We sat down to speak with Ralitza Petrova about Nikos Kazantzakis as an inspiration, the father’s absence as a driving force, shibari as a natal experience and lust as an illusion in her sensitive and cinematic second feature, Lust [+lee también:
crítica
entrevista: Ralitza Petrova
ficha de la película], currently screening in the Berlinale Forum.

Cineuropa: In your Berlinale interview, you mentioned being strongly influenced by Kazantzakis’ The Saviors of God, where he speaks about God as an abyss, a mystery, light and darkness at the same time. That contradiction feels very close to the inner movement of the protagonist, Lilian.
Ralitza Petrova: Lilian is searching for a connection with something higher, but without any certainty, oscillating between these states. That search, rather than an answer, is what interests me. I don’t want to demystify the film, to explain what “the author wanted to say”. I prefer thinking through the character and naturally trying to understand what drives her. That’s where the viewer’s work begins – to sense a need for a connection with a higher power, or with the spiritual essence of life, although she doesn’t know how to reach it.

Lilian is the loneliest character I have seen in a film lately. Does this loneliness stem only from the absence of a father in her life?
In my storytelling, I often begin with a very concrete, very bodily reality, and then move towards something more collective, something that speaks of a generation and a time. I distinguish between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness feels like an outward projection, while solitude is an embodied state; it allows space for a deeper search for meaning. I wanted to explore a character in the midst of such an inner transition, influenced in part by Kazantzakis’ The Saviors of God.

Then, in very practical terms, the story unfolds away from Lilian’s home. She travels to her country of origin, Bulgaria, yet she experiences it as a foreigner. The timeframe spans several days. This naturally isolates the character as a solitary figure, moving through unfamiliar spaces, where she lacks a sense of belonging. These were very deliberate choices.

We live in a world built on instant gratification, even linguistically – Instagram literally conveys “instant gram”, a small dose of gratification on demand. We’re constantly stimulated, yet deeply disconnected. Lilian reflects that condition – she’s someone worn down by continual escape.

To some, she might not be an easy character to identify with, but that difficulty is part of the point. On the other hand, one in four children grows up without a father. In that sense, I believe Lilian would resonate with many. The film explores an absence that is never truly “resolved”, especially when the person is gone. What interests me is how we relate to that absence through something larger than ourselves.

The shibari practice is introduced as a spiritual experience related to trust, but Liliana experiences it with someone she barely knows. Where does trust truly reside, then?
The ritual begins as an act of trust, but I wanted to explore how that trust can shift – from being placed in another to becoming something internal. The experience is far from what people imagine. It is not about domination or spectacle, but a paradox: restraint and freedom existing at the same time. That tension became central to the character.

I’m not a practitioner, nor is Snejanka Mihaylova, who plays Lilian, but together, we approached the practice through a few simple sessions – just enough to understand it from within. What we both felt was very different from common assumptions. It felt primal, almost natal. That paradox stayed with me.

Snejanka has a background in philosophy and performance. How did she contribute to shaping the character?
The film is very scripted, in terms of images, sound and dialogue. Meeting Snejanka halfway through the writing process was influential in many ways, as she has a very strong presence and an understanding of the spiritual space, which I kept in my mind while writing. The East has preserved this connection between mind, body and soul much more than the West, which is young and overly invested in intellect and knowledge alone. To me, balance comes through lived experience, not theory.

On the other hand, the film is highly visual and very sparse in dialogue. The environments, for example – the hotel, the flat, the prison – all exude the same alienation as the character.
Language is the last and clumsiest way in which we communicate. Words are fragile; we misunderstand each other constantly. Cinema allows me to work beyond words, through spaces, bodies and time. That’s where meaning emerges for me.

Bach’s “St Matthew Passion” is heavily present in the film. Why Lust and not Passion?
Because lust is not love. At its Slavic and Orthodox root, it refers to temptation, illusion, mirage and fantasy. Lust is about freeing ourselves from the fantasy narrative we build around events. I believe truth is experiential, not intellectual. You can’t argue with lived truth; you can only witness it. That’s what interests me, and that’s where liberation becomes possible.