Berlinale 2026: River Dreams | Interview with Kristina Mikhailova, Dana Sabitova and the main cast

Debuting at the 76th Berlinale, River Dreams centers on young women speaking openly about growing up in contemporary Kazakhstan. Their reflections move between tenderness and anger, intimacy and structural critique. Rather than constructing a journalistic report, River Dreams creates a space of listening. The film is quiet, intimate, formally restrained — yet emotionally confrontational. It builds a collective portrait through extended conversations that feel less like interviews and more like confessions shared between friends.

On Choosing a Generation

Polina Grechanikova: Most of the women in River Dreams belong to a younger generation — roughly under thirty. While the film includes your grandmother and a few older voices, its emotional center clearly rests with young women. Was this a deliberate decision to speak from and about a specific generation? Or did it emerge organically through personal proximity and trust?

Kristina Mikhailova: It happened naturally. This is a personal film. And when you make something personal, you can only truly speak from within your own lived experience. I could only speak honestly from the place I know. When I talked to the women, I did not just understand them intellectually. I felt recognition. We had lived through similar moments — political instability, confusion about the future, ambition, fear, hope. 

To talk about women at a stage of life I haven’t reached yet would have felt artificial to me. When I spoke with the women in the film — my “river girls” — I deeply understood what they were describing. These were experiences I had lived through myself in one way or another. Of course, empathy and cultural context help you understand others. But the strongest connection comes when you recognise yourself in what someone else is saying. That is why the focus naturally stayed with women of my generation.

“What Kind of River Are You?”

Polina Grechanikova: The river functions as the central metaphor of the film. You ask each woman what kind of river she would be. I would like to turn that question back to you. What kind of river are you? And Dana — how does this metaphor resonate with you as a producer?

Dana Sabitova: When Kristina and I first met, she asked me that same question. I don’t remember my first answer anymore. Later, during industry workshops and pitching sessions, we sometimes introduced ourselves through this metaphor. Over time my answer became clearer: I am a wide, deep, calm river. A river large enough for ships to sail on. A river that allows people to travel, to transport things, to reunite with loved ones. As a producer, my main task is movement. To move a project forward. To support people who want to realise their ideas. Of course, to support Kristina — whom I deeply believe in. But also to support filmmakers from Kazakhstan and Central Asia. We even launched an initiative to help our region tell its stories – NGO for female documentary filmmakers in Central Asia. So if we continue the metaphor: I am responsible for flow. Not for building dams. For me, producing is also emotional labor. It means protecting space. It means negotiating systems so that artists can remain sensitive. In that sense, the metaphor of the river became practical: a producer must absorb pressure without interrupting movement. The calmer the surface, the stronger the current underneath.

Polina Grechanikova: Kristina, has your perception of yourself — as a “river” — changed throughout the making of this film?

Kristina Mikhailova: At the beginning, I saw myself as a mountain river — powerful, cold, full of energy. But as I worked on the film, I realised that even a strong river needs quiet inlets. Spaces that belong only to itself. This film required many personal sacrifices. At some point you feel as if your entire personality has been poured into it. I was afraid of dissolving completely into the work. But I didn’t. And I’m grateful for that.

River Dreams is a collective statement. I spoke with more than a hundred women. The final edit became a selection of what resonated most deeply with them. But the final decisions — what to include, how far to push certain statements — were mine. And I take responsibility for them. If the film is attacked, it will be me who is attacked — not the women in it. 

Polina Grechanikova(to Inzhu Abeu): You are a professional actress. You are used to embodying characters shaped by scripts. In this film, you speak as yourself. No script. No prepared theme. How did that feel?

Inzhu Abeu: When Kristina wrote to me, I said yes immediately. I didn’t even fully understand what the project was. There was no preparation. No defined topic. It was pure trust. The camera was set up. I was seated. Kristina sat in front of me. Then everyone else left. And we talked. At some point it just started flowing. We spoke for almost two hours. Longer than planned. It didn’t feel like performing. It felt like talking to a close friend. 

When we were filming, I didn’t think about the future. I even thought maybe my interview wouldn’t make it into the film. Two years passed. And then we were invited to Berlinale. Seeing yourself on screen — as yourself — is different from seeing yourself as a character. It was frightening to meet that earlier version of me. The emotions you had in that moment — you cannot predict how they will feel later. As an actress, you control expression. You shape emotion. Here, there was no control. It was simply presence. And perhaps that is why it felt more radical than any role I have played. Because it required surrender rather than performance.

Polina Grechanikova (to Gulnaz Moldakhmet): When the film was invited to Berlinale, what did you feel? Especially knowing you were there not as a fictional character, but as yourself?

Gulnaz Moldakhmet: I had imposter syndrome. When I told my colleagues in the theatre that I was going to Berlinale, they congratulated me. And I kept thinking — for what? I just talked. I didn’t “do” anything. I felt uncomfortable accepting the congratulations. But later I understood that this experience is even more valuable. I am here as myself. Not as a role. Not delivering someone else’s text. I am present as a person. And that felt more meaningful than many professional achievements. 

At the first screening, I cried so much that I could barely see the screen. It was overwhelming to encounter that earlier version of myself. Between filming and the premiere, life continued. I changed. Watching the film was like stepping into a preserved emotional space. It made me realize how quickly we move forward without processing what we have lived through.

Polina Grechanikova (to Akzel Beisembay): As a visual artist, you are usually behind the frame — observing. What was it like to become the one being observed?

Akzel Beisembay: I am always behind the camera. I build visual worlds. I observe others.

Suddenly, I became the object. Two years later, watching the film felt like opening a preserved jar. Inside it — a version of myself from that time. My thoughts. My vulnerability. My artistic practice is about self-reflection through images. But here I realized you can evoke emotion simply through words. And when someone tells you, “I felt exactly the same” — that connection is powerful.

