Review: Night is More Abstract by Miklavž Komelj

Translated by	Dan Rosenberg
Genre	Poetry
Language(s)	Slovenian, English
Format	208 Pages
Publisher	Zephyr Press
ISBN	9781938890383

Reviewed by Amanda L. Andrei

Mouse bones, owl pellets, and small silver pails appear amidst the dregs of communism, karma, and resurrections as Komelj’s poems play with size and scale from the minute to the epic. This fresh translation, Night is More Abstract: New and Selected Poems, imparts the abstractness of night not only on a mundane level, but also on a cosmic one (Zephyr Press, 2025).

Born in 1973, Komelj is a Slovenian art historian, writer, and poet with seventeen books of poetry; this new translation by poet Dan Rosenberg brings in selections from seven of those volumes as well as brand new poems. 

In “The Red Flag,” a lyrical whirlwind highlighting the crimson color, the poet is in conversation with filmmaker Pasolini’s Italian poem “Alla Bandiera Rossa” (“To the Red Flag”). Both poems scrutinize the red flag’s connotations with communism, class, and poverty. Komelj takes it further: “to get back to cherries, to get back to blood.” These earthy images are contrasted against Hitler, Christ, the narrator’s memories of a socialist society, and a confident sense of the mysteries of heaven and earth:

Did the gods, when they saw
the blood, find in their mouths
the taste of cherries?
(I know that feeling.)

It’s not just objects and ideologies that make their appearances. Along with dictators and religious figures, an international cadre of philosophers and artists march across the poems along with anonymous and transient folks—saints, sinners, and laypeople mingled alike. From an old man near a parking lot to the early theologian St. Augustine, from a tattooed woman on a bus to the Egyptian god Horus, Komelj conjures multiple historical and contemporary characters into his work, treating icons and strangers with equal reverence and ferocity. 

Take “The Lullaby of Isis,” originally from the 2021 collection The Burning Book, in which a narrator—the Egyptian goddess Isis of magic and motherhood—considers the “down of baby hair” as it becomes a quill while she touches the head of her child Horus, the god of Sun and Sky. The tone is maternal, royal, domineering, and religious, then shifts along with its stanza structures, transforming into a series of smaller poems under the guise of the lullaby. It breaks into more fragments, the quotidian rubbing up against terror:

In the middle of the road—
a bird—
no—a black plastic

bag—
no—
a slipper.

How 
they scream in the next
room!

The poem pulls in Latin and Italian; verses repeat as if chanted by a chorus. The words could be Isis still singing, or they could be the Sun God himself, finding his way across terra firma and repeating:

This is not a forest at night—
this is a night forest.
What you find within your might
is your greatest mystery.

Rosenberg provides a heartfelt translator’s note that emphasizes his conundrums, guiding questions, and principles as he encountered the Slovenian and multilingual poems. Pointing out conflicting translator goals and priorities, especially when teasing out assumptions of what Slovenian readers would know from Komelj’s personal poetic allusions and imagery, he muses, “Is my goal even to create an analogous experience, in English, to what Slovenian readers might encounter in his work? Is the stable notion of Slovenian readers even coherent?” 

The question is as philosophical as Komelj’s verses. Who receives these tides of mundane and cosmic images, and what do they do with them?

As systems, cultures, and attitudes shift in disproportionate and unpredictable ways across the world, these questions are worthwhile for any translator as they consider their audiences and for whom they translate. Ultimately, Rosenberg’s translations reflect his desires and actions to “simply honor what is most exciting” and to create a richly textured English translation. 

“I did my best not to smooth what he made rough,” he explains. In doing so, Komelj and Rosenberg present readers with a witching hour that screams, a darkness that glows.

It All Starts Here… Well, Kind Of

Notes from My Year as a Sundance Institute Ignite x Adobe Fellow

Review by Leon Ristov

This time last year, I found out I had made it to the final round of interviews for the Sundance Institute Ignite x Adobe Fellowship. The Fellowship is a yearlong program that supports ten emerging filmmakers between the ages of 18–25, offers mentorship and workshops from Sundance alumni, and ends with a showcase at the Sundance Film Festival. Per the official website, the fellowship focuses on “supporting emerging documentary and fiction filmmakers from across the globe.” At the time, it felt like everything I had been working toward was distilled into this opportunity. 

Flash forward to one year later—spring of 2026. I’m about to have my final check-in with Kat and Toby, the kind people who run the fellowship. I’ve spent a year as a Sundance Institute Ignite x Adobe Fellow, and I’m receiving eager messages from this year’s interviewees. They want advice on their applications. I remember being on the other side, hoping this opportunity would work out for me. The fellowship occupied so much space in my mind. Before I even knew the outcome, I had already imagined every version of it—being rejected, being accepted, sharing the news with others, or quietly holding onto disappointment. I played each scenario in my head so many times that by the time I received my acceptance letter, it felt strangely familiar, almost like I had already celebrated it. In retrospect, that might have been the perfect mindset to carry into this experience.

During the fellowship, our first kickoff lab took place at MASS MoCA in North Adams, Massachusetts. We were put up at the Porches Inn, a hotel made up of conjoined Victorian-style row houses painted in bright colors, complete with a sauna and pool that quickly became everyone’s favorite spot. I met the nine other fellows, and we clicked immediately, staying up late most nights, laughing and chatting in our swimsuits. The cohort hailed from all over—Canada, Costa Rica, India, Korea, Ireland, the U.S., and my country, North Macedonia. Over the course of a few very hot days, we shared our work and listened to Sundance Institute alumni speak, learning from filmmakers at various stages of their careers.

