism, where lying was normal – one kind of speech at home, another in public. Censorship was everywhere. The true heroes of our country were either imprisoned or forced into exile. And after the revolution, I saw people who had once been part of the secret police suddenly become businessmen. They had access to information, so they knew exactly how to take advantage of the new system. It happens everywhere. People adapt, they change sides, and morality is often the first casualty. But I’m fortunate to be living in a time where, after that revolution, we gained real freedom. We became part of Europe, we feel safe. Sure, our political leaders aren’t perfect, but we have democracy, and that’s something. But for the people in Shadow Country, they didn’t have that luxury. They went from fascism straight into communism. That kind of constant upheaval destroys people – it breeds hatred and despair. Telling this story is a way to remind people of how fragile our freedoms are, how easily history can repeat itself if we’re not careful. It seems that Shadow Country is loosely inspired by something that actually happened in Czech history – after World War II, when Germans were persecuted and expelled by the authorities. But the film doesn’t just focus on that moment; it expands both the past and the future of the story, developing it into something much bigger. Did you know about the original events before working on the film, or was it something you discovered through the process? I knew that similar things had happened, but not in detail. Just think about it – there were about three million German-speaking inhabitants in Czechoslovakia at the time. So, of course, I was aware that terrible things took place, but I didn’t know the specifics. When I first read the script, I was really shocked by what it depicted. After that, I started researching the history in more depth, trying to understand the full context. One of the books I read was Bloody Summer 1945, which documents the events that took place across the country. It’s a fact-based book, full of stories like the one in Shadow Country. And you know what? The real-life event that inspired our film was barely mentioned – it was only half a page in that book. That tells you how much more happened, how widespread and brutal it was. What happened during that time was very close to genocide, as I see it. But most people in the Czech Republic don’t want to talk about it. Even today, many still believe that the revenge taken against the Germans was justified. That mindset still exists in our country, which makes telling this story even more important. Theo Angelopoulos’ The Travelling Players When I watched Shadow Country, it thematically reminded me of several films, even though it stands on its own structurally. One that came to mind was Theo Angelopoulos’ The Travelling Players, which explores Greece’s political shifts over 50 years through the eyes of a theatre troupe. Another was Au Bon Beurre, a French TV series about a family navigating the black market, constantly adapting to survive. Emir Kusturica’s Underground, Andrzej Wajda’s films, and Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon also echoed in my mind, along with classic Soviet, Polish, and Czech cinema. It felt like history itself became part of your film’s cinematic language. Did you have any direct inspirations for Shadow Country? Were there films you referenced or paid homage to, particularly in terms of the black-and-white cinematography and the way the story unfolds? We all share a cinematic language in one way or another. When I was young, around 20, I was deeply moved by Andrei Tarkovsky and Andrei Konchalovsky. Tarkovsky, in particular, opened my eyes to a new way of seeing cinema. The way he used long takes, how the camera itself creates an internal montage by shifting perspective within a single shot – those ideas left a lasting impact on me. But when it comes to Czech cinema, there is one film that truly inspired me: Distant Journey (Daleká cesta) by Alfréd Radok. It was made in 1947, right after the war, and it’s an absolutely stunning film about the Holocaust. Radok was a genius – not just in film, but also in theatre. His approach was so formally innovative that even today, it feels ahead of its time. The film is incredibly artistic, blending expressionism with raw emotion. But because Radok was Jewish and had made a film about the Holocaust, the Bolsheviks didn’t like him. They didn’t let him work much after that – he made only one more film, where Miloš Forman was his assistant. This idea – of ordinary people suddenly finding themselves in danger, just because of the world around them – is something I carried into Shadow Country. It’s also something you can see in The Firemen’s Ball by Forman, which also influenced me. Another Czech film that shaped my thinking was All My Good Countrymen by Vojtěch Jasný. It has that epic quality, following characters as they evolve over time, and that was something I wanted for Shadow Country. Of course, I knew from the beginning that we didn’t have the kind of budget needed to make an American-style historical drama, with large-scale reconstructions of the past. So, I had to find a different approach – one that allowed us to tell this story in a way that felt immersive and true to the emotions of the time. That’s why I chose to shoot in black and white. It wasn’t just about realism – I wanted the film to feel like a memory, a glimpse into a world that no longer exists. And even though I aimed for authenticity in the performances, I didn’t want the film to feel like pure realism. Instead, I leaned into a more subjective style, where the camera itself shifts perspectives, capturing moments in a way that makes them feel almost timeless. There were also moments of irony and absurdity, because history is full of them. I didn’t want people to simply watch Shadow Country as a heavy drama – I wanted them to experience the small, surreal moments that make up real life, even in times of horror. So yes, I was influenced by many films and filmmakers, but ultimately, I wanted to create something that stood on its own, something that would make people reflect on history – not just as something from the past, but as something that could happen again. I’d like to ask something more philosophical – your personal view on human nature and the possibility of peaceful coexistence. Do you think any society made up of different ethnic and cultural backgrounds is always at risk of falling into the kind of conflict depicted in Shadow Country? History suggests that political shifts can turn neighbours into enemies, as we’ve seen in the Balkans, India, Russia, and elsewhere. The idea of community, of “loving thy neighbour,” often seems fragile in the face of upheaval. It seems like people, no matter where they are, carry past grievances and are just waiting for the right moment to settle old scores. Do you believe there’s something fundamentally flawed in human nature, or do you think multiculturalism and peaceful coexistence are possible? Films like yours, and real historical events, often suggest we can’t be too optimistic. Do you see this as a vicious cycle, or is there hope for breaking it? I want to be optimistic. I really do. I’ve always believed that people can change – that societies evolve when they live in peace, when they have access to education, when they experience democracy. But the truth is, this doesn’t apply to everyone. Only people with a strong moral foundation can truly withstand difficult situations and stay on the right path. And the reality is, not everyone has that. That’s why we can’t simply judge those who fail in times of crisis – because if history has taught us anything, it’s that when these moments come, most people don’t stand up to protect others. I honestly fear that if something like Shadow Country were to happen today, even in my own village, many people would react in the same way. They would stay silent, just watching from a