Faites un don \u00e0 Novastan<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n In an interview with Novastan<\/em>, the young filmmaker discusses his childhood, his relationship with cinema, the places that shape his work, the ethics of filming vulnerable people and the emergence of a new generation of Kyrgyz directors seeking to show an authentic, unvarnished Central Asia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Novastan : Could you tell us about your journey into cinema? When did you first feel that you wanted to become a director?<\/strong> Tolomush Zhanybekov <\/strong>: Since childhood, my main friend was the television. I hardly ever left the house: I watched all kinds of films and, figuratively speaking, spoke with the screen. Stories for my own films were constantly being born and developing in my head. Most likely, the desire to become a director came from that childhood solitude.<\/p>\n\n\n\n You were born in Balykchy, and several of your films seem very closely connected to specific places. Could you tell us where The Road<\/em>, Birdsong<\/em>, Balyk<\/em> and Barakholka<\/em> were shot, and why you chose those particular locations?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n My graduation film, The Road<\/a><\/em>, was shot in the city of Balykchy<\/a>, where I was born and grew up. It is a very textured, visually rich place. Birdsong<\/a><\/em> was shot in the village of Kaji-Say, in the Issyk-Kul<\/a> region. In Soviet times, it was a thriving industrial town where coal was mined, and there was a uranium tailings site nearby. Today, there is a persistent feeling that time froze there somewhere in the 1990s. Balyk<\/em> and Barakholka<\/em> were shot in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For readers discovering your work for the first time, could you briefly present each of these films in two or three sentences: what is it about, where does it take place and what drew you to this story?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The Road<\/em>: The story of a 65-year-old cemetery guard. He lives and works far from the noise of the world, and in this silence, alone with those who have passed away, he paradoxically feels much more comfortable than among the living.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Birdsong<\/em>: A documentary<\/a> about two brothers. The elder brother finds it difficult to go outside, and the only person who looks after him is his younger brother, who goes to the village centre every day in search of casual work. Their meeting at the end of the day is the most important thing in their lives. Since childhood, I had been interested in what it means to have a brother, how such relationships work, how brothers support one another and what they talk about. One day, in a small village, I met these protagonists and understood that I had to make a film about them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Barakholka<\/em>: A documentary about pensioners. Every weekend, near my home, they set up a street market where they sell their old, vintage belongings. I have always been fascinated by watching them, their daily lives and the past they are selling off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Balyk<\/em>: A short fiction film about a teenager who stutters heavily, which makes it difficult for him to communicate with others. It is partly a personal story, as I faced this problem myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For readers who do not know Kyrgyzstan well, how would you describe places such as Balykchy, Bishkek, Barakholka or Kaji-Say, geographically, socially and personally?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Balykchy is the city of my childhood, in northern Kyrgyzstan, surrounded by picturesque but harsh landscapes. A place of winds and memories.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Bishkek is the city where I grew up. It is a noisy capital, where people from all regions come in search of a better life, creating a bubbling social melting pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Read also on Novastan<\/strong>: Kirghizstan : les d\u00e9chets radioactifs continuent de polluer les eaux de Kadji Sa\u00ef<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Kaji-Say is an abandoned industrial trace of a bygone era, squeezed between the mountains and Lake Issyk-Kul, where history itself seems to have come to a standstill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Barakholka is not just a market, but a living open-air social archive, where people\u2019s destinies are revealed through old objects.<\/p>\n\n\n\n How important is location to you in the process of making a film? Do you first find a place and build a story around it, or does a character appear first, after which you look for the right space?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n In my work, location is a fully-fledged character. It conveys the atmosphere of the film in its own right. Sometimes I see a textured place, and a plot immediately begins to take shape within it. And sometimes I work the other way around: first the image of a character is born, and then I look for a space that could organically receive that character or emphasise their inner state.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Your films often focus on people who usually remain outside public attention: children, pensioners, solitary figures, people living or working in difficult social conditions. Why are you drawn to these kinds of protagonists?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n In contemporary Kyrgyz cinema, these layers of the population are undeservedly neglected. They are rarely shown on screen. Mentally, all my characters are united by a deep inner loneliness, and it is precisely this vulnerability, this invisibility to the wider world, that attracts and moves me most.