Valdone Rudenkiene/Tie2.lt

Oliver Laxe is one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary European cinema. His films consistently move between spiritual quest, existential trial, and ritual. With his latest work, Sirat, Laxe goes even further, creating a cinematic experience that feels like a ceremony — an encounter with vulnerability, fear, death, and rebirth. In this conversation, Laxe speaks about the meaning of cinema, the internal obstacles of creation, and why Sirat is less an idea than a path toward inner transformation.

We critics and journalists always have our interpretations of a movie — what it is about, its main idea. But it’s always interesting to ask the director: what does the film mean to you personally?

Interpretation and the idea of a film are two different things. You may create a film that transcends yourself, a film that allows for multiple interpretations — and even more than interpretations. I think this film suspends that level of interpretation. You feel it with your body. It’s a film you watch with your guts, with your instincts, with your tribe senses, with your presence here. I don’t want to interpret it; I can only talk about my intentions. But again, the film goes much further than my intentions.

So what was the main idea you wanted to shape?

I wanted to create a ceremony. I wanted to make a passage rite. I wanted the spectators to “die” — to experience their own death. And I think that’s healthy. It’s something we should do: meditate on death, experience it.

That sounds like quite a dark idea.

Death is not dark. This is what the Greeks did in theater when they watched tragedies. They didn’t go there to have fun. They went there to die, to purge, to cleanse, to work on themselves. Rituals are important, and cinema is a place for them — a place for catharsis. That was my intention: I wanted the viewer to die and be reborn. Yes, the film is heavy, it’s painful at times, but secretly, magically, after watching it, you feel more connected to life.

What was the most difficult part of shooting?

The fight with myself — as always. The external obstacles aren’t the real problem; the important obstacles are inside you. It’s about your level of faith. Those moments when it gets hard — your self-control. Filming in the desert was difficult. Shooting in 45-degree heat was difficult. But the real difficulty is the question: are you going to jump into the void or not? This is a very risky film. I didn’t want to lie to myself. I had many fears while making it. Everyone told me, “You’re committing suicide as a filmmaker.”

 Do you feel you succeeded in the fight with yourself? With your fears?

I don’t fight my fears — I accept them. I lived with them, I was connected to them, I suffered through them, but I kept going. I kept jumping into the obvious, into the unknown. Most filmmakers fight against their fears, they hide them — but they are actually completely controlled by them. And you can see it in their films: they feel calculated, possessed by fear. There’s no risk, not a single piece of risk in most films today. That’s why so many of them look the same.