distance, telling themselves it’s none of their business. I can imagine it now – someone standing 50 metres away, saying, Oh, they’re killing Bohdan and his family. All of them? Oh, only one son is left. Okay, now they’ve killed him too. And they would move on. That’s the terrifying part. It’s exactly as you said – what happened in the Balkans, what happened just days ago in Armenia, what’s happening in Africa, and even in the United States, though in a different way. A friend of mine lives in Los Angeles in a wealthy neighbourhood, and during the recent crises, so many homeless people started living in the area. Suddenly, those privileged people began to feel afraid – because when desperation reaches a certain point, it leads to anger, and that anger eventually explodes. It’s everywhere. It’s not a problem of one region or one culture – it’s human nature. Maybe the only way to truly understand ourselves is to look at nature. Lately, I’ve been interested in ornithology – studying birds – and it’s fascinating how their behaviours mirror ours. They follow the same survival instincts, the same territorial conflicts. We’re not so different from them. But the one thing that could set us apart is our ability to rise above pure survival. To evolve in a mental and spiritual way. That’s the real challenge – to keep striving toward something higher, instead of just functioning as self-serving animals. That’s why I admire idealists – people who dedicate their lives to a vision of humanity that goes beyond greed, revenge, and survival. People who take responsibility not just for themselves, but for their communities, for nature, for the world, for the future. So yes, I do have hope. Because even if the number of these people increases just a little bit, it makes a difference. It may not change everything overnight, but it pushes humanity forward. That’s why I respect those who live by strong moral principles – because they’re the ones who give me hope that change is possible. Shooting Shadow Country One of the most striking things about the film is how fluidly it tells a story that spans over a decade. It feels relentless, as if the characters have no time to stop and reflect – they are simply carried by events, unable to control their own fates. It’s like a train rushing from one station to the next, and the people in the village are just passengers, barely able to grasp what’s happening to them. How much did you change from the original screenplay before shooting? And how much was altered in the editing process? About a year before shooting, we started reworking the script together with the screenwriter. Once we had chosen the location and figured out how to build the village – its shops, the house where the wealthy family lives – we completely restructured the way the story was told. Originally, the script had scenes set in different locations, with characters talking in various places. But I wanted the entire village to feel like a single, enclosed space – where everything happens in full view of everyone else. That decision forced me to change the style of storytelling. Maybe that’s what gives you the feeling of the film being like a train – always moving forward, never stopping. But that was intentional. I didn’t want to focus on just one special character; I wanted to show how events affected all the people in the village, how their roles changed as the situation evolved. One person holds power in one moment, then suddenly, everything shifts, and someone else is in control. There were originally many scenes set outside the village, but I knew two things: first, we wouldn’t have the budget to shoot in multiple locations, and second, I didn’t want to. I wanted everything to stay within the village, to create this claustrophobic feeling – that there’s no escape. I can’t say in exact percentages how much the script changed, but every scene was altered in some way – even during shooting. We were constantly working on the script, trying to find the most cinematic way to express each moment. It was a very open process. By the time we finished shooting, I was exhausted. I handed all the material to my editor, who has worked with me on all my films. I trust him completely – he knows my vision, he understands my instincts, so I didn’t even have to sit with him in the editing room all the time. At first, he cut the film down a lot, but in the end, we almost used all of the material we shot. We didn’t have much excess footage because we were only shooting one or two takes per scene. That meant we had to work with what we had – finding the right emotional tone within the material itself. So, most of the real changes happened in the scripting phase. By the time we got to editing, the structure of the film was already there. It wasn’t about making major changes – it was about refining the rhythm, letting the emotions speak through the scenes we had. You mentioned that there were originally scenes outside the village that were removed from the script. What kind of scenes were they? Did they focus on the development of other characters, or did they involve the camps? I’m curious to know more about what was happening outside the village in the original version of the story. When I first read the script, all the men from the village were originally working on the railway. That made sense because, in that region, the railway was strategically important. One key scene in the original script involved the young man who, in the film, rapes the woman. Initially, his story was different – he was working on the railway, and he stole something. A superior caught him, they fought, and as a result, he was sent to jail. But I knew from the beginning that we wouldn’t have the budget to shoot scenes on the railway. So, I told the screenwriter, Hey, we need to find another way to tell this story. At the same time, I also felt that the script was missing something – it had no real exploration of sexuality. And I believed that element needed to be there. That’s when I started developing the idea that this young man is jealous of his father’s relationship with a woman in the village. He sees his father having sex with her, and this jealousy turns into violence – he rapes her. That’s how he ends up in prison, instead of the railway story. But this wasn’t just an invented subplot – it was actually inspired by real history. The character in our film was loosely based on a real person who, after the war, became a prison guard in a women’s prison in Prague. He was known for raping female prisoners – including an actress who had been jailed for collaborating with the Germans. So, I knew this character had to have something dark in his past that connected to his later actions. That’s how his storyline evolved. I was lucky to work with a screenwriter who was open to changes. Some writers are very rigid – once they’ve written a script, they don’t want to change anything. But our collaboration lasted throughout the entire process, all the way to post-production. He’s also a musician, so we worked together on the dubbing and sound design, adjusting lines where needed to fit the final version of the film. It was a continuous process of refinement, right up to the very end. Shadow Country feels distinct from your earlier films in its scale and complexity. Did you change your approach in any significant way? Was there a difference in how you worked with your actors, your cinematographer, or the overall directing process? Or did you stick to the methods you’ve always used? I worked with the same Director of Photography (DOP) as in my previous films, and we have a very strong creative connection. If you look at The Country Teacher, for example, it also uses long takes. That’s a style I’ve worked with before, but I used it even more in Shadow Country. One major difference in production was that we had a crane available throughout the entire shoot. That was a key decision – we always had the option of either using a handheld camera or putting the camera on a crane. The