My adulthood coincided with instability — political transition, January 2022*, public cases of violence. You expect older generations to have clarity. Then you realize they are also searching. That realization is destabilizing. Speaking in the film felt like acknowledging that uncertainty openly. And perhaps that openness is a form of resistance.

Polina Grechanikova: Kristina, you use the term “radical vulnerability.” What does that mean to you?

Kristina Mikhailova: It was important to create a space where the women felt safe. I would never want someone to share something they did not wish to share.

When you make a collective artistic statement, each participant gives you something precious — a memory, a realization, a piece of pain. Radical vulnerability means recognizing that our pain is not weakness. It is strength.

If we cultivate sensitivity — if we allow ourselves to feel — hierarchical structures become harder to sustain. Sensitivity disrupts power dynamics. For me, radical vulnerability is also radical tenderness. In societies shaped by hierarchy, emotional openness can feel dangerous. But that danger is precisely what gives it power. To speak honestly without shame is not softness — it is courage.

Working With a Male Cinematographer

Polina Grechanikova: The film articulates a distinctly female emotional and political perspective. Yet the cinematography was created by Amir Zarybekov. Did working with a male Director of Photography ever create tension? Were there moments when you felt the need to negotiate the gaze — especially given the vulnerability of the conversations?

Inzhu Abeu: The atmosphere was very comfortable. Amir has a very warm presence. Even though I met him for the first time during the filming, he felt familiar immediately. There was a relaxed, trusting energy on set. For me, comfort is not something you can fake in front of a camera. If you feel observed in a rigid or analytical way, your body reacts. You close slightly. That never happened. I did not feel that the camera was analyzing me. It felt patient. That patience allowed me to stay emotionally open. I think that is very important when you speak about personal memories.

Gulnaz Moldakhmet: In 2022 he was physically present, but discreet — almost hiding behind the camera. He even showed us photos later of how he positioned himself so that we would not feel observed. It never felt intrusive. That detail stayed with me. The fact that he consciously chose physical distance so that we would not feel exposed says a lot. In such intimate conversations, the camera can easily become a symbol of power. But here it did not feel like that. It felt supportive, almost protective. The visual space was calm. That calmness shaped the way I spoke.

Akzel Beisembay: In my scene, it was essentially just Kristina and me. It felt like a directed monologue — gently guided by her questions. Amir’s presence never disrupted that intimacy. It was almost invisible. The visual layer supported the emotional one. As someone who works with images myself, I am very sensitive to framing. You can feel when a camera tries to control a moment. Here, it did not control — it listened. That is rare. Especially when working with vulnerability. The gaze did not aestheticize fragility. It respected it. And that respect creates trust. 

Dana Sabitova: Amir was actually my first cinematographer when I graduated from university. I was the only female directing student in my year, and he was my strongest ally. I trusted him completely. I knew he would understand the tone of this film and respect its sensitivity. For me, it was important that the camera would never aestheticize pain — only hold space for it.

A Final Reflection

Polina Grechanikova: Before we close — I would like to ask each of you one last question. After the Berlinale premiere, after seeing yourselves on screen, after hearing the audience react — what are you taking home with you? What stays?

Kristina Mikhailova:  For years, this film existed inside me. In fragments, in doubts, in unfinished edits. Seeing it on a big screen, with an audience that did not share our exact context but still understood the emotional core — that was a confirmation.

At the same time, the Berlinale created a comparison. You realise how differently women are treated in different industries. You realise what you have normalised back home — in terms of bureaucracy, resistance, subtle dismissals. That awareness is painful. But it also creates energy. I am leaving with clarity. And clarity is more important.

Dana Sabitova: I am taking love for this group. Producing often means focusing on problems — deadlines, budgets, logistics. But here, for the first time in a long time, I could step back and see the film through the eyes of an audience. And I realised something simple: this film carries care. It carries protection. It carries intention. For me, the real premiere will be in Kazakhstan. That is where I will measure its impact. But Berlin reminded me that stories from our region are not marginal. They belong in global conversation. Personally, I am taking quiet confidence.

Inzhu Abeu:I think I am taking courage. When you see yourself publicly — truly yourself — something shifts. You cannot hide behind performance anymore. You cannot say, “That was just a role.” It makes you more accountable to your own words. And strangely, that feels freeing. It also made me realise how rarely we allow ourselves to pause and reflect. Watching the film forced me to meet a younger version of myself with compassion instead of judgment. That is something I want to keep.

Gulnaz Moldakhmet: I am taking gratitude. For a long time, I questioned whether I deserved to be here. But during the second screening, when I was able to watch the film without crying through it, I understood something: vulnerability is work. Speaking honestly is work. And maybe we underestimate that. I am also taking hope — that young women in Kazakhstan will watch this film and recognise something of themselves. If even one person feels less alone after seeing it, that is enough.

Akzel Beisembay: I am taking complexity. Traveling creates distance. Distance complicates love for your country. You see what functions elsewhere. You see what hurts at home. But love does not disappear because of that. If anything, it becomes more conscious. I am also taking curiosity. Every audience reacts differently. Some laugh where you expect silence. Some are silent where you expect reaction. That reminds me that art does not belong to the maker anymore once it is released. And maybe that is the most honest part of the process.

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*January 2022 (in Kazakh “Қаңтар 2022”) – reference to the mass protests and subsequent violent unrest that took place across Kazakhstan in January 2022, leading to political upheaval, a state of emergency, and a significant number of casualties.

Our team is on the ground at the 76th Berlin International Film Festival, running from February 12th to 22nd, 2026.