Gathered in the spacious, industrial rooms of MASS MoCA that somehow felt intimate, we listened to first-time directors who had achieved extraordinary success, and producers with longevity in the independent filmmaking world that one can only dream of. The humility in the room stood out to me the most. Mentors spoke about the effort and setbacks that come with making a first feature, as well as the even greater hurdles of making a second one.

“There was no illusion of a straight path or guaranteed success, just honest conversations about persistence, adaptability, and finding your way through uncertainty.”

It was then that I realized that the fellowship didn’t feel like all I had made it up to be in my head. It felt better than that—real people offering real advice.

In January 2026, I attended my first Sundance Film Festival thanks to the fellowship. I booked an Airbnb with most of the fellows, extending our stay beyond the four days scheduled for fellowship activities. “Guys… it all starts here,” Brittany would say jokingly, pausing for dramatic effect after “guys.” She was undoubtedly the funniest from our group—and probably in any group she’s part of. Still, there was some truth to the pomp. It was a historic edition—the final festival held in Park City, buzzing with excitement and nostalgia ahead of the festival’s move to Colorado in 2027. We had the chance to meet with studios and agents, attend a Janelle Monáe DJ set, and walk along the iconic (albeit freezing) Main Street, occasionally spotting recognizable faces from film and television.

But what stayed with me most weren’t those larger moments. It was the things that felt familiar. My friends Anooya Swamy and Raman Nimmala had their short films,Pankaja and O’Sey Balamma, premiering in the Official Selection. Marija Dimitrova, a seasoned Macedonian producer I was lucky to catch up with over a quick coffee, co-produced Shame and Money, the Grand Jury Prize-winning Kosovar film in the International Feature Program. My favorite film at the festival, Filipiñana—also a Grand Jury Prize-winner—was represented by MAGNIFY, the global sales arm of Magnolia Pictures, where I had previously interned. Attending these screenings became some of the most meaningful parts of the festival for me—moments of reconnecting and celebrating with people whose work I had followed closely, whose success didn’t feel foreign or overnight, but tangible and earned.

When my short film, Nikola, Nikola, screened during the Ignite showcase, projected on a large Sundance screen alongside the work of the other fellows, I found myself less focused on my achievement than on the collective strength of our films.

“There was something special about seeing all our films together—each one distinct, yet complementary to the others.”

I felt grateful for the cohort that Kat and Toby had brought together, a group of filmmakers who genuinely supported and believed in each other’s work. 

After the screening, aspiring filmmakers approached us with questions about applying to the fellowship, reminding me of how I had once imagined this moment from afar. But some of the most meaningful conversations happened among the fellows ourselves. In the minutes after the screening, we found ourselves complimenting each other’s films as if we were discovering them for the first time—sharing words of encouragement we had already said many times before.

“It” definitely did not all start here, despite our (at that point) running joke that it did. The fellowship was far from an overnight whirlwind of success. It was more of a coming together—a chance to be present with others on the same journey, and to find grounding in that shared experience. 

Things were already in motion. We just got to pause and witness it together.

Review: Documentary Film, Meant to Be

Reviewed by Guilherme Quireza

Warning: Contains spoilers for Meant to Be

Pogány Induló is only twenty, but he already looks worn down. In Hungary, he is famous, with a young audience that echoes his words back to him. It looks like the dream: fame, success, a launched career. Instead, success reached him before he knew what to do with it–and with it, the cost of success.

In Meant to Be, directed by Olivér Márk Tóth and produced by HBO, the young rapper moves through a life that has moved faster than he can process. Pogány Induló, born Marcell Szirmai, goes from a youthful hunger for recognition to a life organized around being seen. Since childhood, he has been in front of cameras, first as a YouTuber, chasing attention before he had any real protection from it. The privacy of a normal upbringing was gone early, and his life slowly took shape around visibility.

From the first scenes, the home around him is already coming apart. His parents argue often and the house becomes harder to live in. Slowly, the family learns how to live around something broken. Pogány tells the camera that he is fine after his parents announce their divorce, that it does not weigh on him. The camera closes in on his tired face, with no one else in the room. A detail shot shows his dirty, bruised feet while he lies curled up alone on the dressing-room couch, trying to rest. 

Then he is back onstage. In “Diktátor,” he sings about looking in the mirror and asking, “Who am I?” The line lands differently after the scene at home. It is no longer just a young rapper playing tough. Even if he says he is fine, his songs prove him to be a liar at best, and someone with a deeper struggle that is likely to erupt if ignored. The lyrics begin to carry the heavy feeling Induló refused to utter.

As he moves into rap, Induló starts adopting a harder public surface. The performance grows heavier. It gives him another role to maintain. The more he tries to look untouchable, the more exposed the songs become. The hardness is real, but so is the hurt leaking through it.

The family changes with the career. As his success grows, school falls away. He leaves high school before graduating, and the decision does not feel like freedom exactly. His mother shows concern, but the family is also becoming more dependent on his success. Her worry has to live beside the fact that his success helps the family survive. The child’s dream has turned into work, and the work has started supporting a circle larger than himself. Now, as a young man, he moves through one stressful concert after another: phones always nearby, no time to rest.