combination of those two approaches became the visual language of the film. Without the crane, we wouldn’t have been able to achieve certain movements and perspectives that were crucial to the storytelling. At the same time, I didn’t want overly mechanical movements, like those you get with a Steadicam rig where the operator is wearing the equipment. We worked with a Steadicam on Ice Mother, but for Shadow Country, I wanted something different – something more fluid, yet still grounded in the emotions of the characters. Each film demands its own unique style. At the start of every project, you’re at point zero, facing countless choices about how to shoot a scene. The challenge is to find the one that feels most natural – one that speaks to your cinematic instincts. Not all of these decisions are purely rational. Some are intuitive. I try to stay open to intuition because filmmaking isn’t just about technical choices – it’s about feeling what works in the moment. That’s something that hasn’t changed in my process, even as the scale of my films has evolved. Regarding working with actors, we started casting about a year before filming. It was a long process, testing different actors for different roles, finding the right balance of personalities. Because in the end, no matter the setting – whether it’s historical or contemporary – what really matters is the humanity within the story. Shooting Shadow Country You mentioned that you started casting about a year before filming. Could you tell us more about that process? Yes, during that time, I wasn’t just thinking about casting – I was also deeply considering how to stage certain scenes, especially the executions. I spent a lot of time looking at historical photographs, and what struck me was that in almost every image, you see two types of people: those who are actively killing, and those who are standing at a distance, just watching. That observation had a profound impact on me. I kept thinking – what does it feel like to be in that moment? To be the one being killed? Or to be the neighbour standing just 50 metres away, watching as if it were some kind of spectacle? That idea shaped how I worked with the actors. So, throughout rehearsals, I wasn’t just focused on performances – I was trying to make the actors understand these pretext moments, these subtle dynamics between the perpetrators, the victims, and the silent observers. I wanted them to feel the weight of those roles, to imagine what it’s like when humanity is stripped away and violence becomes just another event to witness. Maybe I didn’t answer your question perfectly, but that was a key part of my process – guiding the actors to not just act the scenes, but to really live inside them, to understand the emotions and perspectives of everyone involved, even the ones just watching from the sidelines. You mentioned that you changed the actors’ roles during the process. How did that come about, and what exactly did you do? Could you share more details about how that decision unfolded? Yeah, so there was this one character – a strange, poor man who is kind of invisible to others, living on the fringes of society. Then, as the story progresses, he rises to power. Originally, I had cast an actor for a completely different role – the communist character – but during rehearsals, I realised that he was actually much better suited for this other part. So, I switched them. Rehearsals played a big role in shaping the film. We didn’t just work on performances – we also adjusted the script. Sometimes, things look great on paper, but when the actors start speaking the lines, you realise that some scenes feel too forced or too literal. So, we kept refining the dialogue, making it feel more natural, more in tune with how real people would speak. We also focused on the emotional dynamics within the scenes, ensuring that everything flowed organically. It was a very collaborative process – working with the cast, adjusting the script, and fine-tuning the way characters interacted. So, that’s how we got to this final version of the film – it was shaped through constant exploration and adaptation. When working with actors, it seems like you encourage a lot of improvisation. Am I right in saying that you don’t strictly follow the script? It feels like you give your actors a lot of freedom in their performances. Is this something you did specifically for Shadow Country, or is this your general approach to directing? I’ve always worked with actors as real partners. I’m not the kind of director who dictates everything and expects them to follow the script word for word. I prefer to create an open space where things can happen naturally. In every scene, I allow room for improvisation – not just in dialogue, but in movement, gestures, and emotional responses. Sometimes, I even provoke the actors to push them into discovering something unexpected. The truth is, I don’t always know exactly what I’m looking for at the beginning of a scene. What I am looking for is a moment where the actors stop acting and start living inside the situation – where the performance becomes real, where you can feel something happening beyond the lines on the page. That’s the difference between industry and art. In the industry, everything is pre-planned, every action controlled. But in art, improvisation is what brings real depth and truth to a scene. Take Maria, for example. She was the key to the film. The challenge was finding the exact way she would evolve – how she would win the audience’s sympathy by the end. In her first confrontation, she is hysterical, afraid, crying – completely overwhelmed by what is happening around her. But when the same situation happens again later in the film, she doesn’t break. She rises. She refuses to lower herself to the level of the men around her. She remains calm, composed, and ultimately stronger than them. I knew from the beginning that I wanted her to reach this point, but the journey to getting there was something we developed throughout the filming process. By the end, she leaves the village as the victor, while the others – the ones who thought they had power – are exposed as the real losers. This is why I work the way I do. Because sometimes, the truth of a character isn’t something you plan – it’s something you discover together, in the moment, through the process of making the film. I read that for Shadow Country, you didn’t use live sound during filming. Instead, you opted for dubbing and post-production sound design. When did you decide to take this approach? Was it something that came up later in production, or was it a choice you made from the very beginning? We made that decision right from the very beginning – at the same time we chose to shoot in black and white and use traditional film stock. I told my colleagues, We won’t record live sound on set. Otherwise, we won’t be able to shoot the film properly. With a historical drama like this, especially with so many people in certain scenes, it would have been impossible to control the sound. There were constant interruptions – planes flying overhead, modern noises that didn’t belong in the time period. If we insisted on recording live sound, we would’ve lost the freedom to shoot the way we wanted. But beyond the technical reasons, it was also an artistic choice. I’ve always loved Federico Fellini’s films, and all of them were dubbed. He preferred it that way because it gave him more creative freedom – he could focus entirely on the performances, movement, emotions, and visual storytelling without being restricted by capturing perfect sound in the moment. When you have large-scale scenes with many actors, you can’t control every nuance of their intonation while also managing the overall rhythm of the scene. So, from the start, we committed to dubbing, and that decision helped establish the film’s unique style. It allowed us to work more freely, shaping the final sound in a way that added to the atmosphere and emotional depth of the film. After