Between Storms and Borders: Dea Kulumbegashvili on Cinema, Resistance, and the Politics of Art

Dea Kulumbegashvili in conversation with Victor Iriarte

Dea Kulumbegashvili is a Georgian filmmaker of Ossetian descent. After studying Media at The New School and Film Directing at Columbia University, she made history with her debut short, Invisible Spaces (2014), the first independent Georgian film to compete at Cannes. Her follow-up short, Léthé (2016), premiered at the Directors’ Fortnight in Cannes.

In 2020, when Cannes was cancelled due to COVID-19, Kulumbegashvili’s feature debut, Beginning, premiered at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, where it earned widespread acclaim, winning the Golden Shell for Best Film, along with awards for Best Director, Best Actress, and Best Screenplay, and became Georgia’s Oscar submission. Her second feature, April (2024), produced by Luca Guadagnino—whom she met when he chaired the jury at San Sebastián—won the Special Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival. The film explores the story of a Georgian gynaecologist performing clandestine abortions, offering a stark critique of the country’s sociopolitical realities.

Renowned for her minimalist storytelling, uncompromising arthouse vision (her films are shot on 35mm in a 1:33 Academy ratio), and focus on women’s resilience, Kulumbegashvili is redefining contemporary auteur cinema. Her thought-provoking and visually arresting work firmly establishes her as one of the most compelling voices among today’s filmmakers.

Víctor Iriarte, born in Bilbao in 1976, is a rising figure in contemporary Spanish cinema—a filmmaker, programmer, and educator with a background in journalism and documentary. He has curated for the Bilbao Fine Arts Museum Cinematheque and served as Head of Cinema at San Sebastián’s Tabakalera Centre for Contemporary Culture. His feature debut, Sobre todo de noche (Foremost by Night), premiered at the Venice Film Festival in 2023.

Víctor and Dea Kulumbegashvili first met at the San Sebastián Film Festival and have shared long conversations over the years whenever their paths crossed. DUST invited them to reconnect for a conversation about Dea’s latest film, her upbringing, and the current social unrest in Georgia.

V. I. – Hello Dea. I’m so happy to speak with you again. I remember when you were in San Sebastian as an artist in residence, working on the script for one of your films. I recall our walks along the seashore, where we talked a lot about your creative processes, your life in New York as a student, your life in Georgia, your films, and your projects. I kept asking questions and listening. I loved those walks—they taught me so much.

I’d like this conversation to feel like those long walks, where we move from one topic to another as if the Cantabrian Sea were behind us. So, where are you now, Dea? You told me you’re in Germany—how did you end up there?

D.K. – Hello Victor, well, I am in Potsdam, though it’s pretty strange for me. It wasn’t planned—I never thought I’d live here. I came here at the request of the producers of April, as we were doing post-production in Babelsberg. I had to move here physically because I had recently given birth, and my child was only 3 weeks old at the time. I needed to be close to the studio. Commuting was impossible, so I brought my child with me every day to finish the film. The interesting part is that my father was stationed in Potsdam when he was in the Soviet army. He played a huge role in my life, and I’ve discussed this before. He was very dear to me, and I think he sparked my love for cinema and storytelling. Even though he wasn’t involved in cinema—he was a football player—he loved filmmakers like Pasolini and De Sica. He had this deep connection to storytelling despite being very introverted. He grew up in the Soviet Union and, at 6 years old, he was spotted playing football in a backyard by someone who thought he had potential. He moved to a sports academy focused on training athletes for the national team. The academy emphasised sports over education, focusing little on academics or independent thinking. It was a difficult, even miserable, place for him. This did shape his view of the world. They weren’t allowed to think for themselves or have a proper education. He resented the Soviet system. My father had a complex life. He could not fit in, was excluded from the team, and was sent to the army. As punishment, his father requested he be sent as far away as possible, so he ended up in Potsdam. The funny thing is that he would tell me detailed stories about Potsdam. When I arrived here, I recognised streets and places from his description, like the base down the road. My father was a great swimmer, and he often swam in the lakes here, something he shared with me. He even attempted to escape to West Germany but was caught. His life went downhill after that. Despite everything, Potsdam, through his stories, became an important part of my childhood, and now, here I am with my child in the place that once shaped my father’s life. I can’t believe it.