The songs become an outlet for his worst feelings. For a while, music holds him together. Those challenging emotions become part of the act, and the audience asks for them again and again. The adoration gives him purpose.

Induló’s body starts to give way almost as quickly as his fame grows. He is still changing, and not in a clean upward line. The child who dreamed of fame and the rapper now filling huge venues sit beside each other, along with his ADHD, panic, substance use, and the increasing scrutiny around him. They keep rubbing against each other.

As the shows grow bigger, drugs and alcohol stop looking like occasional interruptions in his life and more like part of the rhythm that keeps him going. After performances, the camera often finds him collapsed backstage, emptied after another night that has taken too much from him. The bigger the stage gets, the more wrecked he looks once he leaves it. The mornings after are worse, but in a quieter way. The noise of the show is gone, but the disorder remains: rooms left in chaos, the dull aftermath of a night that was supposed to prove everything was working. They are part of the same life as the music and the fame.

This way of living enters the songs. The heavy drinking, the refusal to slow down, all of it becomes part of the image Pogány sells and then has to live inside. Even as his physical and mental health begin to fail, the lifestyle becomes harder to escape. He grows sadder, more isolated. His relationship with his girlfriend falls apart. The persona keeps expanding while the person inside it shrinks.

And curiously, his self-destructive style pulls the audience closer. People can relate to the chaos, to the struggle. The more he sinks, the larger the stages become. The damage starts to look like proof of authenticity, and then like something marketable.

Around him, collapse often looks like style. The exhaustion is not hidden, nor are the drugs, the anger, or the need to look untouchable. They seep into the music and the way people present themselves. The young people around him recognize themselves in his damage, and that recognition feels contaminated by glamour.

Hungary’s drug laws make that image riskier. With drug possession and the promotion of drug use now criminalized, the lifestyle around Induló becomes easier to turn into evidence. Already strained by fame, he also risks becoming an example. His private damage gets pulled into public debate, and even performance carries legal and political risk. Curiously, when asked by the end of the film about the future, Induló seems content if it all ended right now. He acknowledges that his life is not healthy and should not be replicated, but is not open to leaving it all behind himself. 

At twenty, reinvention should be ordinary. For Induló, it looks forced and sped up by the presence of an audience. Today, his transformations are discussed and are attracting international public scrutiny, only to be folded back into the business around him almost as soon as they occur. Indeed, he is still forming. He is young. The world around him keeps asking for something finished: a star or a problem? Maybe even a symbol for Gen Z?

Calling him the voice of a generation risks taking too much from him. Still, the crowd gives the songs back to him as pressure. Pogány Induló gives shape to a restlessness that often appears as anger, and to a loneliness that often appears as numbness. The film exquisitely captures a young artist who is falling  apart in public, while the world around him keeps treating the image as exciting.

 

 

SEEfest 2026: Film Trailers

A bold cinematic journey begins here. This curated series of trailers offers a glimpse into the vibrant, provocative, and deeply human stories showcased at the South East European Film Festival (SEEfest). From gripping narratives to powerful documentaries, these films reflect the cultural richness and complexity of South East Europe, where history, identity, and innovation collide.

Each trailer is an invitation to explore new perspectives, challenge assumptions, and experience storytelling that transcends borders. Together, they capture the spirit of SEEfest, a festival dedicated to amplifying diverse voices and fostering cross-cultural dialogue through cinema.

Watch on YouTube.

SEEfest 2026 Schedule & Tickets

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Review: Breadcrumbs by Kasia Babis

Author	Kasia Babis
Genre	Graphic Memoir
Language(s)	English
Format	256 Pages
Publisher	Macmillan Press
ISBN	9781250877871

Reviewed by Lauren Halvonik

“One day you will learn respect for the fatherland, respect for bread. I will make you learn.” –Kasia Babis in Breadcrumbs

That is what the surly headmistress of Kasia’s Catholic school flings her way, in response for daring to drop breadcrumbs upon the floor. A dramatic statement following the denouement to the main character (Kaisa) reciting My Little Song III by CK Norwid. As one of the great Polish Romantic poets, Norwid is a fine choice here; his poem is about longing for the exaltation of bread and god, and of land and faith. 

A New Poland

This (opening) scene sets the tone of this graphic memoir by Kasia Babis. The headmistress retreats with all the flair of a drama teacher, leaving Kasia in shock, accented by humored confusion. As Kasia and her classmates laugh over the headmistress’ eccentricities, their relationship deepens amidst the backdrop of Poland transitioning from communism to capitalism. Ultimately this is a graphic memoir about autonomy, extending from one’s body to one’s home–an extension of the self.

In this new Poland, Catholicism now sits at the forefront–not as background noise that some choose to worship, but as a cemented presence in school and state. This rising tide of conservatism, a reaction to the socialist society that had just crumbled–begins to endanger the autonomy of our young heroines. Readers may notice it foreshadowed in the make-up being scrubbed off young girls, or in the strict uniforms the girls have to wear.

Breadcrumbs conveys how in times of uncertainty and strife, people often turn to doctrine and absolutes.

