Open Sesame, gate of aesthetic experiments: more and more Romanian names seem to make it into the Forum section of the Berlin International Film Festival in recent years, with Andrei Cohn’s Holy Week being the only Romanian film in this year’s selection. A free adaptation of the 1889 novella An Easter Torch by Romanian author Ion Luca Caragiale, Cohn’s film shies away from the subjectivity of the original’s psychological drama and migrates to an area somewhere between literary naturalism and the Milletian vein of French painting – a world as beautiful in its rural simplicity as it is tainted by prejudice and simmering conflicts, witness to a vicious and endless cycle of hatred, as the director describes it. In the moral and paranoid decay of Jewish innkeeper Leiba Zibal, after being threatened by his help Gheorghiță, Cohn distances himself from the subjectivity of the novella’s dreamlike fantasies, addressing the crucial yet elusive question: when do good people lose their kindness?

The conversation with Andrei Cohn is framed by two other more informal exchanges: the first, a very humane and warm confession about how much the film meant to the actors – especially to Mario, who plays the role of Leiba Zibal’s son and, incidentally, is from the village they filmed in, coming from a modest family. The experience of working on a film was a new and “alien” world for the boy, but he carried it off brilliantly, the director points out. According to Cohn, the remote village they filmed in became a home for many, a familiar, concentric, intimate, perhaps even peaceful and healing space amid all the fears of shooting during the pandemic.

The second exchange involves sharing impressions and recommendations of painters, a confession about a slight dislike for a documentary about Russian painting by Nikita Mihalkov, and a discussion about the countryside and the danger of the idyllic landscape – which Cohn tries to avoid in Holy Week. This digression confirms, on the one hand, Cohn’s background (a graduate in fine arts) and, on the other hand, what my colleague Flavia Dima emphasized about the director in her review (RO only): his employment of aesthetic strategies that are rather unusual for Romanian cinema.

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Caragiale’s novella seems extremely relevant today, in a context where more and more tensions, both ethnic and otherwise, are rising in Romania and around the globe. What drew you to the novella and ultimately made you want to do a free adaptation?

It has less to do with the context, with the present, and all the movements and tensions that exist today. Obviously, they interest me and affect me, but that’s not how my interest in the film came about. I don’t know to what extent I can analyze myself, but I believe it has more to do with my Jewish roots. The issue of people performing this social tango of trying to cope with the pressure is something I’ve always been interested in due to the nature of my roots and my family’s past. Now, the issue is so old that it has become permanently relevant – incidentally and unfortunately it is still relevant – but it has never disappeared. What is happening now is that it is registering some peaks.

As for the wish of doing a free adaptation, the novella provided a good framework for my concerns, but in reality, the adaptation is only free to a certain extent. The film borrows many elements from the novella, except for the ending, which I felt would detract from the dimension I was interested in. It’s a story I lived with for a long time, and for which I sought the right form – it’s the second crime drama I’ve done, which is also about fear. The subject that particularly interested me here was this vicious cycle of hatred that we don’t know how to break.

I think adapting Caragiale always comes with the expectation of “caragialism”, or at least with this label of Caragiale as the best painter of Romanian society. Did this dimension of the novella, as a portrait of Romanian society, concern you?

Generally, I’m not engaged in a social or political endeavor larger than the story. I like to observe people, and yes, from this point of view, Caragiale’s depiction is extraordinarily accurate. To what extent are these things relevant to Romanian society? It’s already a bit much for me to say. When I look around, I see diversity, I don’t see societies, national characters, etc. I don’t have the power to synthesize; I see a person, and I simply like them. In this sense, Caragiale is incredibly vivid. Naturally, I was drawn to the extraordinary portraits he creates. But the subject matter is atypical even for him. The texture of the narrative itself is atypical. In this respect, it wasn’t a reference for me, but, as I said, a framework for other concerns. At first, it seemed quite far from my concerns; it has dreamlike, surreal moments, directions that I resonate with as a viewer, but not necessarily as a director.

Indeed, the film is extremely grounded in reality.

That’s how I generally work. I often say that things are enough as they are, and as they are, they have the capacity to evoke emotions. I don’t feel the need to add things to make them more convincing.

Is this type of approach something that influenced your decision not to include that extremely visceral and memorable moment in the novella – when, at the end, Leiba Zibal holds the thief’s hand through the door and burns it slowly in the candle flame? Did you avoid these moments that cross a line?

