Cannes 2025 (Critics’ Week): Imago | Interview with Déni Oumar Pitsaev

In Imago, filmmaker Déni Oumar Pitsaev turns the camera inward—onto his family, his memories, and the fragile threads of identity stretched across war, exile, and expectation. Blending documentary and self-reflection, the film explores what it means to belong when home no longer exists, and how inherited fears shape the paths we’re allowed to imagine for ourselves. 

Polina Grechanikova: Your film made me think deeply about the idea of “home” and “homeland”—especially in relation to displacement. I know this is a complex question, but I’d still like to ask: What does ‘home’ mean to you? Is it a place, a feeling, or something else entirely? 

Déni Oumar Pitsaev: These are universal questions—what is home, what is homeland? But what do you do if you don’t even have a state to begin with? I’m originally from Chechnya, and we don’t have our  own country. It’s a republic within the Russian Federation. We are not independent. It’s still a colony. 

I was born there, but I grew up in Kazakhstan, not far from Almaty. In my early childhood, I lived in a house I remember very well. I must have been two, three, maybe four. That house was destroyed. Later, we came back to Chechnya. First war. Then the second. That house doesn’t exist anymore—physically, it’s gone. 

So then I ask: what is home? Is it your family? Is it where you feel good, where you feel like you belong? I think it’s more about belonging. Because it’s possible to be in your own homeland and still not feel like you belong there. And I think that’s one of the worst feelings you can have. 

For me, I’ve come to find home inside myself. That way, wherever I go, I carry it with me. It  stays. And no one can destroy that. 

Polina Grechanikova: As I was watching Imago, I had the impression that your film also deals with the people who surround us, who we allow to shape us. Were you, in a way, trying to understand which people you want to belong with, or how to find your own space among them? 

Déni Oumar Pitsaev: Yes, absolutely. When I left Chechnya at a young age, I started to ask myself those questions. I admired people who were able to belong to a group. But then I wondered—how do you  become part of a group and still stay yourself? How do you not lose who you are in the process? 

Sometimes, being part of a group means you can’t exist as an individual. The group becomes more important. And it tries to mold you into something that fits. 

It’s a kind of hateful love relationship—being inside the group, being outside. That’s why, for me, I try to keep a balance. One foot inside, one foot outside. That’s the healthiest way I’ve found to stay close without losing myself. 

Polina Grechanikova: You manage to tell a deeply personal story in Imago, yet as a viewer I still sensed a kind of boundary—like you were close, but also holding something back. Was this distance intentional? 

Déni Oumar Pitsaev: Yes. I wanted the story to feel intimate, but also to work on a larger, macro level. So it is a personal story—very much about myself—but the questions I’m raising are universal. You might feel like you’re watching someone’s life very closely, through intimate close-ups and moments. But at the same time, I hope it reflects something in your own life. Where do you belong? Who is your family? What is your role as a mother, a father, a child? These intricate interconnections we live with—in society and in family—I wanted to keep the film intimate, but also open enough for others to find their own story within it. 

Polina Grechanikova: The title of your film refers to the final stage of metamorphosis. Do you feel, through making this film or perhaps in life now, that you’ve reached your personal ‘Imago’? 

Déni Oumar Pitsaev: Good question. It really depends on how you interpret “Imago.” Tell me—how do you see it? Is it about becoming an adult? Or staying stuck in some earlier phase? I hope I’m in the adult stage now. I hope the process is complete. I feel like I’m part of a group, but I also feel I can fly—on my own wings. I feel freer now. 

Polina Grechanikova: There’s a recurring motif in your film: building a house, planting a tree, getting married. These seem like inherited dreams. Were you ever able to realize any of them— or did they change meaning over time? 

Déni Oumar Pitsaev: That’s the thing: these aren’t really my dreams. They’re dreams society gave me. The house—I still dream of it. But it’s not built. And I don’t know if it ever will be. But I keep the idea, the dream. Maybe it’s childish, but I’m still holding on to it. As I said earlier, the house I grew up in was destroyed. And I have this fear—that if I build something again, it might be destroyed too. 

