Shot in the remote mountain village of Sim in the Astara region of Azerbaijan, where young newcomer Orkhan Aghazadeh comes from, The Return of the Projectionist [+lee también:
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Cineuropa: What brought you to your main character, the projectionist Samid, and how did he let you into his world?
Orkhan Aghazadeh: I met him while working on my graduation film, The Chairs. We were location scouting in winter and got stuck in the mountain village of Sim because of the snow. Samid, who lived there, hosted us. When he found out we were filmmakers, he revealed his old film-projection equipment, which he'd kept for nearly 30 years. He used to be the local projectionist who also travelled to nearby villages to show films using portable equipment, and still had the dream of bringing it back to life. That encounter stayed with me, and after finishing my studies in London, I returned to see if he was still around and if his dream was still alive. That’s how it all began, and it took around two-and-a-half years to complete the film. After a few initial research trips, I joined the Cinéfondation residency in Paris, where I met a German, and later a French, producer. They liked the material, and we got development funding. We filmed in intervals – one week or ten days at a time across different seasons to reflect village life.

And when did the younger character, Ayaz, come on board?
He appeared during filming. Samid introduced him to us, saying he was into animation and had even participated in a festival in Baku. That’s how we started following their friendship and mutual admiration, which became a new narrative thread.

At some point in the movie, we learn that Samid has a family, but they do not appear in the film.
His wife was not open to it, as they live in the same house but barely speak. She also wasn’t mentally stable, especially after the death of their son. Sometimes she was kind, other times aggressive. For ethical reasons and because she never gave consent, we decided not to include any footage of the family. It was better not to push. Fortunately, Ayaz helped us understand Samid’s personality and inner life without us needing to enter his home.

Both characters have dreams or goals, but both, in a way, fail. Was your intention to focus on the process, rather than success?
What drew me in was the idea that both are pursuing creative goals against the odds. Ayaz is a young animator in a rural area, surrounded by people who don’t take him seriously. His family pressures him to do something more “profitable”. Samid is similar – eccentric and misunderstood in his own village, especially because of his family situation. But their bond is real. They can talk for hours and deeply understand each other. For me, this is a story about persistence despite obstacles. It’s not a typical success story. It’s about the journey, the shared passion and the small victories along the way.

There’s a beautiful moment when they screen a recovered reel of an Indian film, but they have to censor it and even invent the ending. It becomes a community performance. Were you expecting that?
We suspected something might happen. When they found this old Indian film, the reels were mixed up, and some were missing, too. So, Ayaz tried to find it online to see if it could be reconstructed. Then, Samid invited respected villagers to view the film at his house and to flag anything “inappropriate”, just like he used to do in the past. We followed that whole process: the screening, the reactions and, finally, the community coming together to create an ending. It became a kind of spontaneous performance and collective memory work, which was fascinating.

Your film received French and German funding. Did you seek support from Azerbaijan?
Not really, because there is no clear or reliable system for public funding in Azerbaijan. There are no fixed application deadlines or co-production mechanisms. Our European producers found it too uncertain to plan around. Luckily, we had enough support from France and Germany to make the film on a modest budget.

The film touches on the decline of community life in the village, especially around culture. What did you observe while filming?
During the Soviet era, cinema and theatre were essential parts of community life. There were clubs where people would screen films, perform plays and come together. After the collapse, all of that stopped. The buildings are still there, but now they’re used for occasional holiday events or administrative meetings. There’s no regular cultural activity. It’s a lonely, melancholic life in these mountain villages, especially for the older generation, who still remember what it was like. And young people don’t miss what they never had.