Born in Armenia, trained in film direction in Lebanon and Denmark, and based in France for 30 years, Tamara Stepanyan is an international artist with deep roots. After her intimate documentary, My Armenian Phantoms, premiered in the Berlinale Forum, she’s travelling to another A‑class festival, Locarno, which is opening with a screening of her debut fiction feature, In the Land of Arto [+lire aussi :
critique
bande-annonce
interview : Tamara Stepanyan
fiche film], on the Piazza Grande. We seized the opportunity to chat with her.

Cineuropa: In the Land of Arto provides an external impression of Armenia, from a foreigner. How much of that impression belongs to you, as an Armenian living in France?
Tamara Stepanyan: I don’t think there’s a clear “inside” or “outside”. When I started writing this film ten years ago, I strongly identified with Arsine, the Armenian guide – the fighter, the free spirit, the one who doesn’t conform. But as the years passed, I began relating more to Céline, the French widow. Living abroad for 30 years, I, too, began to feel like an outsider in my own culture. So both characters carry parts of me. It’s a split self.

The fiction in the story feels deeply rooted in lived experience. Would you say the film has documentary elements to it?
Not literally – it’s fiction. But I invited Armenia itself into the film: its wounds, its ruins, its landscapes, its people. Many details were inspired by encounters during location scouting. Grigor, the war veteran with one leg, came from meeting a group of disabled former soldiers in Sevan. I used their words in the script – like when Grigor says, “What do you want me to say? That I’m a hero?” The war was impersonal, fought with drones. That changes how people speak about heroism.

The pivotal moment is when we discover, along with Céline, that her husband lied. At first, it feels like a betrayal, but later it seems more of a ‘white lie’. How do you see it?
For me, it’s not a lie; it’s unspoken trauma. Arto wanted to tell her about his past, but his guilt and shame grew too large. He buried it in silence. But trauma doesn’t stay buried. When the war returned, everything resurfaced and he couldn’t carry it. That’s why he ends his life when the war is lost. Céline doesn’t blame him. She tries to understand. She makes the journey he never could by returning to the land, to give meaning to his death and to offer something truthful to their children.

You’ve cast well-known professional actors, but there are many moments that almost feel neorealist. Were some of the roles non-professional?
Most were trained theatre actors from Gyumri State Theatre. Their authenticity comes from their bond with the land. The man who rescues Céline in the ruins isn’t an actor – we met him by chance while scouting. I love it when fiction meets lived memory.

How did you cast Zar Amir Ebrahimi and Camille Cottin?
Zar, who plays Arsine, agreed almost immediately and she told me we were sisters, in the sense that we’re both exiled women. She also works as a casting director, and suggested Camille for the film. I wasn’t confident Camille would do a small Armenian-French film, but she read the script and accepted with grace. When we met, she hugged me and said, “Thank you for this role.” It was a beautiful beginning.

You made it to Locarno’s Piazza Grande, screening in front of 8,000 people. Did you intend for the film to be accessible to a wide audience?
I wanted to make an authentic film – an auteur film, but not a niche one. Cinema should speak to people. I want my films to be poetic, but also accessible. The conflict in Nagorno-Karabakh isn’t well understood outside the region. If this film brings awareness or empathy, I’m grateful.

Yugoslavian writer Danilo Kiš said that Eastern Europeans rarely allow themselves to be purely homo poeticus, remaining mostly homo politicus due to the tragedies they’re exposed to. Do you think this applies to Armenia?
I love this question. I think we first need to be homo politicus – to work through history and trauma – before we can truly become homo poeticus. It’s essential. But at some point, we must take a step further and create new worlds. I feel like I’m in that process now.

The problem, in the Eastern regions, is that the process seems to be endless.
I know. A straight-up love story from Armenia might not capture people’s attention because the expectation is that Armenia is about genocide, Nagorno-Karabakh, earthquakes… In a way, we’ve taught audiences to expect that from us. I’m tired of projects from abroad coming only to talk about selective abortion; do you know how many of them there are? My film avoids the classic war-narrative approach. I wanted to recall trauma gently, without actually showing the war. I hope that, one day, a love story from Armenia will be welcomed in a major festival as readily as a French one.

What’s next for you? Will you keep on telling stories from Armenia?
I’ll take a short break. After My Armenian Phantoms and this film, I need time with my kids. But I’ll be returning to a documentary I shot in France, about women’s trauma, and I’m developing another fiction film, set in Armenia again.