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In The Road<\/em>, the road seems to be something more than just a physical space. What does it mean to you?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n You are right. During my student years, I first came face to face with death: every autumn during my four years of study, someone in my family died. This tragic cycle forced me to think constantly about death and even, subconsciously, to wait for it. It may sound naive now, but at the time I desperately wanted to make sense of and understand a person\u2019s departure. From these experiences came the metaphor of the road as a path between worlds, a transit from life into non-being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Silence and atmosphere also play a very strong role in The Road<\/em>. Is silence important in your cinema?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Yes, absolutely. To return to the previous question: to make sense of such fundamental things as life and death, silence was vitally necessary for me. In addition, as a director, I feel very close to a pure visual language. I like it when thoughts, feelings and dramaturgy can be conveyed to the viewer without unnecessary words, through pauses and the atmosphere of the frame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Birdsong<\/em> was your first documentary film. What pushed you towards documentary cinema?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n By nature, I am a contemplative person. Since childhood, I could sit for hours and openly observe people, although now, of course, I do it more carefully and tactfully. Documentary is the foundation of cinema. It always contains genuine organic life, living human faces and real stories that cannot be artificially constructed within the framework of a fiction script.<\/p>\n\n\n\n How did you meet the protagonists of Birdsong<\/em>, and how did you manage to build trust with them?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I was walking through the centre of the village and sat down at a bus stop, observing the local residents. From a distance, a man wearing a kalpak approached me. We began talking. From what he told me, I understood that he lived with his elder brother, was constantly looking for any kind of casual work and spoke about him all the time, with immense tenderness and anxiety. I suggested that he appear in a film, he agreed, and I immersed myself in their fragile, closed world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Read also on Novastan<\/strong>: Vie et m\u0153urs des d\u00e9chets uraniques centrasiatiques<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n The trust between us probably emerged on the level of pure energy. My original intention was to make this film with great love and respect for them. I think the viewer feels that warmth through the screen and through the way the camera angles were chosen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When you film real people, especially vulnerable people, how do you decide what can be shown and what should remain off camera?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n It is always an extremely difficult inner dilemma. In documentary cinema, you very quickly become close to your protagonists. They become dear to you, and subconsciously there is a strong desire to protect them, to defend them, to show them from their best side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n During filming, I gather a lot of material. At the editing stage, when the final story is being built, I always mentally put myself in their place: how would I feel if this personal information became public? Here it is critically important to sense the fine line between artistic truth and ethics, to understand what needs to remain for the dramaturgy and what must be hidden from the viewer\u2019s eyes forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In Balyk<\/em>, the main character is a boy who lives between school, work at the market, loneliness and humiliation. Where did this story begin?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The word Balykchy<\/em> means \u201cfisherman\u201d in Kyrgyz. In childhood, our family lived by cooking and selling fish. In addition, during my school years, I stuttered very badly. I remember that in the lower grades we had speed-reading tests: we had to read as many words as possible in one minute. In second grade, my classmates read between 40 and 65 words, while because of my stutter I managed only nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was an enormous stress and trauma. At home, alone, I could read completely normally. I would memorise texts in advance, but as soon as I stood in front of the class, everything collapsed. The plot of Balyk<\/em> grew out of these painful personal memories.<\/p>\n\n\n Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n What does the title Balyk<\/em> mean to you? Is the fish a symbol in the film?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Yes, the fish is a key symbol here. When you cut or kill a fish, it does not make a single sound. Its \u201cfacial\u201d expression does not change; you cannot read pain or emotion in it. My main character is locked in the same way in his muteness and loneliness in the face of a cruel outside world. He suffers silently, like a fish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The market in Balyk<\/em> is not only a workplace, but an entire social world. What did you want to show through this environment?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I wanted to capture our authentic bazaar. It is a unique space, always incredibly interesting to be in and to observe: all kinds of types, destinies, tragedies and comedies collide there. Moreover, the East is historically and culturally tied to bazaar culture. It is its heart and the mirror of society.