Movies
Tamara Stepanyan on In the Land of Arto, Armenia, and the Weight of Memory
Born in Armenia, trained in Lebanon and Denmark, and based in France for three decades, Tamara Stepanyan is a filmmaker shaped by displacement and belonging. After her documentary My Armenian Phantoms premiered at the Berlinale Forum, she returns to the festival circuit with her fiction debut, In the Land of Arto [+]—opening Locarno’s Piazza Grande. We spoke with her about memory, identity, and the blurred lines between fiction and reality.
Cineuropa: In the Land of Arto offers an outsider’s perspective on Armenia. How much of that perspective is yours, as an Armenian living abroad?
Tamara Stepanyan: There’s no clear inside or outside. When I started writing, I identified with Arsine, the defiant Armenian guide. But over time—after 30 years in France—I saw myself more in Céline, the French widow who feels like a stranger in her husband’s homeland. Both women reflect parts of me. It’s a split self.
The film feels deeply rooted in lived experience. Would you call it documentary-like?
It’s fiction, but Armenia itself is a character—its scars, ruins, and people shaped the story. Grigor, the one-legged veteran, was inspired by disabled soldiers I met near Sevan. His line, "What do you want me to say? That I’m a hero?" came from them. Modern war is impersonal, fought with drones. That changes how we talk about courage.
The revelation that Céline’s husband lied about his past feels pivotal. Is it betrayal or a white lie?
Neither. It’s buried trauma. Arto wanted to confess, but shame silenced him. When war returned, the past resurfaced, and he couldn’t bear it. Céline doesn’t judge him; she travels to Armenia to understand his silence, to give meaning to his death for their children.
You blend professional actors with raw, almost neorealist moments. Were some roles non-professional?
Most were theatre actors from Gyumri, deeply connected to the land. The man who finds Céline in the ruins wasn’t an actor—we met him by chance. I love when fiction collides with real life.
How did Zar Amir Ebrahimi and Camille Cottin join the film?
Zar, who plays Arsine, said yes immediately. She told me, "We’re sisters—exiles." She suggested Camille for Céline. I doubted she’d take a small role, but she read the script and embraced it. When we met, she hugged me and said, "Thank you for this."
Your film opens Locarno’s Piazza Grande for 8,000 people. Did you aim for broad appeal?
I wanted authenticity, not niche art. Cinema should speak to people. The Nagorno-Karabakh conflict is little-known; if this film fosters empathy, I’m grateful.
Danilo Kiš wrote that Eastern Europeans struggle to be homo poeticus because trauma forces them to be homo politicus. Does this apply to Armenia?
Beautiful question. We must process trauma first—homo politicus—before we can create as homo poeticus. I’m in that transition now. But in the East, the cycle feels endless.
Armenian stories often focus on war or genocide. Can a simple love story break through?
I’m tired of foreign crews only filming selective abortion dramas. My film doesn’t show war directly; it whispers trauma. I hope one day an Armenian love story will be welcomed like a French one.
What’s next?
A break—after two intense films, I need time with my kids. But I’m editing a documentary on women’s trauma in France and developing another fiction set in Armenia. The land always calls me back.