First, the moment you’re referring to is quite challenging to depict, visually speaking, and I don’t know how I would have handled it. Second, I’m not that comfortable with rendering such explicit things. But these are matters of form. The problem that I wouldn’t know how to put on paper, and which I don’t understand, don’t empathize with, regarding this moment and the ending, is this slide into taking pleasure in torture, in hurting someone. Extreme, explicit madness is a valid theme, but it’s not something I was interested in.

You mentioned once that you are also interested in this process where the victim becomes, or has the potential to become, the aggressor.

I think that’s a form of expression of the victim, depending on each individual’s character. I’ve seen people end their own lives or end the lives of others. There are several possibilities. But I must say that part of the theme belongs to Caragiale. Caragiale says that a threat is more painful than a blow. If we develop it along those lines, somehow we end up in that area. But yes, this type of options interested me. Maybe there’s a next step, which Caragiale knows better than I do – where you get some kind of joy from harming the other. And my ability to put myself in Caragiale’s characters’ shoes stops here where I stopped in the film. Beyond that, I think there’s a very dark area that I didn’t have access to, that of deriving satisfaction from the harm you do to the other, as it happens in the end of the novella.

As much as the film sympathizes with the Jewish character in an obvious way, as a viewer, you don’t seem to be allowed to remain empathetic all the time. It comes as if you have a somewhat nihilistic perspective on all the characters – perhaps except for Sura, Leiba’s wife – where each has their own share of truth and wrong.

In reality, it’s a very simple truth: we are neither very good nor very bad. I didn’t want to make a film with good guys and bad guys. There is a constant ambivalence here, and just as the characters don’t know the next step before taking it, so I hope a bit of doubt will arise in the viewer. I don’t want to point fingers or tell anyone how things are, and I hope the film will be a good ground for discussion. And for that, I believe a certain ambivalence, in what concerns the characters and the story, is necessary. I don’t take sides; I love and hate them all when they do wrong, equally.

Sura seems to be the only voice of reason in this cycle of very misogynistic, vindictive, racist, and hate-filled characters. She seems to be the only one willing to forgive, or at least understand the other, and at the same time, she’s also the one questioning things – as she appears somewhat reluctant towards Zionism and this ideal country that Leiba pictures.

From beginning to end, she is very dear to me in this world of men who are as you have described them. Even though, in many cases, I feel like they’re all talk – it’s essential to discuss whether the threats really happened or not. From my perspective, they are not as violent as they say, as they appear to be. But going back to Sura, much like Jewish women at the time, whose job was to run the household, she is prone to being much more pragmatic, much further from theorizing, whether it’s religious, Zionist, or social ideas. It was simple, she had a lot of work to do. Therefore, her views were more concrete, more connected to reality. So there is an objective, cultural reality to her condition, and I built her character in that sense, in the sense of a possible truth, within the limits of research.

At the same time, she is disregarded by society on several levels, not just ethnically. The status and freedom of thought she has within her own family – and for which the rest of society seems to reject her – are very clear. Is this perhaps the reason we see her assaulted in the opening scene?

We don’t exactly know why she was beaten at the beginning, how much error, chance, or symbolism resides in that gesture. But yes, given the times the story takes place in, she also carries the “guilt” of simply being a woman. On the other hand, no one has a great life in that world. Not even Gheorghiță, whom we see comes from poverty.

The film is solidly anchored in a palpable universe of that archaic world. Were you concerned with any sort of historical accuracy? Did you see the film as a period drama? I’m curious about that because, considering the novella, I think that many might yearn for that particular way of talking, those linguistic mannerisms.

I set some limits from the very beginning, in terms of historical truth. There’s this funny situation where people do their research, and, in the end, period films look like period films – they talk like this, dress like that, etc. Certain tropes are confirmed. So then you wonder if it’s really the research you’ve done or if it’s rather the cliché image of some films and depictions you’ve seen. I believe you need to adapt to the story first and foremost and not have inconsistencies with what we know or think we know about the period. The expectation of being extremely rigorous, historically speaking, is a bit exaggerated, I think. Indeed, I did a lot of research, but I was mainly interested in the customs and manners of those times. Rather than extracting meticulously from various sources we have, I thought, here, in this dust, in this heat, in this remote place, where it’s dark, where you’ve never seen a map in your life, how do you handle a problem? How do you react?