the success of Son of Saul, I’ve noticed a resurgence of Holocaust and World War II films from Central and Eastern Europe. Last year, I saw The Painted Bird by your Czech colleague, which made me wonder: Do you think films about these historical subjects are more likely to gain festival recognition? Are filmmakers drawn to these stories because they resonate universally, or is it also a way to increase visibility? Son of Saul showed me there are still new ways to tell these stories, but The Painted Bird felt different – it seemed to focus on brutality rather than human depth. Visually, it was impressive, but emotionally, it felt empty. In contrast, Shadow Country restored my hope, proving these stories can still be told powerfully and meaningfully. Do you think some filmmakers are drawn to historical settings like the Holocaust or World War II primarily for funding, festival attention, or critical recognition – or is it purely about personal vision? I don’t think about it that way at all. I’ve seen many films about World War II, and honestly, a lot of them are really boring. Just because a film is set in that time period doesn’t automatically make it meaningful. What matters is the script – its intention, its message. Does it have something real to say, or not? I actually share your opinion on The Painted Bird. It didn’t work for me either. The characters felt like symbols rather than real people, and I couldn’t understand why everyone in the film was portrayed as so grotesque. Now, I know Václav Marhoul, the director, and for him, this is his truth – this is how he sees the world. He was deeply fascinated by the book and wanted to bring it to life exactly as he envisioned it. So, I don’t think his motivation was manipulative – I don’t believe he made a World War II film just to push it toward the Oscars or film festivals. That’s not how it works. For me, making Shadow Country wasn’t part of some grand plan – I didn’t seek out this story. It came to me as an opportunity, and I took it because I felt I could tell it in a meaningful way. The truth is, in Europe, the experience of World War II still deeply influences people’s mentality. It wasn’t just a war – it was a complete breakdown of humanity, a corruption of the entire cultural system. Fascists used science to justify killing, while communists erased individual humanity in pursuit of ideology. It was an absolutely insane time. Because of that, this period continues to resurface in European cinema. It’s not necessarily because filmmakers want recognition – it’s because the trauma of that time is still part of our collective consciousness. It shaped modern Europe. I think the same will be true for Iran one day. When you gain more freedom to openly explore your society’s past, there will likely be a wave of films confronting the dark moments of history – just like what happened in Eastern Europe after the fall of communism. It’s a natural process. But for me, filmmaking isn’t about choosing a historical period for strategic reasons. Whether a film is set in the 10th century, during World War II, or in contemporary times, the real question is always the same: Does it tell a compelling human story? For me it doesn’t really matter whether a film is historical or contemporary. What matters is that it captures emotion, develops a meaningful story, and reflects reality through the director’s vision. So, I don’t think there’s a simple answer to your question. Some filmmakers might be drawn to historical subjects because they resonate universally, but ultimately, every film must stand on its own – regardless of its time period. Shooting Shadow Country How was Shadow Country received by Czech audiences? The reason I ask is that in many countries, including my own, when a filmmaker tells a dark story about their nation’s past, they often face criticism. People start questioning, why are you showing us in such a negative light? Why focus on the dark side of our history instead of highlighting our humanity? I’ll tell you – it’s hard to say, because Shadow Country was released at a difficult time. Just as it premiered, a new wave of COVID hit, and cinemas had to close after only a week or two. So, not many people had the chance to see it in theatres. I don’t know if, once cinemas reopened, people felt the urge to go back and watch it. Maybe for many, it’s already finished in that sense. But I’m sure, over time, more people will see it – on television or streaming platforms. I have to be patient. One of my best experiences was a screening in a small town near Vyškov. The audience wasn’t made up of festival-goers or cinephiles – just ordinary people from the area. And they understood the film. It really resonated with them. They felt it deeply, they thought about it, and they had real emotional reactions. That, to me, is what matters. So maybe the film wasn’t a big success in cinemas, but I believe it will have a longer life. I always judge my films over years, not just by their initial release. For example, Something Like Happiness – it still airs on TV sometimes, and even today, people watch it for the first time and tell me they were moved. That’s what I care about. I don’t try to control how people react. I just know that some have been deeply touched by Shadow Country, and the rest, I’ll see in time. What drives you to make a film? Is it a deep concern about certain themes that pushes you, or do specific stories simply capture your attention? Looking back from where I am now, I can see that each film reflects a different stage of life. As we grow older, our interests shift – we become drawn to different situations, different emotions, different meanings. All of my films have been personally connected to me in some way. Each one has transformed something from my own life experience, or from the experiences of people close to me – friends, family. It’s never just one thing. There’s always a mix of real-life moments and imagination. And the truth is, I don’t always have full control over where my stories come from. Some things are deeply intuitive, especially during the writing process. Sometimes, I don’t even know exactly where a character comes from – I just feel that they exist, and I recognise parts of them from my own life, even if I can’t rationally explain it. So yes, my perception of filmmaking has evolved over time, but at its core, it remains something deeply personal. It’s a way of making sense of the world – of transforming emotions, memories, and experiences into something that can speak to others. How did it all start for you? What inspired you to become a filmmaker? At first, I actually wanted to be a musician. When I was young, I played guitar and dreamed of becoming a rock star. But, to be honest, I wasn’t very successful at it. Around that time, I started watching really great films in small clubs. Even though the system didn’t officially allow it, we somehow managed to see movies by Tarkovsky, Fellini, and some of the Czech New Wave films from the ‘60s. I remember watching The Black Peter – it fascinated me. Tarkovsky fascinated me. Fellini’s La Strada moved me deeply. Bergman’s The Silence had a huge impact on me. These weren’t just films; they had something deeper inside them, something powerful. That’s when I started thinking, Wow, cinema – this is something special! A friend of mine in my hometown had an 8mm camera, so we started making little experimental films. It was an amazing process – we shot our footage, developed the film ourselves in a darkroom, and then projected it. Seeing our own images come to life on screen was magical. That fascination never left me. At first, I studied civil engineering – it was kind of like a safe, practical path, the way someone might study dentistry for security. But my passion for cinema never faded. Eventually, I applied to film school. It wasn’t easy to get in, but I was accepted on my first attempt. Once I started studying, I met the people I still work with today. That’s when I knew – this was the