The press kit interview with director Ivan Salatić was carried out for NOISE FILM & TV ahead of the film's world premiere at IFFR 2025. Image credit: Wondrous Is the Silence of My Master, Ivan Salatić.

Why did you decide to set the story in the 19th century? How is the unique setting of Montenegro productive to the story that you wanted to tell?

Ivan Salatić: I had already directed one feature film and a few short films. In these projects, I drew upon situations that unfolded naturally during filming. I would blend my characters into their surroundings, utilising ready-made settings and locations. This approach integrated some documentary elements, which I moulded into fiction. I wrote detailed screenplays, but I also sourced material from reality. With my second feature, I wanted to delve deeper into fiction, have more control, and craft a different imaginary world. Setting the story in the 19th century felt like the perfect way to push me further into the realm of fiction and create something different. The 19th century anchored my writing, but this film also moves beyond temporal boundaries. In the story, 19th-century Montenegro bears a resemblance to the Middle Ages. The entourage then travels from Montenegro to Italy, and when they arrive, 19th-century Italy also feels as though it belongs to an earlier era. So you see all these images, where different periods of time seem to converge into one, which is the 19th century.

My starting point was also an important historical figure in Montenegro, Petar II Petrović-Njegoš, who was a poet, ruler, and bishop. Though I was not initially interested in his persona, he intrigued me because, throughout the 20th century, he was embraced by communists and then nationalists that both used him to fit their narratives. He became a mythical figure, surrounded by an air of mystique, and was considered one of the best writers in Yugoslavia. Growing up, I found his portrayals somewhat embarrassing, but I decided to explore this character nonetheless. You don’t get to choose the culture and language you are born into. Why not try to engage with your own history? And then I discovered a small book called, Letters from Italy, by Serbian writer Ljubomir Nenadović, who wrote travelogues. He came from a wealthy family, travelling across Europe and documenting his experiences in his works. During his travels in Italy in the mid-19th century, Nenadović spent some time in the company of Petar II Petrović-Njegoš in Naples. Nenadović recounted this encounter in his book, describing him as a genius of the country. The book, though quite poorly written, offered intriguing details to delve into, such as the guards that surrounded the man. That inspired me to imagine the perspective of one of his guards. I wrote a screenplay from the point of view of this guard, imagining how he saw the situation.

I started with two short stories establishing the backdrop in Montenegro, leading to the main character’s departure for Italy. The narrative shifted to explore how the main character was viewed by a small crew accompanying him. This crew effectively became a political entourage, as he is the ruler of the country, gravely ill, and traveling to Naples with two guards and a daughter (an invented character, as the original figure never had a daughter). For me, it was intriguing to view this small political entourage through the lens of a dysfunctional family. Their relationships felt familiar to me because I understand what it’s like to be part of a dysfunctional family—something I believe many of us can relate to. So I played with extremes: on the one hand, I focused on a historical figure, and on the other, I resisted going into anything epic or overtly political. I leaned on intuition, drawing from my own experiences to shape relationships between the characters. By working with non-actors, employing archaic language, grounding the story in historical elements, and weaving in personal insights, I wanted to craft a layered narrative that may be strange but is exciting.

The central character, Morlak, was inspired by 19th-century Montenegrin ruler, bishop, and poet Petar Petrović Njegoš. Could you discuss how your portrayal helped move the film from a conventional epic biography to something deliberately anti-epic?

IS: To me, this film is very much a comedy, albeit a very subtle one. There is also this uncanny moment of recognising a character, even though he may not be what you expect him to be. Coming from a small country with a lesser-known history, the film might resonate differently with audiences from other cultures. If it were another widely known figure, people could more easily connect with that character. But that’s the thing about historical films—if someone doesn’t have knowledge of the history being portrayed in the film, they experience it as a ‘historical film’ simply because it deals with events from the past. However, since the viewer is interpreting them without much historical knowledge, the film might not feel entirely ‘historical’ to them in the traditional sense. So in a way, it is both historical and non-historical.

The film relies on factual elements, and it was important for me to start with something rooted in them before allowing myself the freedom to wonder and be imaginative—which, I suppose, is the essence of a filmmaker’s craft. It’s not about claiming historical accuracy, even though it features a real historical figure, but rather about approaching it with a sense of playfulness. Even if the historical figure is unfamiliar, the emotions and dynamics between the characters—such as those between a master and servant, a father and daughter, or a disenchanted older man, who is archetypal in a way—are familiar. It was interesting to create this political entourage in the film, with clear, almost diagrammatic roles or positions in terms of culture, ideology, and history. At the same time, their dynamics closely resembled those of a typical dysfunctional family on a trip.

I also explored the patriarchal mores of the 19th-century, the notion of being a romantic poet and being sick, and the concept of culture as both a source of enlightenment that can lead to better lives and a thing of privilege and power. This film is also very much about language—learning it, struggling with it, and the inability to communicate your inner frustrations, envies, and jealousy.