When it comes to the language of the period, it’s a bit tricky. You can employ it, but you’re not really placing yourself in history, rather, as I said, inside some plays, some skits you’ve seen. And in doing so, you distance yourself from the novelty of the relationship with an environment that you essentially never lived in. Taking all this into account, I thought it’s better to write in a non-existent language, which has different criteria – such as violence, vulgarity, primitiveness, rawness –, than in a certain language from a certain region. Instead of focusing on how people spoke in the area of Dobrogea or Moldova at the time, I rather thought about what they would not say. In other words, I got to that language by eliminating today’s language. And I used whatever particulars, in terms of accent and language, that the actors themselves brought, given that they come from different areas. I let it be as colorful and diverse as possible, in the spirit of this area of Dobrogea that so many people have passed through. Last but not least, I think this mix of words and languages helps the film, gives it relevance in a more universal, timeless space.

In terms of the realism you practice, do you feel you fit into any particular tradition? Regarding all the talk about the Romanian New Wave and whether it has disappeared or not, do you feel in any way bound to a specific definition of Romanian cinema?

In reality, I don’t think there is a real emulation you can claim to be rooted in. I make films once every five years. So it’s very hard to belong to a wave when you disappear from it for five years. Absolutely, there are things that have influenced me, films that I liked, Romanian films that I watched and told myself it was possible. But I can’t judge these things. Indeed, many of my short films have elements from the New Wave. But with the first feature film, I started making stylistic decisions that are rather related to my experience, my education in fine arts. That is not to say they are unique. Certainly, they can’t be found in other types of cinema.

What were the stylistic choices that were important for Holy Week? I noticed the significance that the landscapes carry, this play on perspective, images that have a certain level of pictoriality but are not pictorial in a complete sense.

The relationship with the space was extremely important to me. What interested me greatly was to depict the horror against the background of a beautiful planet. I don’t think dramas necessarily need to be accompanied by mud, dark images, and other such trademarks. They can happen in broad daylight, among flowering trees. On the other hand, I believe we bring the bad part into the story, [into nature]. While working on the film, I looked at many paintings, usually Romanian academic art, and wondered what one could hear there. All sorts of terrible things, I imagine – despite having stunning landscapes. Behind Grigorescu’s ox cart, I don’t think you would hear any idyllic songs, but rather some nasty things. That’s how I pictured the relationship with the space, in opposition, and I didn’t want this simplistic perspective where the landscape “matches” the story. Despite the beauty of the landscape, I wanted there to be something ancestral, primitive, and a bit violent in this space. A group of children playing, trees are in bloom, a flock of sheep grazing peacefully, and here are some peasants killing another peasant.

I feel that this evil hiding in beautiful appearances is more of an insidious evil, an evil that you don’t expect because it’s not caricatural or absolute.

An evil that can very easily look like good. [These were the dilemmas of the film]. To what extent is a good person a good person? When do they become bad? For whom are they bad? There are a lot of questions, but I don’t expect the film to provide any answers. I just want it to make people weigh things more carefully before pointing fingers. Today everyone knows everything about everything and finds the culprits immediately. I wish people would stop for a second before passing judgement.

Speaking in the current context of the conflict in Palestine and a definition of antisemitism that is opportunistically wielded to justify crimes, are you afraid that your film may be misinterpreted in any way, considering that it addresses these discriminations?

Of course. I thought so many times that the film could have come out a year ago, and by coming out now, you can’t separate it from the context. But when I made the film, I didn’t want to talk about antisemitism. I wanted to talk about how a Jew handles the situation. It’s not an assessment of Romanian antisemitism in any way. I think it was like that, that it was different, that it was worse, or not that bad. It was in many ways. And here we are talking about a particular case. The film is about how a person navigates such a situation; it’s not a film about antisemitism. But it does play a role, an important part in the context of the story in the film.

Now, yes, of course, people choose one side or the other of the discourse, often with very little consideration for people and more out of concern for their own image. And yes, I don’t like the idea that the film I made may encourage the vested interests, albeit trivial, of one or another. I’m not happy that many will judge it against the current events.

Dora Leu

Graduated with a BA in film directing and a MA in film studies from UNATC; she's also studied history of art. Also collaborates with the Acoperisul de Sticla film magazine and is a former coordinator of FILM MENU. She's dedicated herself to '60-'70s Japanese cinema and Irish post-punk music bands. Still keeps a picture of Leslie Cheung in her wallet.