V.I. – Your father’s story reminded me of that 2014 Romanian film by Corneliu Porumboiu, Al doilea joc, The second game. Did he bring you to see football matches?

D.K. – My father played football, and Corneliu Porumboiu’s father was often the referee in his games. Corneliu and I talked about this a lot because I admire his work and, like him, I have a deep love for football. It’s fascinating how football creates these unexpected connections, it weaves into our lives in profound ways.

For my father, football was both an escape and a struggle. It offered him a kind of freedom in the Soviet Union—a fantasy world where the rigid structures of reality seemed to dissolve. But, at the same time, he resented it because it created an illusion of free will. Even as a talented player, his path was always dictated by the system. Corneliu’s films often explore these layers of control and freedom, especially in The Second Game, which resonates deeply with me. It captures the strange relationship between football, politics, and personal history—something I’ve always felt through my own connection with my father’s life and love of the game.

V.I. – Speaking of family, how do you remember the moment when you explained to them your desire to be an artist?

D.K. – It was complex. I grew up in Georgia during the Civil War. It was a traumatic time. My family, especially my grandmother, wanted to protect me. Being an artist didn’t seem like a safe path. She wanted me to become a diplomat because she thought it was a secure and respected career. As a Soviet citizen, she couldn’t imagine travelling freely; she believed you needed to be sent to another country by the government, likely marrying a diplomat along the way. She would teach me about different countries, creating this sense of travel without actually leaving home. She instilled in me a love for learning about the world. She also influenced my appreciation for art. She’d often tell me that, when looking at a painting, what matters is what you feel and what’s unseen.

 My grandmother is a wonderful woman, though she never supported me as an artist. However, she came to my set and even brought us food like pancakes every day. But she never understood why I wanted to pursue art, especially for a woman, in her view. She always thought being a writer would have been a better path for me, but especially if I had  become a diplomat.

V.I. – You said something beautiful about your grandmother teaching you how to “write with paintings.” It’s a great way to describe cinema—writing with images.

D.K. – Yes, I feel like I never really learned anything outside of my childhood. It’s an interesting thought because, intellectually, I’ve expanded, but in terms of how I see the world, I feel stuck in my childhood. For example, my grandmother loved Nabokov. His writing style, especially in English, inspired her. His approach to writing and learning by observing paintings resonates with the way she would teach to me. We lived in a beautiful house surrounded by harsh nature—big, green, and wild. During the Civil War, we did not have heating at home. It was so cold in winter, we’d wear wooly pyjamas to bed. My sister and I would sleep cuddled up with our grandparents for warmth. Those long, cold nights, when we’d be telling stories to my grandmother who would fall asleep, shaped my idea of cinema. I always tried to make up something to keep her awake, but she always fell asleep in the end.

V.I. – Your films clearly reflect a mysterious relationship with nature, the landscape, and the night. Listening to you talk about those long, cold winter nights. I wonder if you feel like you learnt all of that during the moments of your childhood you have just described.

D.K. – It’s deeply related to my childhood. Our house had a tin roof, and you could hear the forest practically shouting during spring storms. The wind and rain created this sound on the roof that felt like a physical force. I could almost feel the forest calling me. As a child, I associated spring with a sense of pain, the rain creating a profound feeling of loneliness. I’ve never been able to recreate that sound in film; it always turns into white noise. But that sense of loneliness was real to me—it wasn’t scary. It felt like the only true thing.

V.I. – It sounds like a very natural feeling of isolation.

D.K. – Yes, and now, with the constant flood of images around us, I sometimes feel lost when approaching images myself. I believe an image is a feeling. It should open the door to other images, ones I, as a director, can’t see, although the viewer can. I often struggle with this, trying to make images that don’t feel complete within themselves. Sometimes, I create an image so concrete that it feels finished, and I’m always wary of creating images that feel too complete because they lack that openness and mystery I look for.

V.I. – Can you give me an example?