path I was meant to take. And since then, I’ve never looked back. When I first saw Shadow Country, I thought it was one of your most ambitious films to date. It felt like a turning point in your career – because of its universality, its historical depth, and its accessibility to international audiences. But for some reason, it didn’t seem to get the global release I was expecting. I’m not sure what went wrong. Could you tell me what happened to Shadow Country after the festival circuit? I know COVID disrupted a lot of things – did that make it harder to secure an international release? Or was it more about not finding the right distribution partner? You know, I’m really not an expert in the business side of things. I’m not a producer – I focus on directing and scriptwriting, so I don’t track everything that happens with distribution. As far as I know, the producers were trying to find a strong international sales company – because in this industry, you need a powerful distributor. They need to be able to sell the film globally, often as part of a package with other films. Unfortunately, we didn’t manage to find the right partner for that. And yes, COVID made everything harder – especially in terms of communication and securing deals. But in the end, I don’t know how much of an impact it really had. Maybe COVID played a role, but maybe the film just didn’t find the right distributor at the right time. To be honest, I don’t have all the answers. I just know that, unfortunately, it didn’t get the international exposure we had hoped for. I think every director wants their film to reach as many people as possible. But at the same time, I’ve learned to accept things as they are. What I truly believe is that if a movie has a strong idea – if it carries something meaningful – then, slowly but surely, it will find its way to an audience. Maybe not through traditional theatrical releases, but through other means. I’m happy that Shadow Country exists. It’s out there. It’s on VOD platforms and has a life beyond cinemas. And I still have hope that it will continue to find viewers. While you’ve been working on Vojtěch for years, you also developed Dry Season in the meantime. It seems to deal with a very contemporary issue – the destruction of nature and the clash between preservation and exploitation. This struggle between sustainability and human expansion, especially when economic interests are involved, is something many countries are facing. What led you to write this story? I started writing the script in 2020, right after finishing Shadow Country. That year was incredibly dry – we had almost no water. The drought was severe. And this was during the COVID lockdowns, so my thoughts went even deeper – not just about climate issues, but about our connection to nature as human beings. How fragile it is, how dependent we are on it. From those thoughts, the story began to form – centred on this conflict between a big farmer and a small farmer, and the relationships between their children. But I wouldn’t say the film is directly about capitalism versus environmentalism. In the Czech Republic, the biggest environmental damage to the countryside didn’t actually come from capitalism – it came from socialism. During the socialist era, the government tried to turn agriculture into an industry. They eliminated small, family-owned farms – farms that had been passed down for generations, where people had a deep, natural connection to the land. Instead, they introduced massive, industrialised farming, which quickly degraded the quality of the soil. So, Dry Season isn’t just about economic systems – it’s about the long-term consequences of how we treat the land. What’s interesting about the film is how it portrays the main character – the small farmer who chooses complete isolation, rejecting modern society and its destructive practices. Yet, the film doesn’t present him as a hero. It also shows his limitations: his stubbornness and the cost of his isolation, which ultimately sacrifices his family. The film doesn’t fully side with him – it seems to question whether such a complete rejection of society is sustainable or even desirable. Exactly. The film isn’t about saying, this character is right and this character is wrong. It’s more complex than that. Yes, the small farmer is suffering – his land is being poisoned by chemicals, the water is polluted, the air is contaminated. But in his attempt to resist it all, he isolates himself to the extreme. And that comes with consequences – not just for him, but for his wife and children. His isolation, his refusal to engage with the rest of society, ultimately harms them. That’s one of the key questions of the film: Is it even possible to live completely apart from society? Especially for children – they need social connection, they need to be around other kids, to learn from the world. The father, in trying to escape, unintentionally makes life harder for them. But in the end, the biggest realisation is this: We are all part of nature, and we are all part of society. There’s no escaping that. The small farmer tries to create his own perfect ecological world, but he can’t – because the world outside still affects him. The water is polluted, the soil is poisoned, the air is contaminated. So, the film isn’t just about environmentalism – it’s about something bigger. It’s about understanding that we can’t isolate ourselves from the world. Whether we like it or not, we are all connected, and the only way forward is to find a way to live together. There’s another element in the film that really stood out to me – the generational conflict. So, it’s not just a conflict between two opposing ways of life – it’s internal as well. Each generation is fighting against the one before it. As a filmmaker, it seems like you’re suggesting that society cannot function unless people – despite their differences – find a way to come together. Otherwise, everything becomes unstable. Yes, absolutely. That’s exactly the point. No matter how different their perspectives are, these people have to find a way to cooperate. Because at the end of the day, they are all living on the same small piece of land. It’s not just about individual beliefs – it’s about how those beliefs impact the community and the land itself. The relationships between people are directly connected to their relationship with nature. If they can’t work together, everything – both society and the land – falls apart. After Dry Season, you returned to another historical story, collaborating again with Ivan Arsenyev. This time, the film is set around the period of the Russian invasion – a defining moment when democracy in Czechoslovakia was suppressed, leading to decades of Soviet control. Yes, well – this was actually a project that had been in development for about six years, originally with another director. Ivan Arsenyev, had been working on it for a long time. But due to some misunderstandings between the original director, the producer, and the production team, they ended up asking me to step in about six months before shooting. When I read the script, I really liked it. It felt deeply personal, especially in the relationship between the young boy and his grandfather. And that really resonated with me. You see, I now have four grandchildren of my own, so I understood that relationship in a way I might not have before. That emotional connection really pulled me into the project. From the very beginning, my main concern was finding the right young actor for the role. I told the producers, If we don’t find a truly exceptional boy to play this part, there’s no point in making the film. Luckily, we found him – and I think we were very fortunate. That made all the difference. For me, the heart of the story was always this relationship – between the grandfather and grandson, and the family dynamics around them. In contrast to Shadow Country, which was emotionally very difficult for me – because it was filled with characters who lacked empathy, where