goEast 2025: My Armenian Phantoms | Interview with Tamara Stepanyan

Grief takes many forms, and for Tamara Stepanyan, it became cinema. In My Armenian Phantoms, which premiered at the 2025 Berlinale Forum, director Tamara Stepanyan turns to the screen to continue a conversation cut short by loss. After the death of her father, the renowned Armenian actor Vigen Stepanyan, she began searching for ways to reconnect — with him and with a wider cultural memory.
Her journey led Tamara deep into the archives of Armenian film history. Watching over 200 films, she unearthed patterns of trauma, resistance, and identity. Personal family footage blends seamlessly with scenes from Soviet-era cinema; memories of childhood intertwine with reflections on censorship, exile, and creativity. In the process, Stepanyan finds her voice — as a daughter, a filmmaker, and a witness to a fading legacy.

Polina Grechanikova: Tamara, nice to see you in Wiesbaden again! We’ve known each other for two years now. I remember when you first introduced My Armenian Phantoms at the East-West Talent Lab Pitch. It was still in a very early stage. Now, years later, the film is in the main competition at goEast. Would you say that goEast became a starting point for this long, very personal journey?

Tamara Stepanyan: Yes, in many ways, goEast was the starting point. When I came back, it already felt familiar — it was summer, I knew the people, I had a sense of place. And it felt meaningful to pitch the project here because goEast focuses on films from Eastern European countries, and Armenia is part of that landscape. It was important to me that the film belong in that context. It was also the first time that Selene and I — Céline Loiseau being my producer — really sat down and spent time together preparing the pitch, diving deep into the project. We started shaping it not just emotionally, but structurally. It was a turning point because we began to find clarity in what we wanted to say.

Coming back now with the finished film, after premiering at Berlinale, feels incredibly rewarding. For me as a filmmaker, and I think also for Céline as a producer, it’s a powerful moment. Two years ago, My Armenian Phantoms was an idea — fragile, in some way uncertain. Now it’s a complete film, and it’s in competition here. That transformation, that journey, feels like the result of hard, honest work. So yes, goEast was a place where something intangible started to become real.

Polina Grechanikova: When you look back at the film’s early development and compare it to what Armenian Phantoms has become now, how has your own perception of the project changed over time?

Tamara Stepanyan: My perception changed a lot over time, definitely. This film took a long journey to become what it is now. Creating something so deeply personal is never easy — it’s challenging, and you need people around you who can help you bring out the most intimate stories hidden inside. I was fortunate to be accompanied by wonderful collaborators: my producer Céline Loiseau, my co-author Jean-Christophe Ferrari, and my editor Olivier Ferrari. They really supported me in confronting and shaping the personal layers of the story.

In the beginning, the idea was more about Soviet Armenian cinema — the kind of legacy I carry as a filmmaker today, and how I relate to it. But gradually, the focus began to shift. The death of my father became the emotional core of the project. It wasn’t easy to make that part central, because it was so painful. I wanted to create the dialog with my father trhough the Armenian Cinema. Céline was the one who really encouraged me to bring that trigger — the loss of my father — into the heart of the film. At first I resisted. It was simply too hard to make him so present, so central, especially when his death was still fresh.

But as time passed, I was able to mourn him, to process his absence. That gave me the emotional distance to truly listen to my team. And that’s when the personal thread really came to the foreground — the story of Tamara and her father, and the dialogue I wanted to continue with him. He was an actor, and this film became a way for me to speak to him again, across time. So yes, the film matured. It grew during the three workshops we did. Each phase brought it closer to its true voice. And I really believe that for a film like this, a documentary working with archives and collective memory, you must allow time. You can’t rush it. It needs to grow slowly and honestly.

Polina Grechanikova: Is it true that you watched over 200 films during your research? That sounds like an enormous effort — almost like writing a cinematic encyclopedia before even starting your own film.

Tamara Stepanyan: Yes, it’s absolutely true! Before I could even think about creating My Armenian Phantoms, I felt the need to immerse myself fully in the history of Armenian cinema. So I watched over 200 films — and that includes everything: short films, animations, children’s films, feature length documentaries… I really wanted to see the full picture of what had been made, to understand the landscape and to locate my own voice within it. I didn’t just watch passively. I took notes, I categorized, I reflected. There were films I loved for specific moments — for instance. I would take notes like, “From this film, this scene.” I started creating thematic clusters: one group of films dealt with the Armenian Genocide, another with women’s issues, others with repression under Stalin. I wanted to understand the patterns — what was said, how it was said, and what was missing.

That phase helped me build a foundation. When I met Céline, my producer, I already had a treatment in hand. But the film continued to grow from there. We talked a lot — and I mean really a lot. Through our conversations, and later through pitching and workshops, we were able to shape the film together. That process helped bring out what we both deeply believed the film should be. Because in the end, a film like this is never created in isolation. It’s a collective process — and I’m grateful for that.

