In his often absurd and heart-breaking documentary 2m² [+leggi anche:
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intervista: Volkan Üce
scheda film] – shown in IFFR’s Big Screen Competition – Volkan Üce tries to start a discussion about death, especially in the Belgian-Turkish community. A conversation that’s never easy, but necessary.

Cineuropa: I have to confess, I had to double-check whether your film really was a documentary. There’s so much absurdity here!
Volkan Üce: Yeah, it’s pure documentary. People used to say the same thing about my previous film, All-In, which is set in an all-inclusive resort. Some festivals wouldn’t even describe it as a doc! I guess I just like absurdities. Especially in this case, because it was a tough topic. Some asked: “Who the fuck would want to see a film about that?” But then I found my protagonist, Tayfun.

He’s an undertaker, but we don’t want to think about death. And we certainly don’t want to see it up close.
Neither do I, which is why I wanted to make this film. When I walk around in Antwerp and see a dead pigeon, I cross the street. I don’t want to be confronted with death. But I still know it’s there.

When a Belgian person dies here, the question is: “Do we bury him next week or in 10 days’ time? Which songs are we going to play?” When a Belgian Turk dies, it’s different: “Ok. When is the next flight to Turkey?” It’s chaos. You go to the embassy, the hospital and then the council. It’s understandable that older people would want to be buried there. They came here to work, they die, then they go home. But now, even their grandchildren – people who don’t even know Turkey – are buried in those villages. I don’t want to point fingers. I don’t want to say: “It’s your fault. It’s politics.” But is that healthy? And what will happen to me or my parents when we die? They don’t want to talk about it either. My father says: “I’ve decided not to die.” Great – problem solved [laughter].

These days, so many people are caught between countries and cultures. Your film might encourage them to think about that, too.
For me, it also says a lot about integration. Every company in Belgium wants to be like United Colors of Benetton, but this kind of multiculturalism is superficial. When you look at the actual percentage of people from minority groups buried here, it’s very small. I just want to say: you can choose. But hardly anyone does.

Look at me: I’m as Belgian as it gets. Why would I want to be buried in Turkey? It’s not just a matter of religion. I also wanted non-Muslims to be able to empathise with and understand the film. In Turkey, the concept of eternal rest is important. Once you’re buried, they don’t touch you. But in Belgium and Germany, and all these other countries, you can be buried for 20 or 25 years and then you have to pay to extend occupancy of the burial plot. But what if you can’t? That’s what I show in the film. I suppose that’s one reason why people want to be buried over there. And obviously we’re living in strange times. Right-wing and populist parties are very popular, and it would be political suicide for them to say: “It could be better for minorities to have their loved ones buried here.” That’s why I wanted to show Tayfun talking to politicians about this matter. They were always postponing their meetings or they didn’t want to be filmed.

You’re following someone who’s on a mission, but he’s no perfect hero. He can’t even put up a tent!
That short scene tells us something about him: he not going to be everyone’s saviour. He’s advertising his services at a market! The women next to him are selling candy – he’s selling funeral insurance. In most countries, undertakers have dignified shops, passed down from generation to generation. But he’s started from scratch. He’s trying to survive and make a name for himself. That’s actually one of my favourite scenes.

I also admired the women who wash bodies before burial. Some of them were so cheerful! The way they talk to the deceased is so special: “Oh, you have such pretty eyes. Your eyebrows are so nice.” There was so much kindness in that room. When we asked for permission to film, of course, it was a sensitive topic. These were someone’s parents. Sometimes, people would agree, and then suddenly change their minds.

There’s something very touching and funny about some of these scenes. Did you enjoy that contrast?
When we were pitching it, someone said: “You’re going to have a hard time convincing people it’s funny.” Later on, we organised a test screening. These people had nothing to do with the film industry and their reactions were crazy. They told us: “We laughed, we cried, and then we laughed again.”

I really believe it’s a necessary film, and that many people will relate to it. Its universality also has something to do with the fear of being forgotten. I don’t have children – does that mean that in 20 years they’ll dig up my bones? When we started, Tayfun came up to me a few times, saying: “We’re going to change the situation, aren’t we? We’re going to make sure there’s 2m² [the usual size of a grave] for everyone?” My answer was: “I don’t know.” I hope that, at the very least, we’ll be having this kind of discussion.