Slovak director Tereza Nvotová presents Father in Orizzonti, a drama filmed in long takes that explores guilt, human fragility, and the search for forgiveness. Featuring powerful performances by Milan Ondrík and Dominika Morávková, the film confirms Nvotová as an original voice in contemporary cinema, capable of combining emotional intensity with visual precision.
In Father you tell the story of an upright man, overwhelmed by an irreparable guilt. Your previous films also dealt with forms of trauma and inner wounds: how does this new story fit into your artistic and human journey?
I reached a point in my life where I realized how much guilt I constantly feel, as if it was an always-present thing. At first, I thought it was just my problem, but when I talked to people around me, I found out that even people who haven’t experienced major trauma have strong feelings of guilt. To escape them, even briefly, we often shift blame to others – whether for major failures or minor trifles for which no one is to blame. However, there is a difference between guilt and feelings of guilt. At least that’s what my therapist often tells me. That distinction became the doorway into Father, a story that asks: what is guilt, really? Who is to blame when something terrible happens – like the death of a child – that no one intended? The real culprit is the human brain itself and the way it’s built. How to deal with such guilt, and how to find forgiveness and peace? How should society respond? Or his wife? I don’t have clear answers. But by living with these questions through the making of this film, I’ve come closer to accepting my own fragility and fallibility, and closer to an inner peace, I couldn’t see through the layers of guilt.
The visual construction of Father is striking in its intensity: every frame seems to carry the weight of the characters’ emotions. What stylistic choices did you make to bring this density to the screen, and how did you work with cinematography and narrative rhythm to achieve it?
Visual approach of long uninterrupted takes was my gateway into the whole film. I could not imagine this film in conventional episodic structure, because I think it would be like looking at a photo album from a funeral day. No one wants to see that kind of stuff. What I wanted to do is something like a video game, but in very different circumstances that lead us deeper inside of ourselves. For me, the long takes were a way to force intimacy: the audience has no choice but to live the protagonist’s life without interruption or distance. This meant I had to visualize the scenes already while writing the script, constantly adapting them to the location and to the actors. I questioned every moment – does this shot carry the character’s emotion? Am I connected to what’s happening, or am I losing that connection? Those questions shaped everything – from whether the camera was on a crane, or in Adam’s hands, held just a few centimeters from the actor’s face. For rhythm I invited Nikodem, the editor on set, to do what he normally does in the edit, but instead, he would tell me if something lacked rhythm or didn’t work in the scene, and I would adjust it right there. There are also moments when the character dissociates and we enter his inner world. In those scenes I wanted music and sound to take over, so having Jonatan, the composer, on set was very useful. He brought a pre-composed piece and even worked on it during shooting, shaping it together with the scene so it became fully symbiotic. I loved that the image we shot didn’t dictate everything else, but rather all the elements influenced one another organically.
The life an upright man is destroyed by a single, irreparable moment of distraction, which causes the tragic death of his two-year-old daughter. As he prepares to face sentencing, he begins to suspect that this guilt has its roots in something deeper and darker: the very archi...
Milan Ondrík and Dominika Morávková sustain a heavy emotional burden on screen. In particular, the protagonist carries the whole film with a performance of great intensity. What was it like working with them in shaping such complex characters?
I knew both actors beforehand, and there was no casting process. From the very beginning, it was just the three of us, sitting together in a kind of safe circle and reading through the entire script. We spoke about every small moment, every thought and feeling of the characters, often sharing our own stories along the way. During the shoot, we also had rehearsal days on location, only with the actors and the camera crew, so we could connect the emotional work with the technical demands of the film. Milan often says this was the most difficult role he has ever played – and it doesn’t surprise me. To truthfully embody this part, he had to live through anyone’s worst nightmare. He couldn’t fake it or “act” it; he had to be it. For the hardest scenes, he chose to remain alone the entire day, even during breaks, to stay inside the emotion. In those moments, I was the only one who spoke to him.
The film speaks of an unimaginable and unforgivable guilt, and yet a strong sense of humanity, love and understanding emerges. How can cinema become a space in which to process such radical emotions?
Cinema is like therapy – though most people don’t realize it. It offers us a space where we can sit in the dark, unseen, and let go of control. We can feel and express whatever we need: become someone else, fall in love, grieve, we can even die! It’s such a strong tool that bypasses our defenses and speaks directly to the heart.
