The movie conveys the impression of an improvised experiment and a premeditated construction at once. As to how she achieves this admirable balance, here’s what she has to say: “Before every film I make, I keep a ton of notes: scribbling dialogues, writing down book excerpts and song lyrics, storing frames from other films in my mind and so on. More than often, however, when it’s time to start shooting, I put everything aside, and a new adventure is on its way. It’s a highly stressful process; despite having made intense preparations, I get the feeling of having no control whatsoever. Deep down, I think that’s what I like the most: the tension created between what I had in mind and whatever comes along the way, between the planned action and what eludes all control. The game is played somewhere in-between I think, within these cracks and ruptures. Konstantinos Samaras, who’s been my steady companion throughout all the film’s stages, and I both felt it was crucial for the final outcome to possess a certain lightness, so that the film would avoid taking itself or its topic too seriously. In this sense and in this spirit, the feeling of despair that serves as the film’s kickoff point ends up finding an answer and a kind of healing thanks to the very process of filmmaking. Thanks to the generosity of the people who agreed to come on board and the ones we met by chance. Thanks to the music composed by Kornilios Selamsis for the song heard in the film’s finale, and the hue of absurdity that springs out of Yorgos Makris’ manifesto, a text that plays a pivotal role in the film.”

It is common knowledge, of course, that the rite of passage to the full-length film poses an immense challenge for all Greek cinema talents, regardless of how many short film credentials they have earned. She unreservedly explains why: “The transition to full-length film is a painful process for artistic reasons, but mostly for production-related reasons. After all, we do live in a country whose only core vision for culture and arts is their devaluation. What prevails is a sense of discontinuity and desultory moves, therefore it’s more than necessary to somehow keep the flame burning inside of you, in an effort that often proves to be rather solitary. At least, I learnt along the way to trust my instinct and my own way of making films, away from preconceived ideas, methods and production models.”

Throughout her entire course as a film director, and most of all in her latest work, Daphné Hérétakis crosses back and forth the boundary separating stillness from movement, evoking the past as form of dead – yet palpably alive – time that binds the here-and-now in unstated ways. Could her films be seen as a parable for the art of cinema? “The way I see it, the cinema I love and I have loved ever since a child vividly depicts a relation with life and otherness, while also bearing a very personal and intimate element. I feel we’re living in ultra-conservative times, in need of something that could shake us up. Cinema is, or at least has the potential to be, an enfant terrible that allows us to exist both in the present time of life and in the past; and the reason why is that through films we give birth to ghosts, and luckily enough in cinema we get to choose the ghosts that come to haunt us! Two kinds of cinema walk side by side: a soulless, mere product of a transaction lacking any imagination, and a cinema that makes you wanna hit the streets, talk to strangers, fall in love, resist, and live. I strive and hope to be a part of the latter.”

One can find “Parthenons” in cinema as well, though: monumental films and benchmark references that cast their eternal mythical shadow onto the younger filmmakers, and Daphné Hérétakis does not exclude herself from this universal truth. “I belong to this breed of people whose coming-of-age came first through films and later on in real life. I have experienced all sorts of things through cinema, desired lives and other directors’ obsessions. My greatest point of reference is Chris Marker, as he intertwined real life with cinema, forging a liberated cinema, seemingly of a small scale, but at the same time political, humane and ferocious. I will go on to cite Godard, as even in his 90 years of age he made films much more brilliant and daring than many of today’s filmmakers could even dream of. Last but not least, Agnės Varda, as she was a breathing example of life’s joy and a passionate cat lover. I think that we all carry within us an imaginary museum as a burden, as we march on in life. Perhaps over the years it gets lighter or replaced, or it ends up conversing with other experiences in a different way.”

Wrapping up our talk (and after having delved into the film’s universe for good) we cannot resist the temptation of asking her what kind of statue she would choose to be. “I guess a statue with mood swings, sometimes sorrowful and other times joyous. Certainly not confined in a museum, as I would love to be caressed and sat on, as well as to hear the secrets of loners or the discussions of unknown passers-by,” she concludes.