So if you never build anything, no one can take it away from you. That’s why I tried to construct something else: a metaphysical house. The house in the film is more symbolic— more like a dream, or a projection. It’s not something tangible. It’s open. Something others can reflect on, discuss. Marriage—it’s similar. It’s a projection of what society says you should be. It’s tied to this cycle of reproduction. 

It’s like a matrix: you recreate the same thing again and again, without asking yourself if you’re really happy. No one in the film asks: “Are you happy?” or “What do you really want?” I ask my mother that. I ask other people in the film: have you ever been asked if you feel free? 

Because these are such basic questions—and yet, people don’t ask them. They grew up in hard times, in difficult conditions. They passed down their fears to their  children. They transmitted them. And so the cycle continues. You have to break that cycle— but it’s hard. It’s difficult. To be different takes courage. It’s liberating, yes—but it’s also painful. It’s both. 

Polina Grechanikova: At one point, I found myself thinking that maybe the most important question we can  ask ourselves is: What do I want? Not what is expected of me, not what others want from me, but what I, as a person, truly want—and how I can live in alignment with that. Would you agree? 

Déni Oumar Pitsaev: Exactly. That’s really it. To live in a way that is true to yourself—despite everything around  you. Because so much of what defines us—or what people say should define us—comes from  the outside. The group, the society, the country you come from… it’s presented as everything.  As if that should define who you are. But we don’t choose where we’re born. We don’t choose the language we speak. These are things we pick up because we’re surrounded by  them. But they’re not supposed to be our identity. They’re not the truth of who we are. And the way society is structured now—it’s more and more about walls, borders, and labels. Nationalism puts people into smaller and smaller bubbles. 

But the world is so big. It’s so huge. And we are human beings before we are anything else. Nationality is something we created. It’s not biological. You’re not born as a Russian, or as a  Georgian—that doesn’t exist in nature. You’re born human. Nature doesn’t define you by  borders. Nationality, citizenship, all of that—it’s constructed. We build these separations to say: “We’re different.” And every nation wants to see itself as the best. The greatest culture, the greatest people. But the truth is, we all have the same dreams. We all have the same fears. We’re afraid of the dark when nothing responds to us. And we all fall in love. These are the things that make us human. They’re the essence of who we are. 

So Imago isn’t exactly about all of this, but it does question it. There’s this moment in the film, when the father asks: “If you don’t have children—who are you living for?” And that made me think—maybe we’re living too much for others. Trying to please them, or perform for some group or expectation. We forget that, before all of that, we are simply ourselves. 

Polina Grechanikova: One of the most striking things about Imago is that you directed the film while also being its central character. That’s a demanding dual role. What was that experience  like for you—being both behind and in front of the camera? 

Déni Oumar Pitsaev: Yes, it was definitely challenging. When you’re in front of the camera, you can’t fully control the process. But you can still direct from inside the scene—you can influence where the  conversation goes, how it moves, what gets provoked. At the same time, you have to let go. You have to allow yourself to melt into the reality of the moment. To stop directing, and just  be present. 

You need to see the other person in the scene as a human being. And let yourself be seen as one, too. Sometimes, you have to forget you’re the director and simply connect with the  people—emotionally. What helped was that we reviewed footage every morning—watched what was filmed the day before. Then we talked as a team about how to approach the next  scene, how to find a balance. 

I had great help. My assistant director, Rostislav Kirpichenko, is originally from Ukraine and speaks Russian. That made it easier—especially when I switched between Chechen and  Russian. He could help the crew follow what was happening. 

Our cinematographer Sylvain Verdet, even though he’s French, picked up some Russian words as well. That helped us navigate the film together.

Our reporters were on the ground in Cannes, France, to bring you exclusive content from the 78th Cannes Film Festival—explore our coverage here.