Throughout the graphic memoir, mothers cling to religion like the last buoy flung off a sinking ship. Babis highlights how mothers can inflict trauma on their daughters, often out of fear. For Monika’s mother, like for many women in Poland, life is not simple. Catholic faith becomes her anchor. In one disturbing scene, Babis illustrates how daughters are reminded that abortion is a sin. Monika opens the fridge, looking for leftover dinner, and instead finds a Tupperware with a cross drawn on it and the words “Lenka 02.2010-04.2010.” In a panic, she calls Kasia to share news of the miscarried fetus in the fridge. Babis then jumps forward–the next readers learn of Monika, she’s being committed to a psychiatric institution by her mother. 

Beyond the intricacies of motherhood and childhood, Monika’s story introduces the burgeoning sentiment against abortion in post-soviet Poland. Breadcrumbs is also a tale about the loss of personal autonomy and the fight to protect it. Even in Monika’s mothers actions there is a sense that she feels a loss of autonomy in this new Poland. She’s struggling financially and has no external help available to her for the care of her five children. She has to lean on Monika for help and even reminds her of that as they’re at the steps of the psychiatric institution. Her faith in Jesus and the Catholic Church makes her feel some sense of control, of autonomy.

While much of the book covers a woman’s right to bodily autonomy, it also examines personal autonomy through the lens of property. 

Wild Reprivatization

“But how do you decide who owns what in a city that was once completely destroyed?” –Kasia Babis in Breadcrumbs

Babis presents the above question at the beginning of the story of Jolanta Brzeska. Brzeska was a tenants’ rights activist who many believe was murdered for her activism. Throughout the memoir, Babis uses actual quotes from witness reports, giving this section of the book a particularly eerie truth. For example, a young man reported that he saw something burning in the distance that night, precisely where Brzeska’s body was found. 

In Breadcrumbs, he ask an unanswered question:

“If she just lay there, burning alive…why wasn’t she screaming?”

Strajk Kobięt

“Men’s anger. Why does it always take me by surprise?” –Kasia Babis in Breadcrumbs

In Babis’ final act, she returns to an intimate interlude that is once again, a meditation on mother’s and daughter’s, on women’s perseverance and on men’s anger. This part takes place amongst the political backdrop of Partia Razem, a left leaning party in Poland whose name signifies “togetherness” and Strajk Kobiet, the All-Poland Women’s Strike. For context, the strike unfolded  in 2016 and again in 2020, largely in response to increasingly restrictive anti-abortion laws. Babis documents how, 

“The battle over abortion we fought in 2016 did not put an end to the government’s war against women’s rights. In 2020, the New Constitutional Court, now packed with Law and Justice Party members, declared previous abortion laws unconstitutional. According to the new ruling, it was only legal to terminate a pregnancy if it was threatening a woman’s life or if the pregnancy was a result of rape. In response to the ruling hundreds of thousands of people went to the streets in the biggest protest since the fall of communism.”

Finally, in 2016, the protagonists feel the power of their voices. Especially Kasia, who leads a portion of the march, and speaks to the crowd with Partia Razem. 

The memoir  ends with the girls finding each other once again, now with Monika’s daughter, Matylda. In the light of motherhood, they reflect on their mothers and empathize with the difficulties they had. Monika contextualizes how even though her mother hurt her, her mother was also responding to her autonomy being stripped from her. 

There is so much in Breadcrumbs to discuss and share. Babis takes readers on a journey  through Polish history with such a beautiful and detailed pen. This memoir covers the facets of womanhood and disenfranchisement in a way that reminds readers that we all deserve autonomy. And that often, we have to fight for it. 

“Sometimes I think there’s no way anyone from that generation didn’t come out at least a little bit fucked up, you know?” “Well to be fair I don’t think we’re that well-adjusted either.” “That’s how it works, right? Generational trauma or something. At least we acknowledge it. Let’s hope someday someone breaks the cycle.”

Additional Reading

1. Babis, Kasia. Breadcrumbs: Coming of Age in Post-Soviet Poland. Macmillan, 2025.
2. Norwood, CK. “My Little Song III” a translation of the CK Norwood poem included in Breadcrumbs. 
3. Tilles, Daniel. “Prosecutors Discontinue Investigation into Warsaw Tenants’ Rights Activist Who Burned to Death.” Notes From Poland.

ROMANIAN TIFF AND CZECH KARLOVY VARY HEAT UP THE FESTIVAL SUMMER

It’s Film Festival Season in South East Europe!

The busy festival summer kicks off this weekend with the 24th annual Transilvania International Film Festival in Cluj-Napoca, Romania, followed in July by the 59th festival in Karlovy Vary, Czech Republic, and the 72nd Pula Film Festival in Croatia. 

Next in August are Locarno (the 78th edition) and Sarajevo (the 31st), the largest regional festival in South East Europe. 

And there’s more to explore on the festival circuit! Packed programs with an increasing number of sidebars, industry platforms and special cultural events offer festivalgoers plenty to choose from. 

Whether you’re a film industry insider or a tourist, European festival summer is welcoming to all guests. Enjoy! 