there was no humanity – this film had a warmth to it. The grandfather’s character, in particular, brought so much humour, wisdom, and kindness into the story. That made it special for me. I know this film is more intimate and fragile compared to Shadow Country, but I love working with those small, delicate moments. Because in the end, those quiet, fragile human connections are what truly matter. That’s what drew me to this film. But what really stood out to me is that you chose to direct a film about one of the most pivotal and divisive moments in Czech history. Some would argue that everything changed after the Soviet occupation – that if it hadn’t happened, the entire course of life in Czechoslovakia would have been completely different. Did you feel the weight of that history while making the film? Yes, absolutely. And in a way, I also felt that the film had a very contemporary relevance. Right now, in our country, there are hundreds of thousands of Ukrainian refugees – especially women with young children – who have been displaced by war. While making the film, I kept thinking about that – about the sensitivity needed to truly understand what happens to people when war disrupts their lives. We often see heroic war stories – about soldiers fighting, about resistance. But we don’t always focus on the people around them. The ones who aren’t fighting, but whose lives are still being completely upended. That’s what this film was about for me – a reminder of how profoundly historical events shape the lives of ordinary people, especially children. It’s not just a story from the past. It’s something that is still happening in the world today. One of the interesting choices in the film is that instead of focusing on the brutality of the Soviet occupation, you chose to tell the story through the eyes of a child. Rather than showing the violence in the cities, the direct impact of the invasion, or the political chaos, you positioned the audience alongside the boy in the countryside. That creates a certain distance – we experience events as he does, without fully seeing everything that is happening. If you had taken a different approach – showing the direct clashes, protests, and repression – it would have been a very different type of film, more centred on historical action. Was this perspective always part of the screenplay? Yes, from the very beginning, the screenplay was deeply personal to the screenwriter. It’s his story – more or less autobiographical. He was a young boy when the Soviet occupation happened, and at that time, he was alone with his grandfather. Of course, some elements in the film are fictionalised – he actually had two grandfathers, and for the script, he combined them into one character. One of his grandfathers was a painter – that part is in the movie, including the scene where he argues with the women in the shop. But his other grandfather had a completely different background. He had originally come from Russia, from an aristocratic family. He had escaped the Bolsheviks because they had destroyed his family. And yet, in 1968, when the Soviets invaded, the people in his village turned against him. They saw him as Russian, even though he had fled because of the Bolsheviks. The hostility toward him grew, and during the occupation, he died. So, these two deeply personal family stories were merged into one for the film. Because of that, I approached the project with a different mindset than usual. My role as a director wasn’t to impose my own vision – it was to honour his memory. I wanted to understand his intentions as fully as possible and bring them to life the way he saw them. That’s why he was present throughout the entire production – we discussed every detail. I accepted that my role in this project was to serve his vision and help make his story live on through film. Now I completely understand your approach to this film. Interestingly, I noticed a deeper layer in the story – something that connects it with Shadow Country. Both films take place in villages, in small communities where people seem friendly at first. But then, when a crisis comes, everything changes. In Shadow Country, the shift is extreme – it becomes very dark. Neighbours turn on each other in the worst ways, and what was once a peaceful community descends into brutality. With The End of the World, I see a similar theme – but in a different tone. The grandfather is a kind man, but once the occupation happens, some people in the village start to turn against him. Would you say these films share a deeper connection? Yes, for me, it always comes down to the diversity of human nature. I’m fascinated by characters that feel real – people I can understand, but who still push me to think more deeply about who they are and why they act the way they do. In The End of the World, the village is divided. Some people have no morality at all, while others still hold onto their sense of right and wrong. That’s very different from Shadow Country, where almost everyone loses their morality in the face of war and political shifts. But the key difference with The End of the World is that everything is told through the eyes of a child. That perspective changes the way the story unfolds. We see the village, the neighbours, and even the grandfather’s struggles through the mind of this little boy. So, while the themes may be similar, the approach is completely different. One is about brutality from an adult perspective (Shadow Country), while the other filters history through the innocence of a child (The End of the World). Once again, your film might remind cinephiles of other important works like The Tin Drum by Volker Schlöndorff, Burnt by the Sun by Nikita Mikhalkov, and When Father Was Away on Business by Emir Kusturica – all of which tell stories of turbulent times through the eyes of a child. The final scene of your film also evokes the ending of Kusturica’s Underground. Did you have these films in mind as references or homages while making your movie? I know these films very well, and I like them very much. The Tin Drum – of course, it’s an iconic story. It’s such a strong example of using a child’s perspective to explore history in a unique way. And Burnt by the Sun – yes, I love that film. The relationship between the grandfather (played by Mikhalkov) and the child is beautiful. I remember it clearly – it was actually his daughter, not his grandchild, but still, it carried that same deep emotional connection. So, while I wasn’t consciously referencing these films, I think there is something universal in this kind of storytelling. Whenever you tell a historical story through the eyes of a child, it creates a very particular atmosphere – there’s a distance from the brutality of events, but at the same time, it can make those events feel even more powerful because we are experiencing them in such an innocent, unfiltered way. I wouldn’t say I was directly inspired by these films, but I definitely admire them, and I can see how they share some thematic connections with The End of the World. But in this case, that final scene was already written in the script. It wasn’t something I added – it was the vision of the screenwriter. My role as a director was to honour that vision and bring it to life as he intended. Of course, when you direct a scene like that, your own experiences and cinematic memories naturally come into play. Maybe there is some unconscious connection to Underground or other films with similar dreamlike endings. But I wasn’t thinking directly about paying homage to anything. I was simply following the intention of the story – to create a moment of nostalgia, of memory, of something that once was. Something quite unexpected happens structurally in the film. For more than two-thirds of the story, we stay with the boy and his grandfather in the countryside. Then, suddenly, in the last 10–16 minutes, we jump forward in time – the boy is now grown up. Was this time jump always in the script? Or was it originally a longer