D.K. –  When I was making Beginning, I created an image I was really proud of, but Carlos Reygadas, the Mexican filmmaker, pointed out that if I kept it in the film, it would make the whole film pointless. It took me five months to decide whether to remove it and, ultimately, I did. Everyone was shocked, but it felt necessary. As a director, sometimes you create an image that makes the whole film unnecessary.

V.I. – It’s very interesting, the act of removing. The off screen… I really like to think about the way you frame shots and how you use distance. Sometimes, your decisions can seem minimalist, but they’re not . Sometimes, they can seem mental, but they’re not. There is something organic and profound in your images. Something almost biological, sensual. Like a journey. Like a mystery. Something very deep.

D.K. – Yes, cinema is about abandoning judgment. My father used to read Dante to me, and maybe I have talked about him too much already. But I don’t think intellectualism is necessarily profound. I believe true profundity comes from instinct and feeling. We need to trust those instincts, but we also need to be educated to understand them better. For me, cinema is an eternal question—how do you convey the sound of the forest’s raving, the feeling of being there? Ideally, I’d make just one shot and leave the rest to the viewer, but that’s not possible. Cinema accumulates intangible feelings that exist between the viewer, the screen, the past, and the future. Cinema is more complex than we often realise. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Terence Malick, and I’ve come to appreciate his work in a new way. As directors, we need to embrace sentimentality and let go of the shame around it. Cinema is a form of art that constantly involves others. Unlike other art forms where you can work alone, filmmaking is always something where you’re surrounded by people, and this creates a filter throughout the process.

V.I. – Let’s continue talking about the relationship between biography and geography. You’re now in Germany, but you can’t return to Georgia. How does that feel?

D.K. – What’s happening in Georgia right now is alarming. The government is pushing the country back into a Soviet-like state, and it’s becoming a dictatorship. It’s hard to pinpoint when dictatorship begins, but when absurdities like people being arrested for throwing a stick in the direction of the special forces become routine, it’s a sign. This is when dictatorship begins—when there’s no logic, only absurdity. Maybe it is when surreal becomes a new norm. Now, I’d put myself in danger if I went back to Georgia. This situation is deeply complex. How can this happen in a world where we’ve seen these patterns before throughout history? In Spain, the Soviet Union, Germany—we should understand it, yet we’re repeating the same mistakes.

V.I. – I remember when we were in San Sebastián, and you won with Beginning in 2020. It was before the war between Ukraine and Russia, and we talked a lot about the problematic relationship between Georgia and Russia, especially regarding language and education. You mentioned Nabokov, but I know that Russian culture and education strongly influenced your upbringing. Now, this situation is repeating itself, but in a different way. It’s happening again in your country, and the idea of Europe is tied to it. How do you feel about this constant struggle, this difficulty of being in a place with shifting borders, always caught between neighbours?

D.K. – I feel that Georgia has always been a lonely place. Look at Ukraine—it’s much larger, with a much bigger population, yet it’s facing crimes against humanity and Europe still questions whether this is happening. I watched what’s happening in Syria now, with prisoners being released and the regime’s crimes coming to light more and more. I remember reading that highly criticised Vogue piece, “A Rose in the Desert,” back in 2011, which praised Assad’s wife, Asma al-Assad’s beauty and philanthropy. I was shocked when I read it—everyone already knew the atrocities unfolding in Syria, yet Vogue shamelessly perpetuated that narrative, ignoring the reality. We can live in denial and pretend that art, fashion, and glamour have nothing to do with real life, but I just don’t believe that. Look at the most prominent fashion designers today—they come from parts of the world with histories of violence and hardship. We all carry the weight of our biographies, and we can’t ignore that the world around us is not just beautiful—it’s shaped by everything we do and have been through. As a society, I think we need to mature, embrace who we are with all our pain and flaws, and face problems head-on. I remember in 2015, when I was in Paris, how people were so detached from the reality of Syria. There was no real conversation about it; there were just hashtags like #PrayForAleppo. I was disgusted. We were just hashtagging and doing nothing while Putin was taking real action. Then, there was that concert in the ruins of Palmyra, organised by conductor Valery Gergiev, where they performed in the city’s ruins. I watched it live and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was an absurd parallel with Saint Petersburg after its siege—playing Johann Sebastian Bach in the ruins of Palmyra. It was horrifying. The city was in ruins, people were being killed with chemical weapons, and there were people playing beautiful music as if nothing had happened. Now, what’s happening in Ukraine is almost the same. People ask if it’s really happening, if the war is as bad as it seems. And we’re still questioning its reality. With all the conversations about Ukraine’s war, people are still thinking it is only Ukraine’s problem. But it’s not. It’s a Western problem.