TIFF Romania – https://tiff.ro/en

Karlovy Vary – https://www.kviff.com/en/homepage

Pula – https://pulafilmfestival.hr/?lang=en

Locarno – https://www.locarnofestival.ch/home.html

Sarajevo – https://www.sff.ba/en 

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“Greek Apricots” at Future Frames in Karlovy Vary

Short film by Slovenian director Jan Krevatin, “Greek Apricots” – which L.A. audiences saw at SEEfest in May, is part of European Film Promotion’s program Future Frames at the upcoming Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, July 4 – 12.

The film portrays a couple brought together by their shared Macedonian roots on a quiet summer night, and features renowned N. Macedonian actress Labina Mitevska (“Before the rain,” “I am from Titov Veles”). Congrats to the young filmmaker!

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…and a few books to read on long summer nights…

Maya Ombasic, from Bosnia and Herzegovina and based in Quebec, Canada, whose breakout debut “Mostarghia” established her on the international literary scene, has several books in print albeit mostly in French.

“Lejla” (Dans les murs) features a woman traveling to Trieste, a city she’s fascinated by since childhood, and a city that encapsulates the unique milieu of Central/East and Southeast Europe.

And More:

Andrey Kurkov, Ukrainian author whose novel “The Silver Bone,” translated by Boris Dralyuk, was on the 2024 International Booker Prize longlist.

Georgi Gospodinov: The Bulgarian author, who won the 2023 International Booker Prize with “Time Shelter,” translated by Angela Rodel.

Jenny Erpenbeck, a German author from the former East Germany, won the 2024 International Booker Prize for “Kairos,” translated by Michael Hofmann. This novel is set in the final years of communist East Germany.

“This Way to Paradise – Dancing on the tables,” a book about life in Greece, by lifelong Philhellene (and a supporter of SEEfest since its early days,) Willard Manus. 

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Review: Anora

Reviewed by Aleksandr Tverdokhleb

Warning: Contains spoilers for Anora

Weeks have passed since the 2025 Academy Awards ceremony, which took place on March 2 at the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles. The film Anora by Sean Baker was the evening’s triumph, winning five statuettes out of six nominations, making it the most awarded film at the event. The movie tells the story of Annie Mikheeva (played by Mikey Madison, who won an Oscar for this role), a prostitute and daughter of Russian-speaking immigrants. While working at a strip club, she meets Ivan (Mark Eidelstein), the son of Russian oligarchs. He offers her money to live together, later confesses his love, and proposes to her despite the radical disapproval of his parents (Aleksei Serebryakov and Darya Ekamasova, respectively).

Even if you haven’t heard about Anora before, its cast alone highlights its uniqueness: among the lead actors, only Mikey Madison is American; the other key characters are played by four Russian actors and two Armenian-born performers. This gives the film a distinctive atmosphere, reflected not only in the script (a quarter of the dialogue is in Russian) but also in its rich Eastern European aesthetic. This is evident not only in the characters’ costumes, which differ significantly from the American crowd, but also in certain small habits that are very familiar to Eastern European residents. For example, at one point in a cafe, Toros (Karen Karagulian) starts scolding the nearby American youth, using extremely stereotypical phrases about how the new generation is “not what it used to be” and “doesn’t respect their elders,” even though the American kids have done almost nothing. I think this is very familiar to those who grew up in Eastern Europe and often faced judgment from older generations in public places, hearing similar phrases—even when they had done nothing at all. It’s also noticeable that the Armenian characters park terribly every time, breaking multiple rules and even getting fined once, which feels completely natural, given that they come from a country that is significantly less car-oriented than the U.S.

At first glance, the film seems to follow the signature style of Sean Baker’s directing. His previous works—Tangerine, The Florida Project, and Red Rocket—focus on marginalized communities, with the protagonists of Tangerine and Red Rocket also tied to the adult entertainment industry. However, Anora takes a slightly different path:within the first 20 minutes of the film, the heroine finds herself in a world of luxurious interiors and ultra-wealthy elites.One of the film’s standout features is its visual style, which earned an Oscar for Best Editing. Baker has always been known for his experimental approach to cinematography—for example, Tangerine was shot on a modified iPhone camera to enhance realism. In Anora, he employs various unique cinematographic techniques. In an interview with Hammer To Nail, the director revealed that he deliberately changed film stock and lenses to emphasize color contrasts, with warm tones giving way to cold ones, creating a visual transition between different worlds. Additionally, this helped evoke a 1970s aesthetic, with the set design carefully chosen to match this effect. 

Anora has a distinct, three-part structure. The first part is an erotic melodrama centered on the relationship between Annie and Ivan. This is the weakest segment of the film. The second is a burlesque comedy that begins with the arrival of Armenian “bodyguards” (Karen Karagulian and Vache Tovmasyan) and the Russian “bouncer” Igor (played by Oscar nominee for Best Supporting Actor, Yuri Borisov), whom Ivan’s parents send to New York to annul his marriage to Annie. The third part is a drama, though not without humorous moments—Baker generally avoids pure drama, preferring to balance intense scenes with irony. All three parts share a similar narrative structure, featuring abrupt transitions from loud scenes where characters shout at each other, to quiet episodes in which they sluggishly chew food, watch TV, or engage in routine activities with almost no dialogue.

Overall, the film flips the classic Cinderella storyline on its head. We’ve seen this before in the 1990 film Pretty Woman: a young woman from the social bottom falls in love with a wealthy man and enters the world of the rich. But instead of happiness, as in traditional fairy tales, she discovers that her chosen lover or suitor—who has only known her for a couple of weeks—does not truly love her. And both protagonists of these two Cinderella-esque films realize that money is not a cure-all for life’s problems.