section that was later reduced? The time jump was always written in the script. When I first read it, I had concerns. I even asked the screenwriter, do you think audiences will accept this jump? Will they understand what happened? But he was absolutely sure about it. He believed in it completely. So, I had to trust his vision. Personally, I think these kinds of jumps are very difficult in cinema. In literature, it works differently – on the page, readers accept that years can pass between paragraphs. But in film, it’s much harder to emotionally carry the audience through such a transition. We did our absolute best to make it work. We carefully cast two actors for the boy – one for his childhood, one for his adult years – who looked very similar. They were almost like brothers. But still, I know that for some viewers, this kind of shift can be jarring. Just as they are deeply connected to the fragility of the young boy’s perspective, the story suddenly pulls them out of it. That being said, I understood why the screenwriter felt so strongly about it. For him, this moment in the story – the grown-up boy visiting his grandfather in a psychiatric clinic – was deeply personal. He wanted to capture the feeling of having a hero in your childhood, someone wise and powerful, only to suddenly find them old, weak, and confused – lost in a world that no longer makes sense to them. It was something he lived through. And I respected that. I knew that, structurally, it might not be the most successful decision for the audience, but I accepted it – because it was his truth. And as a director, my job was to honour that. It’s very interesting that as a director, you didn’t push too hard to change these aspects. You seem very flexible, cooperative, and understanding. Many directors would have insisted on certain changes to make the structure work more fluidly, especially with such a major time jump. Yes, but you have to understand – this story was deeply personal for the screenwriter. That’s why I didn’t fight too much. With Shadow Country, it was different. That story wasn’t based on one person’s memory – it was about historical events, about something that happened but wasn’t well-documented. So there, I had much more freedom. I was involved in writing the script, developing the story, and I fought for certain scenes to be done in a way that made sense cinematically. But here, with The End of the World, it was his story – his personal memory. So, I had to respect that. I had to accept that this was how he wanted to tell it. I understand, but even with that in mind, didn’t you ever feel that the jump needed more context? I don’t mean removing the time jump – I understand why it’s there. But perhaps adding more scenes to help transition the audience? I see what you mean. If I had been involved in developing the script from the start, I would have suggested telling the story differently – keeping the focus on the Russian grandfather and how people turned against him during the occupation. That part of the story had very dramatic potential. Imagine – this man who escaped the Bolsheviks, who lost everything in Russia, and then, decades later, people in his own village start attacking him just because he’s Russian. That moment – when people suddenly start yelling at him, “You’re a Russian! You’re one of them!” – would have been a very powerful scene. Originally, the real-life grandfather died of a heart attack during that time. That could have been a tragic but meaningful ending – showing how historical events directly affected one person’s life. But I wasn’t involved from the beginning. I was brought in as the director after the script was already finished, and the producers asked me to shoot the film as written. So, I had to accept it, even though I knew the ending would be problematic for some viewers. I did my best to bring as much emotional truth as possible to the final scenes. But ultimately, my job was to honour the writer’s experience and memory, rather than reshape it into something else. Something I’ve noticed across your films – whether historical or contemporary – is that they’re almost always set outside the city. Your characters seem to find a reason to be in the countryside, away from urban life. Since you yourself live in a small town rather than Prague, does that influence your filmmaking? Do you simply prefer stories set in nature, or is there something deeper behind your avoidance of the city? I live in a village, and that absolutely influences my films. But it’s not just about personal preference – it’s also about drama. For a filmmaker, the countryside is a great setting because it traps characters in a single place. They can’t escape easily. They have to interact with one another, they have to face their problems. In a city, people are more anonymous. They can avoid each other, they can disappear into crowds, and that makes it harder to create certain kinds of emotional tension. Butو in a village, you see the same people every day. If you have a conflict with your neighbour, you can’t just walk away – you’re stuck dealing with it. That creates a very intense kind of drama that I love working with. And besides – so many filmmakers focus on cities. Why shouldn’t I explore life in the countryside? Why not tell those stories instead? What I find interesting is that setting your films outside the city doesn’t just trap characters together – it also creates opportunities for big group scenes. Almost all your films have these moments where everyone in the community gathers for something – whether it’s a party, a celebration, or even a fight. In a city, if you want to film a scene with a lot of people, you have to shut down streets, control traffic, and completely rearrange reality. Or you’re stuck filming inside cramped apartments. But in the countryside, you have space. You have light, you have nature. And people naturally come together. I love Western movies, and I think there’s something similar in the way I approach filmmaking. In Westerns, the land itself is a character – it shapes the people, it influences their choices, and it creates a visual grandeur that you can’t get in a city. I love the idea of people standing in open landscapes, where you can feel the weight of their world around them. And yes, these group moments – where the whole community gathers – are important to me. Because that’s real life in a small town. People don’t live isolated from each other the way they do in cities. If something happens – everyone knows. And when emotions run high, they don’t happen in private. They spill out into the open, in front of everyone. That’s why I always include those moments in my films. Because they’re true to the kind of world I come from. I know you’re still working on Vojtěch, but do you currently have any other projects in development? We’re preparing a new film right now. It’s about two older women who form a deep friendship – maybe even something more than friendship. It’s really about finding freedom, about discovering what it means to truly express yourself, even later in life. That sounds a little like Ice Mother – could one of the characters be similar to the protagonist from that film? Yes, in some ways, but it’s a different story with very different characters. That said, the film will have a connection to Ice Mother – one of the lead actresses from Ice Mother will be playing one of the main roles here. But this time, the story has another element – one of these women has Alzheimer’s. She’s slowly losing her memory, and her friend is trying to help her navigate this difficult reality. So, it’s a film about friendship, about deep emotional connection – and about what it means to hold on to your sense of self when the mind begins to slip away. It’s a very subtle story, but also very powerful. If everything goes well, we’ll be shooting this summer. We’re already in preparation mode, getting everything ready. Your female characters are always more compassionate, more understanding, and