V.I. – As is Georgia’s.

D.K. – As a Georgian, sometimes I feel this deep anger. I wonder how Europe would  react if Russia finally occupied Georgia and rebuilt the Soviet Union. There’s a lot of anger because it often feels like we’ve been abandoned because we’re too small and irrelevant in the global geopolitical game.

V.I. – How do you feel, as a filmmaker and artist, when we talk about politics and how the world works? I sometimes feel like filmmakers offer an aesthetic answer to the world’s complexities—not just ideological or mental, but through deep artistic responses. I sense this in your films, too. It’s as if complexity can be answered with another kind of complexity—an aesthetic complexity that allows you to feel things.

D.K. – As filmmakers, we must ask ourselves what stories we want to be telling. I can’t just wake up one day and decide to tell a story. When I made April, I was filled with anger. The anger was overwhelming, and I couldn’t escape it. Producers of the film questioned whether that anger was a legitimate basis for making a film. And, yes, it was. But it required a deep understanding of what I wanted to express and a lot of self-reflection to accept that every emotion, no matter how raw, is valid. Right now, my film is not welcome in Georgia, and no one really talks about it. With everything going on, a film that caused disapproval of the government may not be a big deal yet, but one day, this will become a conversation. Cinema history shows us that, sometimes, these conversations happen much later. A director needs to understand that sometimes, he has to be patient, even if it feels frustrating. I don’t want to shout about how our film is being disowned by Georgian cultural institutions and brushed off, but it’s something people are aware of. It’s just not the right time yet to show it in the country where it has been made. I also can’t show it because I’ve been threatened and blackmailed. I’m not in Georgia, but the people who worked on the film are, so there are decisions you make as a director that come before being brave.

V.I. – Your movie is winning awards at every festival in which it is presented. It’s a seed that is slowly growing.

D.K. –  Everything happening around my film and life is shaping my next project. It’s inevitable. And it makes me question when we, as a society, recognise what’s happening in front of us. Being in Potsdam, where the ‘final solution’ was taken, I think a lot about the Holocaust—society didn’t admit it during the war. It came much later. We thought we had learnt something from that experience, but I don’t think we did. We still choose to deny or look away from the atrocities and wars happening around now, perhaps because of a false sense of comfort. Maybe it’s something we need to do to survive—a survival mechanism that lets us hide behind hope. We hope that we don’t want to face anomalies that will eventually be fixed, but we fail to see that the problem is systemic. There’s a Georgian philosopher, Merab Mamardashvili, who was censored during the Soviet era and whose work is only now being translated into German and French. He was a great thinker and a fierce critic of the Soviet Union. He believed the Soviet Union was built on the idea of hope—and he hated hope. He called it the “bastard of imagination.” His idea was that hope is a form of deep sleep—a dream where you wake up from to find everyone else is asleep, too. It’s a tragic image for me.

V.I. – That’s a completely different perspective on hope than the one we’re used to.

D.K. – The entire Soviet Union was built on this dystopian idea of a “bright future,” where even essential items like matches or soap were supposed to be free. Everyone would be equal in their right to a free matchbox. My grandmother would tell me how millions of people lived for that future, believing that these small things, like a box of matches, would be provided freely, thus, this idea of equality in misery somehow muted the desire for individual expression and freedom. It was a prison disguised as a utopia. And people willingly—or perhaps not so willingly—submitted to this idea. I’m sure everything happening in my life now will become part of a film. I often think about this state of mind when we, as individuals, decide not to see things or to believe in a version of reality that makes it more acceptable, even if it’s not true.