In 2025, viewers of Anora already understand the unrealistic nature of tales like Cinderella and may not expect a happy ending for Anie and Ivan’s relationship. It doesn’t help that Ivan is portrayed throughout the film as an infantile,thoughtless teenager. However, the goal of the film is not to surprise the audience with the sudden realization that marrying someone after two weeks, especially when that person behaves like a child, is a bad idea. Instead, Sean Baker’s aim is to highlight the doomed nature of this marriage via the characters who become the emotional core in the second half of the film: the Armenian “fixers” Toros (Karen Karagulian) and Garnik (Vache Tovmasyan), as well as the Russian Igor (Yura Borisov). These latter characters have incredible charisma. Given that a large portion of their dialogue was improvised, the actors demonstrate remarkable skill. Sean Baker does not speak Russian, so the delivery of lines relied entirely on the actors themselves. The choice of words and intonations was up to them, and in this regard, all Russian-speaking characters showcase an exceptional level of acting.

So what is Anora really about? Neither Ivan nor Anie evokes strong positive emotions at the beginning of the story—one is an immature fool, and the other is overly trusting and at times overly hysterical. Watching the first third of the film, as a viewer, you want to tell Anie not to be so naive when Ivan repeatedly proves how irresponsible he is. And you also want to tell Ivan that to stop acting like a child. When the characters played by Vache Tovmasyan, Yura Borisov, and Karen Karagulian appear, they do exactly that—they voice the concerns of the audience, and interfere with the romance. This strengthens the viewers’ emotional connection with them. On top of that, they deliver almost all of the film’s best jokes. Even when reading American reviews of the movie (for example, on IMDb), it’s clear that even those who didn’t like the film still appreciated the outstanding performances of the Russian-speaking actors.Anora does not just tell the story of Mikey Madison’s heroine—it also presents a classic Hollywood narrative through the eyes of people who usually remain in the background: the employees of wealthy Russian oligarchs, who may appear to have no “real” influence and who work for extremely unpleasant individuals, but still try to conduct themselves with dignity. These characters may be easier to relate to, for the audience

Karen Karagulian, Mikey Madison, Yura Borisov, and
Vache Tovmasyan

Anora is not without its flaws. The excessively sharp editing and the alternating loud and silent scenes may feel exhausting. Additionally, in the first third of the film, the main characters can be irritating at times. However, these shortcomings pale in comparison to the film’s strengths, and Sean Baker absolutely deserved those Oscars.

As for the actors from Southeastern Europe, they deserve the applause too. They not only delivered phenomenal performances, but also became the emotional heart of the film. Thanks to them, Anora stands out from the sea of films released in the past year, serving as a brilliant example of how Russian language and Russian-speaking actors can be used in cinema in a way that feels natural, effective, and well-done. It is especially gratifying to see that Western audiences have also appreciated these performances, confirming just how exceptional they truly are.

Review: “Bounds” and “I Want a Country”

Location	2525 Michigan Ave., Building T1, Santa Monica, CA 90404
Theater	City Garage at Bergamot Station
Date of Performance	February 7, 2025 and February 9, 2025
Language(s)	English (translated from Italian and Greek, respectively)
Photos by	Paul M. Rubenstein

Reviewed by  Allie Rigby

Where do you go when your country has dissolved or fallen apart? What opportunities and purgatories await displaced people who have risked everything for a chance at a better life? 

This weekend, two plays opened at City Garage Theatre, both with painfully relevant themes exploring what it means to leave one country forever–or consider leaving it–only to land in a disorienting, dangerous place where arriving becomes an impossible feat. 

In this production of Bounds by playwright Tino Caspanello from Italy, and translated by Haun Saussy, five women in matching black outfits command the stage, collectively passing the time on the beach with conversation, dancing, fights, and childlike games with high stakes. The play opens with Woman 1 (Lenka Janischova Shockley) kneeling center stage, wishing for the comfort of a chair, which we later learn she does not have because she lost the most recent round of musical chairs.

Shockley delivers in this role, with her character often challenging the social hierarchy established in this liminal place, with its pecking order led by Woman A (Angela Beyer), and loosely reaffirmed by Woman C (Devin Davis-Lorton) and Woman B (Alyssa Frey). Meanwhile, Woman 2 (Alyssa Ross) seems aware that like Woman 1, her status among the group is not secure, and she may be the one sent back home.

Rules keep the group in some order and also help pass the time. By the end of the play, it remains unclear who will be sent back home, or if any of them will be allowed to enter this new country. All we know is that they are tired and they have been waiting for a long time to arrive.

Directed by Frédérique Michel and produced by Charles A. Duncombe, Bounds succeeds in conveying the uncertainty and fear that the five displaced women share, despite their differences in personality, status, dreams, and beliefs. Duncombe also achieves an uncertain, ominous atmosphere with his choice of rumbling, surveillance-type sounds (ie., helicopters hovering) that grow especially loud in the final scene, where these women await their fate in this new country.

The ending in I Want a Country is similar in that it is also ambiguous, but in a way that is more satisfying because the characters never left their “dead” country to begin with. The despondent, anticlimactic ending conveys the hopelessness of staying in a country where life has been sucked out of it. Written by playwright Andreas Flourakis from Greece during the financial crisis of 2010, and translated by Eleni Drivas, I Want a Country conveys the impossibility of shaping a new nation by consensus or democracy.