<\/p>\n\n\n Faites un don \u00e0 Novastan<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Balyk<\/em> is a Kyrgyz-French co-production. How did this international collaboration come about, and did it influence the development of the film or its reception?<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n In 2024, a Script Lab for authors from Central Asia was organised in Kazakhstan as part of the Post Space film camp. My mentor was Katya Khazak, a producer from France. At that time, I already had a rough cut of Balyk<\/em>. I showed her the material, she liked the film very much and offered to help complete it at a high international post-production level.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Our project was supported by the European fund Creative Europe MEDIA. Thanks to this collaboration, we shortened and significantly improved the editing, and carried out professional sound correction and colour correction. This greatly raised the artistic level of the film.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Could you explain the title Kesilish joldogu pensionerlerdin maekterinen<\/em> (Barakholka<\/em>)? How would you translate it into English or French?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n In English, the title translates as: Conversations of Pensioners at a Crossroads<\/em>. The title contains a double meaning: the physical crossroads of the streets where they stand, and the crossroads of life at which they find themselves in the twilight of their days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Why did you decide to film pensioners at Barakholka? What did you want to convey through their conversations?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I wanted to reveal their deep social loneliness, but at the same time to show their desperate, touching attempt to remain part of society, to be among people. Through their everyday conversations, sometimes sad, sometimes paradoxical, an astonishingly sincere and unembellished life emerges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The outside view of Kyrgyzstan often focuses on mountains, nomadic traditions and impressive landscapes. Your films, by contrast, turn more towards everyday life, urban or semi-urban spaces, roads, markets and social margins. Is this a conscious choice?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Yes, it is an entirely conscious artistic choice. Our country is incredibly full of contrasts. Of course, we have majestic mountains and postcard landscapes, but there is another side of reality too: the everyday life of ordinary people, urban outskirts, the underside of society. This underside is still very little explored and rarely conveyed in cinema<\/a>, and it is precisely this that I want to reveal to the viewer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n How would you describe the current generation of young Kyrgyz directors?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n We are a generation of sincere and, in a good sense, naive directors. There is an enormous, pure desire burning in us to make films despite any difficulties and to rediscover for the world an authentic, non-ceremonial Central Asia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Also read on Novastan<\/strong>: \u00ab\u00a0Kourmanjan Datka\u00a0\u00bb : l\u2019\u00e9pop\u00e9e f\u00e9minine, nationaliste et historique de la reine de l\u2019Ala\u00ef<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n What are the main difficulties independent filmmakers face in Kyrgyzstan today: funding, distribution, education, censorship, access to audiences?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I would say that the main problems are specialised education and an acute lack of infrastructure for film<\/a> production. Making films in co-production with other countries is especially difficult. We still lack the legal and technical foundations for easy international partnerships.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Do you feel part of a broader Central Asian cinema, or do you primarily see your work in the context of the Kyrgyz film scene?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I think I feel more like part of a broader regional, Central Asian cinema. Our countries have very similar historical backgrounds, common social problems and a mentality that is close in spirit, so we understand each other\u2019s pains and joys very well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n What would you like international audiences to better understand about Kyrgyzstan through your films?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I do not have any specific educational or didactic goal. My task as a director is simpler and, at the same time, more difficult: to tell human stories honestly. If, through these local stories, foreign viewers can empathise with the characters, then the universal language of cinema has worked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Unfortunately, the films are not freely available online for now. They are currently in an active period of their life, so legally they can mainly be seen at film festivals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Are there any upcoming screenings or festivals where viewers in Kyrgyzstan, France, Europe or online will be able to see your work?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n No screenings are planned for the very coming months. The main wave of screenings and festival premieres is expected closer to autumn, when the new global film season traditionally begins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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For Novastan readers who would like to discover your work: where can they watch your films? Are The Road<\/em>, Birdsong<\/em>, Balyk<\/em> and Barakholka<\/em> available online, shown only at festivals, or can they be watched on request?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n