V.I. – Let’s talk about your creation process, Dea. You mentioned that everything happening now will influence your next film, but how do you usually work? Do you take notes, use a computer, walk around, visit museums? How do you prepare for the next project?

D.K. – I rarely use my computer. I only use it when I have a full version of the script because, for me, writing has to be finished before I start using the computer. I’m very obsessive about the process, which is a problem. I collect tens of catalogues, photo books, and images. Every image has a story, and I need to know where it was taken, who the person behind it is, and what the context is. I’m an information junkie. 

V.I. – During this process, do you continue talking with your team? For example, with your DOP, Arseni Khachaturan? I remember when you told me that you always try to incorporate the team into the creative process from the very beginning. I was very surprised, because productions rarely allow these early dialogues between the team. But it sounds like a great way to work.

D.K. – Yes, I do. Arseni and I know each other very well, but sometimes, I annoy him. He’s working on another film right now, and I send him so many images and ideas every day, drilling him about certain things. I’m obsessed with a specific technical process and keep pushing him to consider it. It can be a bit much for him at times. I don’t think he would tolerate my obsessive approach if he weren’t such a great friend. But at the end of the day, I might not even end up using the technique I’m so fixated on. For me, the process itself is crucial. I’m always layering images, examining them, and diving deep into their history. I’m in a process now, and I feel my next film needs to be deeply human.

V.I. – In which sense?

D.K. – With all the horrible things happening around us, I feel like I love humans even more. The tragedy is how vulnerable we are in the face of history and how little is within our control. It’s impossible to be a hero on a global scale because we’re often still dealing with personal dilemmas. Maybe having a child has shifted my perspective, but I’ve started to feel a more profound love for humanity than ever. Loving my child made me aware of how all-encompassing and hopeful love can be. This hopeful love is a promise of endless possibilities. Maybe it is what propels us to move forward, to make an effort to be better in one way or another. 

V.I. – That’s a powerful point. It’s essential for us as artists to feel that way. Let’s talk about the production side of filmmaking because, as you know, the industry is constantly changing. You’ve had some success with your first two films in terms of festivals and recognition, but how do you feel about your next film in terms of production? What do you expect from your producers?

D.K. – From the industry, I expect it to break out of its bubble. Cinema, as a medium, has fallen behind in many ways. With all the contemporary media and the number of images we see daily, it’s hard to return to discussing things like shot lengths. We need to focus on how our perception of cinema has changed. However, the industry seems unwilling to trust the audience anymore. That’s something I don’t understand. I trust the viewer and believe in the audience’s ability to engage with films deeply. Cinema is meant to push boundaries, such as the groundbreaking Haneke’s Benny’s Video and others that revolutionised the medium in their time. Now, it’s rare to see that kind of risk-taking. It’s very sad. Streaming platforms have defined much of this change, and honestly, I’m not sure how to feel about watching films on a laptop or streaming sites. Is that really a cinematic experience?

V.I. – That’s a question worth asking.

D.K. – I don’t understand why we’d deprive ourselves of the pleasure of fully experiencing a film, especially with all the technological advancements we have today. As for my producers, I want my movies to be seen. I don’t believe in niche cinema or art-house labels. Cinema is just cinema. People want to watch films. Films often tell those stories that nobody wants to hear, which are hidden, neglected, and denied. That’s the role of art—to bring these uncomfortable truths to light. I don’t believe in happy endings or instant gratification. Buying a ticket and watching a film doesn’t mean you’ve done something for a cause. The only thing you’ve done is ask questions, and maybe cinema provides the space for you to realise you’re not alone in asking them. From my producers, I expect support in taking risks as a director. I want to use my skills and push the medium forward, not be held back to make something conventional. I love cinema, and I want to explore its full potential. I don’t want to be told to go back and make something safe. I refuse to do that.

V.I. – You’ve also been involved with producers like Luca Guadagnino and now, with names like Emma Stone and Dave McCary in your next project. How does collaborating with other filmmakers, actors, and actresses who trust your voice and vision feel?