Throughout the play (also directed by Frédérique Michel and produced by Charles A. Duncombe), characters pop umbrellas to weather storms, support their partner, and carry on, but they cannot agree on much, including where to go, how a country should operate, who to welcome, who to exclude, how to make and share money, etc. A lack of money and lack of imagination are part of the problem:, the group struggles to describe a new, ideal country that does not reproduce the same ills they seek to flee. 

Director Frédérique Michel adds gorgeous moments of pause, where characters freeze while doing menial tasks like tying their shoes or walking arm in arm. These glitchy, staccato moments, coupled with sequences when the characters walk backward rather than forwards, solidify a place where time is slightly warped and characters are stuck with indecision around where to go and how to make the next place better. Duncombe’s use of a didgeridoo as part of the sonic atmosphere adds a heavy, pulsating layer to these sequences where the characters are stuck in limbo.

Perhaps most memorable is Papa Escargot (Andy Kallok) whose feelings of hopelessness are palpable beginning from the moment he enters the stage, stumbles upon a pair of discarded shoes, and slumps over, exhausted, sitting on his suitcase. 

There are also fantastic lines throughout, such as when Storm (Daniel Strausman) gets frustrated at the group’s return to money as the solution to all their problems, saying:

STORM: “Come on guys, we’re talking about doing something revolutionary, and again the conversation goes back to money.”

TOMY: “It’s hard not to.”

LONELY: “Force of habit.”

TOMY: “We don’t just need a new country — we need a new way of thinking.”

This new way of thinking may still be what we need here in the United States too. Both of these plays are timely, especially amidst the rising threats of mass deportations of immigrants, unreasonable searches and incarcerations, and increasingly militarized borders. 

Once again, and per their thirty-five year record, City Garage Theatre has produced plays that speak to the times and encourage people to have empathy and compassion for what it means to arrive in a country that may pummel you into the ground.

As Woman 1 says in Bounds,

“This whole thing is . . . inhuman.” 

The plays will run in repertory, with Bounds Thursdays and Fridays, and I Want a Country on Saturdays and Sundays until March 16. 

Review: The Seagull

Location	2055 S Sepulveda Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90025
Theater	The Odyssey Theatre, Los Angeles
Date of Performance	January 18, 2025
Language(s)	English (translated from Russian)
Photos by	Sasha Dawson and Miguel Perez

Reviewed by  Amanda L. Andrei

“We need new forms,” declares Konstantin Treplev, a fledgling playwright and son of an aging actress, of the theatre. “New forms are needed, and if we can’t have them, then we had better have nothing at all.” It’s also through old forms, such as Anton Chekov’s comedy The Seagull, that audience members can contemplate the role of artists and the snares of love. Although Odyssey Theatre Ensemble’s vision of this play contains stylistic twists which belie Chekov’s realism and create an undercurrent of dissonance, the poised portrayals of the iconic Boris Trigorin and Irina Arkadina bolster the tragicomedy. 

Dramatist and author Anton Chekov penned The Seagull 130 years ago, with its premiere a year later, in 1896 at the Alexandrinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia. Set in a lake house and estate in the Russian countryside in the same era, the play served as an opportunity for the turn-of-the-century audiences to see themselves reflected in stark, realistic terms: family dynamics, class differences, and love triangles during a shimmery summer and then two years later, in a thunderstorm. 

There’s Irina Arkadina (Sasha Alexander), a theatre actress trying to reclaim her youth and influence, visiting her brother Pyotr Sorin (Joe Hulser), retired official and owner of the lake house. Her son Konstantin (Parker Sack), living under the shadow of his mother and aspiring to be a writer. Boris Trigorin (James Tupper), established writer and paramour of Irina, who falls for the 19-year-old idealistic Nina Zarechnaya (Cece Kelly), a neighbor to the estate who longs to be an actress and in the world of theatre and literati. And then there are multiple other guests, neighbors, and servants who add to the rich texture and intrigue of Russian society. 

It would be easy to paint Trigorin as a slimy creep, preying on a teenage Nina for his own base desires and insecurities. But James Tupper is exquisite, inhabiting the role with such innocent presence and care that it’s easy to be seduced by—and sympathetic towards—this romantic writer. Sasha Alexander also fills her Irina with vigor and desperation, drawing bursts of laughter with her comedic timing and commanding rapt attention as she baits Trigorin to return to her arms. Parker Sack as Konstantin offers boyish rebellion, optimism, and moodiness—he shines best during a verbal throwdown with his rapacious mother—though witnessing a more transformative arc towards the end would have been more satisfying and poignant. Performances by Will Dixon as Dr. Dorn, and Carlos Carrasco as the steward Shamrayev, are also notable for the gusto and enthusiasm they bring to these side characters. 