more willing to sacrifice themselves compared to your male characters. Your male characters tend to be stubborn, always looking for conflict, while the women in your films are the ones trying to calm situations, understand others, and bring some kind of balance. Well… isn’t that true in real life as well? Aren’t men generally more aggressive, more destructive toward each other? And aren’t women often the ones holding things together? I like strong female characters. I think I’ve learned over time to accept and appreciate the power of women. So, it’s not something I do deliberately to make a statement – it’s just something that feels true to me. I like writing women who take responsibility for the world around them. Maybe it’s just because of my own life experience, but I’ve always been drawn to women who care about the people around them. That’s why they always feel stronger in my films. Because, to me, they are. Maybe that’s a question for a psychologist! I don’t know – it’s just something that comes naturally to me. My wife is stronger than I am, and I’ve learned a lot from her. Maybe that’s why I tend to see men in a more comic or flawed way. If Anicha Hovan were sitting here with us, she might simply say, It is because the time of women is coming. And maybe she’s right. But I don’t think of it as an ideological statement – I just genuinely enjoy writing strong female characters. Honestly, I would love to one day make a film with a truly strong and admirable male protagonist, but for some reason, I haven’t been able to. Even the script I’m working on now follows the same pattern – the women feel stronger and more developed than the men. I don’t know why – it’s just the way my stories evolve. Even in Vojtěch, does the same pattern exist? Do the male characters still feel more flawed or troubled compared to the women? Vojtěch is different. It’s almost entirely a man’s story. There are hardly any female characters – only his mother and a few others, but they aren’t central to the plot. That’s partly because the story takes place in the 10th century, in a world dominated by men. I honestly don’t know what women were doing in society at that time, or at least, history doesn’t focus on them in the same way. But I’ll tell you this – one day, I would love to write a film with great, admirable male characters and terrible, flawed female characters. But somehow, it just hasn’t happened yet! As I mentioned earlier, although many of your films are available with English subtitles and you’ve participated in numerous international festivals – Ice Mother at Tribeca, and Four Suns, Something Like Happiness, and The Country Teacher all had strong festival runs – Czech films still don’t often appear at the London Film Festival, and their international releases remain quite limited. In recent years, the most notable Czech films abroad – for me personally – have been Křižáček (Little Crusader, Václav Kadrnka, 2017) and Nabarvené ptáče (The Painted Bird, Václav Marhoul, 2019). Could you tell us a bit about the new generation of Czech cinema? What is happening right now? Well, I would say that Czech audiences, in general, prefer cheap jokes, ugly comedies, and stupid stories about stupid people. That’s what sells in cinemas. Maybe it’s the same everywhere, I don’t know. But in terms of box office success, mainstream comedies dominate here. Then there are films that are mainstream but still maintain an artistic level. These films aim to communicate with a broader audience while still having substance. The leader of this style is Jan Svěrák – maybe you know his films? He won an Oscar. He’s a perfect example of a typical Czech filmmaker – his work is popular, not stupid, and still carries artistic value. And then, there’s the category of purely artistic films, like those by Václav Kadrnka or Petr Václav. These are the films that hardly anyone sees in mainstream cinemas, but they find success at festivals and are deeply respected within the industry. Since I teach at film school and lead the directing department, I work closely with the new generation of filmmakers. That’s where I see my real hope for Czech cinema. There are some incredibly talented young directors – smart, focused, and deeply invested in the kind of films we’ve been talking about. Right now, they’re making short films, some of which have already gained recognition at festivals. But in a few years, they’ll start making their first feature films, and I truly believe they can elevate the level of Czech cinema. I hope they bring a fresh wave of meaningful, artistically strong films into the industry. Is it easy for you to get funding for your films? Since you focus on telling personal, serious stories rather than following the more commercially successful waves of cinema you mentioned earlier, I wonder how challenging it is for you to secure financial support. In our country, we have a national film fund, which is government-supported, and we also have a well-functioning public television network. These are the main sources of funding for films like mine. We often try to secure co-productions with other countries whenever possible, especially with Slovakia, since our cultures and industries are so closely connected. It depends on the project – I’ve had co-producers in Germany and France for some of my films. Right now, for example, I’m writing a new script, and I have no idea if my past partners in France and Germany will be interested. I don’t know if they’ll see the story as relevant or important to them. I also don’t know how the funding board in the Czech Republic will respond to it. So, every time I start a new project, I have to start from zero. It’s never a guaranteed process. My film school teacher, Věra Chytilová – a great director, if you’ve heard of her – used to tell us: “Throughout your entire career, you will always have to convince people in these funds to let you make a film. It’s like playing a game – you have to prove that you deserve it every time.” That’s exactly how it feels. Even though I’ve made films before, I still feel like I’m always at the beginning, always facing the risk that my next film might not get funded. In the Czech Republic, we don’t have the same industry structure as Western Europe, where once you establish yourself as a director, doors open more easily. Here, if you’re successful, people don’t necessarily celebrate it. In fact, there’s often scepticism – Oh, why is he successful? What’s strange about him? So, even at this stage of my career, I can’t be certain that I’ll be able to make another film. I hope I will, but it’s always an adventure, always a struggle. Maybe that’s a good thing – it keeps you sharp, forces you to fight for what you truly believe in. You can never just sit back and feel comfortable in your profession. Fortunately, I teach at the university, and what’s truly inspiring is seeing my students – these young filmmakers – become my colleagues. Some of them connect more deeply with my cinematic values than many from my own generation. It’s not just about technique; it’s a shared sense of morality, authenticity, humour, and social criticism. That gives me hope. Many of these young directors are now working on their first or second films, or creating short films with real potential. I see my generation as the ‘children’ of the Czech New Wave of the 1960s, and these young filmmakers? They’re like the New Wave’s grandchildren. We’re all still drawing from the same well – authenticity, non-conformity, and sharp social observation. That said, the industry is producing more content than ever, especially TV series, but quantity doesn’t guarantee quality. Still, there are filmmakers pushing cinema beyond mere entertainment. They’re telling stories that delve into the depths of human existence and explore life’s unexpected consequences. To me, that’s the true purpose of cinema. So no, I don’t feel alone in this journey. There are still people committed to making meaningful films, and that’s what keeps me going.