D.K. – It’s exciting because it shows that filmmakers want to step out of their comfort zones. Luca, for example, pushes boundaries in his work. He’s not confined to a single style or genre, which is a big part of his success. He’s incredibly open-minded, which I respect deeply. He’s curious about everything, and his willingness to explore different things makes him one of the most fascinating directors I know. Collaborating with Emma Stone is also amazing. Not only is she an incredible actress, but she also takes risks that Hollywood doesn’t always embrace. Her willingness to challenge the industry and work on projects that push boundaries helps redefine the industry itself. It’s the kind of courage that forces change. Our industry is very rigid, and we all know that. 

V.I. – I know about your method, your obsession with preparation, and how long the process can take. I’d like to talk a bit about how you manage the balance between control and chance or knowing and not knowing. How do you deal with this?

D.K. – For me, it’s one of the key questions when I think about the directors I admire—control versus not controlling, and what happens in your mind versus what happens instinctively. How do you navigate that? I really trust the process. I’m only scared on the first day of shooting. I feel like running away. But then, once the filming begins, I trust the people I work with. The crew is incredible; if you allow them, they bring their best to the process. I also trust that what I really need to do as a director is to be well-rested and fully present in the moment. The best things, for me, happen when I let go of control. Control, in this sense, means that when things happen, you’re able to capture them.

V.I. – I’m thinking of that beautiful storm scene in April.

D.K. – Exactly. I knew the storm would happen, but how much can you control a storm? You just have to embrace it; I was ready to do that. I ended up operating the camera myself because it wasn’t possible for our crew to be on the crane in that weather. Sometimes, there are shots I feel I need to take, even if it’s complicated. Holding the camera steady in that heavy wind was nearly impossible. Can you imagine the amount of preparation that went into anticipating the storm? We ploughed the land, brought the most extended crane in Georgia, and a lot of equipment. It was an expensive day of shooting. I’m so grateful to my producers, who understood that, yes, it was crazy to try for this shot, but they trusted me. I grew up in that place and had seen that storm a million times, so I was sure it would happen. And, of course, it did. It was magical, a spectacular moment. But it also highlights the limitations of cinema—what was really happening was so profoundly beautiful. What we captured on camera was just a fraction of it.  

V.I. –  I love this example. You were expecting the storm. When you trust the process, things appear.

D.K. –  It may look controlled and perfect, but it wasn’t. What mattered was the storm itself. I’d hate to make films where I couldn’t give up control like that. If I couldn’t, the process would be boring. I’ve heard stories about how, in Hollywood, you can’t even talk to extras. What does that mean? I talk to everyone on my set, and I don’t have a “role” that prevents me from talking to anyone. I’m the one who communicates with everyone who we film, and I do it out of respect.

V.I. – Making art is indeed about the process

D.K. – And that’s why all art is political. The decision to create something is already political. It’s about stepping outside your comfort zone. It’s not just cinema or art; it’s any form of expression, including fashion, which is political, too. People often think of it as being about beauty, but the notion of beauty itself is deeply political. We just don’t want to think about it. People want direct messages that clearly say, “This is good.” But art goes beyond the question of good and evil. Life is more complicated. Humans embody everything at the same time.

V.I. – Dea, let’s close with one last image and one last question. You told me earlier that your father used to swim in the lakes in Potsdam. Do you swim? What do you think about when you’re underwater?

D.K. –  I do and, you know, even my grandfather loved swimming. Before he passed, I spent a lot of time filming him. One day, as we sat in the village with this beautiful breeze, I asked him what he was thinking about. He stayed quiet for a long time and then said, “I miss swimming.” It was incredible because it was something he physically couldn’t do anymore—he missed swimming in the river.

As a Georgian, swimming in a river is vital to me, too. It’s about feeling the current and how the water has its own life and direction. It interacts with you; for me, it’s this physical connection with nature. Water carries something—memory, emotions—it’s constantly moving, like a mountain that was here before us, is here now, and will remain once we’re gone. I tried to capture this feeling in April but had to cut it—it didn’t belong to the film. Conveying that interaction with nature is so hard; it’s something you feel, not something you can fully show.