Part of the trouble with this production is that some of the visual stylistic choices conflict with the realism and era invoked from the text, a translation from 1960 by Ann Dunnigan. The translation itself is clear, and occasionally feels dated with its exclamations and endearments (“Fiddlesticks!” “Little one!”), but the dated feeling seems to come more from the ambiguity around time and place within the production. It’s unclear what the time period is: costumes and props verge on the modern, and small details like sunglasses, a camouflage outfit, and a ballpoint pen impart anachronistic touches that distract. The sprawling moss and large aquamarine lake in the background (cleverly designed by Carlo Maghirang) evoke feelings of immersivity and stagnancy beneath beauty, but also give an expressionistic feeling, as if the house and action symbolically live within the lake, instead of alongside it. 

Director Bruce Katzman also crafts some moments of characters freezing in charged moments, creating silent tableaus that adds a touch of strangeness to the production. The choice to get playful and more abstract with The Seagull is a noteworthy one, though it seems the production would benefit from a more modern or updated translation that would allow the creative team to be more flexible with the contemporary design choices and have a more unified vision. 

Given the situation with the wildfires, it can be jarring to return to the theatres during this time in L.A. Chekov’s summer vacation world and love entanglements seem far removed from the disaster befalling the City of Angels. But in fact, they hearken to L.A. as the illusory La-la-land, that amidst the luster of the entertainment industry, there are scores of individuals who are dreaming, scheming, and hustling to make a life in the arts. Some motives may be naïve or petty, others heartfelt and sincere. 

As Nina tells Konstantin towards the end, after her share of trials and heartbreak, 

“I know now, I understand, that in our work, Kostya—whether it’s acting or writing—what’s important is not fame, not glory, not things I used to dream of, but the ability to endure.” 

In this time, that endurance is a reminder for every Angeleno.

Review: First Light by Zafer Şenocak

Author	Zafer Şenocak
Translated By	Kristin Dickinson
Genre	Poetry
Language(s)	Turkish, English
Format	160 Pages
Publisher	Zephyr Press
ISBN	978-1-938890-30-7

Reviewed by Allie Rigby

What does it mean to exist in one place, physically, but mentally and emotionally exist elsewhere, simultaneously suspended in past, present, and future? Such time-warped entanglement ricochets throughout Zafer Şenocak’s bilingual poetry collection, First Light, translated from Turkish into English by Kristin Dickinson (Zephyr Press, 2024). 

Many of the poems speak to the ideas of memory, language, and home, home being an ethereal concept often–if not ever so slightly–out of reach; accessible in wisps, dreams, and impressions that linger as briefly as morning light.

Şenocak’s poems ache with longing and acknowledgments of human contradictions. The original poem unfolds on the left page, in Turkish, and on the right lays the English translation. 

In the poem, Muammaydun or I was a riddle (pg. 68-69), the speaker’s voice aches with loneliness and the universal desire to be known:

“I didn’t want to be an I
I wanted there to be someone
Yearning for me
My faithful companion
When you reach me
Let me be known” (Lines 16-21).

The “you” is an especially compelling address in this poem and throughout the collection. Is “you” a lover? The reader? A deeper, spiritual companion? The “cosmos” as Dickinson writes in the opening text “Unraveling the Self in Translation”? All of the above? With the “you” address, readers are brought into an intimate conversation between the speaker and someone. How readers interpret the “you” will influence each subsequent reading of the poem. But rather than get too stuck on who this “you” may be, I ask myself what the poet Brynn Saito encourages her students to ask themselves, when reading a poem for the first few times: how does the poem make me feel?

After reading I was a riddle I initially felt soothed by the longings I shared with the speaker; I also felt forlorn that loneliness was so inevitable. The repetition of “I” in Line 16 has a sense of contraction in itself–only through the “I” can the speaker express who they do and don’t want to be, and how to break free of the loneliness of the singular “I” is simultaneously impossible and desired. 

The last two lines provide the solace, the hope, that someone, or something, will enter the speaker’s life and see them truly. Does this happen at death? Or before, via spiritual companionship? Or perhaps with deep friendship? Like many poets whose writing I admire, Şenocak does not answer it explicitly, but rather, lets us revel–and struggle–with the questions.

It’s impossible to ignore the role of language in any work of translation. Those who are familiar with Şenocak’s impressive canon of work, which according to his bio on Zephyr Press, includes “ten books of poetry, seven novels, and five essay collections” may know that he wrote much of his earlier work in German first, rather than in Turkish. Zephyr Press published Door Languages in 2008, which Şenocak wrote in German and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright translated into English. First Light was written in Turkish first, as is much of Şenocak’s recent work. Translation is an art and an interpretation, the initial language of a text will influence the subsequent translations.

The relationship between language and home is deeply intertwined in this collection. In Kalbini üzme or Don’t trouble your heart (pg. 30-31), the poem flows from the title as:

“May the dust surrounding it
Never tire you
Neither home nor homesickness will come of that dust
You’ve tried enough
To make a home at the water’s edge” (Lines 1-5).

What troubles the speaker here is not the inevitability that dust falls around the heart, but rather the exhaustion that comes from this dust. There is a gentle acceptance in this address, an invitation to imagine a different kind of home: whatever actions the addressed “you” has made to make a home have not succeeded. The rich image of making a home at the water’s edge is once again soothing and promising, and yet, the speaker here reminds the “you” that they can pause that home-making attempt. 

What then, does it mean, to forgo making a home? Or is home not a physical thing to make, but only possible in the form of language, itself? To be at home in language. 

To–as Şenocak closes that poem–“Let the knots in your throat open.” Each poem then, an experiment into untying more of the ropes that bind us.