Polina Grechanikova: You spent a long time immersed in both archival footage and your own personal materials. How did you navigate the delicate balance between what’s deeply private and what you wanted to make public?

Tamara Stepanyan: Absolutely — that’s a very important and difficult question. For me, this process was really an exercise in navigating that space between the personal and the public. It’s never easy to decide what to share, especially when it comes from such an intimate place. At the beginning of the project, when I started rewatching all the old films, I let my emotions guide me. Some of those films had such a strong impact on me — not just now, but already when I was a child. Many of them I saw growing up, so there was a very visceral connection.

But emotions alone weren’t enough. I developed a kind of internal system, a dialog between the emotional and the cerebral. I tried to listen to both my heart and my head. Only when both were in agreement — when I felt that an excerpt or a fragment was both emotionally powerful and intellectually coherent — did I decide to include it in the film.

The editing process was key in shaping that balance. It was long and intense — about 19 to 20 weeks, with pauses for reflection. Things I initially included were taken out, and other things came back in. Early on, I made a clear choice: I would focus only on fiction films, not historical or educational pieces. I didn’t want to make a conventional documentary about Armenian cinema — that would have meant including everything: propaganda films, newsreels, children’s films. Instead, I focused on the cinema that had moved me, personally — films that haunted me as a child and challenged me as an adult.

Over time, and especially through workshops and deep reflection, I realized that my own personal footage also had a place in the film. That took a while. In the early versions, there was no home video, nothing from my own life. But eventually I felt ready to include material my uncle had shot when I was seven, footage of my father, memories of my childhood — moments that shaped me. And once that personal layer entered, the whole film shifted. It became a dance — a choreography — between the personal and the collective.

And then, of course, came the voice-over, which was another way to bridge that dialog. It gave me a tool to connect the inner and outer worlds — not just through images, but through language and reflection.

Polina Grechanikova: You return again and again to the corridor of the old film studio in your film. Why was this space so important to you, and what role does it play in telling your story?

Tamara Stepanyan: That corridor is very symbolic for me. It used to be the heart of Armenian cinema — a place where historical and war films were made. Today it’s abandoned, a kind of ghost space. But when I walked through it, I didn’t feel alone. I felt like phantoms were walking with me — my father, my grandmother, my childhood. I remember thinking: Behind this door is my father. Behind that one, my grandmother. It was like a garden of doors, each leading to someone who no longer exists — and yet, somehow, still does. By layering images — the corridor, the archive, my voice — I tried to bring history into the present. I wanted to give life back to that space, to the memories that once lived there. I felt the presence of people — as if the walls were still holding on to voices, gestures, glances.

Polina Grechanikova: The film is incredibly personal. Was it difficult for you to open up so deeply in front of an audience?

Tamara Stepanyan: Very much so. It was probably the hardest part of the whole process. I had moments of real hesitation — I kept thinking, Who cares about my life? Why would anyone be interested in my immigration story or my family history? But during one of the script consultations, a director — someone whose words really stayed with me — said, “Tamara, this will be the most personal film you’ll ever make. Don’t be afraid — just do it.”

And this person was right. At the Berlinale premiere, I was shaking for the entire 75 minutes of the screening. I sat in my seat completely tense, feeling utterly exposed. It was like being naked in front of 400 people. But I’m glad I did it. Because in the end, even though the story is personal, I believe it resonates. It becomes something universal — not just me, myself, and I. I was always careful not to make it about ego. I don’t like putting myself forward. What I wanted was to create a dialogue — with my late father, with my country, and with its history. A continuation of a conversation that was interrupted by death.

Polina Grechanikova: After working on My Armenian Phantoms, which is deeply personal and explores themes of memory and history, how does it feel to now be creating fictional worlds with your first feature, Save The Dead? Are there any similarities between the two films, especially in terms of themes like trauma, loss, or the search for identity? Do you feel that your work on My Armenian Phantoms prepared you for this next step?

Tamara Stepanyan: Honestly? It was intense — almost unbearable at times. Making two films simultaneously is not something I would necessarily recommend! (laughs) It was exhausting, both for me and for my producers, who constantly had to juggle my availability. But somehow, the two projects nourished each other.

The fiction film actually came first — I began writing it over ten years ago. In the meantime, I made four documentaries. And I truly believe that working in documentary sharpened my perspective. It gave me a deeper sensitivity to real life, to how people move and speak, to small details — and all of that fed into the fiction.

So while there’s no direct influence between the two films in terms of content, there is a strong emotional and creative link. They speak to each other. And when one of the producers at my company saw the fiction film, she immediately said: There’s a deep connection here. And I agree — I think all the work we do, all the people we meet, every story we tell, they’re part of one big conversation. One nourishes the other.

The 25th edition of goEast – Festival of Central and Eastern European Film ran on April 23-29, 2025.