Let’s talk about the prologue. Could you unpack its meaning and how it sets the stage for what unfurls later in the film?

IS: It begins with characters who never appear again, which, for some, was a deal breaker. I mean, they didn’t like it, but I thought, why not? Audiences can handle parallel or multiple narratives, as we encounter them daily. I don’t think it’s confusing if you just accept the film as it is. The prologue establishes a world and then departs from it, allowing us to compare these two worlds. The characters’ actions aren’t just irrational—they come from a country that operates on a level of superstition and violence. The two prologue stories, featuring different characters, also set the viewer in a particular mood and help them learn how to engage with the rest of the film.

The loyal servant Djuko is presented in a series of tableaux, often depicted as an almost motionless figure who speaks sparingly. Could you elaborate on how this restrained portrayal contributes to his character arc, particularly in amplifying the impact of his sudden eruption into violence?

IS: Yeah, I think the entire film is like a tableau, where each scene unfolds and the characters are framed within it. I am not sure if there is a direct connection, but the way the scenes were written and then composed into frames reminds me of tarot cards or, at times, Japanese animated films. I explored the idea that acting could be conveyed through these frozen images, with nuanced, subtle expressions of the characters’ emotions or actions emerging from them.

It was interesting to work with Djoko again, the character played by Luka Petrone. He is not an actor, but now he is, having appeared in four of my films. He was just 13 years old when I began making short films. He is shy, introverted, and not particularly good with words. Casting him again and pushing him further was an interesting endeavour. On the other hand, the role of the ruler and poet is played by well-known Croatian poet Marko Pogačar. This highlights the contrast between the two characters: Djoko, who grapples with expression, and the master, who is a figure of intellectualism and culture. When crafting Djoko’s portrait, I wanted to amplify this unease and tension, reflecting his internal conflict and turmoil in relation to his master. Djoko recognises that his master has a deep passion for poetry and other cultures, which both frightens and fascinates him. He feels a mix of fear and envy because he struggles with expression and comprehending his master’s world. Djoko is portrayed as very loyal to his master, and his mind is consumed with an image of him. However, Djoko cannot fully understand or reconcile this image of his master, he feels compelled to destroy it and establish another one in its place. I think, for him, killing his master was the only solution—he does it to preserve the master in a way, as an idol.

Djuko’s eruption of violence is strikingly quiet, accompanied by the words, “We are not going anywhere, master. We are where we belong.” This act seems driven as much by jealousy as by his deep-rooted desire to remain in his homeland. While in Italy, he longs to return, wishing for some “terrible news” so they can go back to where they belong. I am intrigued by your exploration of the notion of nostalgia, which is so closely linked to violence.

IS: Nostalgia is inherently conservative in a way because it ties you to a place that is familiar, even though it may be troubled and torn by wars. I wrote the character from the perspective of someone living in the 19th century, in a part of the world that could be considered ‘uncivilised’ at the time. I imagined him as a good character—innocent in a way, because he truly believes in what he is doing. There is love in this character. Whether his actions are morally right or wrong, he is genuine. The master, in contrast, is educated, possibly a genius, but privileged and ashamed of his origins. He is frustrated by his lack of belonging. As for the sentiment of nostalgia, I hope there is something in the film that surprises you. You might have certain ideas in mind—ideas you’ve held for a long time—about what nostalgia is. You often associate that feeling with something fuzzy and non-threatening, but nostalgia can also carry elements of violence.

The epilogue features lines penned by the Djuko character earlier in the film: “Our master read so many books. And he wrote great books, which we did not read. And he showed us many roads, which we did not travel. For we didn’t know how to read. For we didn’t know how to travel.” Could you delve into the significance of these lines, particularly with regard to the relationship between the master and his people?

IS: I had a lot of fun creating this fictitious archaic language, imagining myself as the character and writing honestly about his feelings. He admits that he didn’t fully understand, yet he acknowledges his master’s greatness—and he owns it. As for the relationship between the master and his people, he is far removed from them. It’s difficult for me to speak about it because I feel like I have to explain a broader context. It has to do with the current situation in my country, and trying to explain it risks reducing it to banality and daily politics. However, I believe the sentiment in these images, and the way Djoko wrote about his master, accurately reflects how people feel today. It’s a mix of nostalgia for something that may never have been truly good.

In the epilogue, we see men and women carrying the coffin as they traverse the hills, where Morlak’s power was once held and where it has now ended. Could you elaborate on the symbolic significance of the hills and their importance to the film’s narrative?

IS: The hills are deeply connected to Montenegro. There is something about the hills, the sea, and the flatlands that is tied to both geography and geopolitics. Throughout the Mediterranean, mountain people tend to be conservative, while those by the sea are more open and liberal, encountering other worlds and more prone to change. Mountain people want things to remain as they are; they are proud, even of what they don’t have, including their poverty. Montenegro reflects this—a proud people who are, in a way, self-indulgent. There is little need for communication with the outside world, even though we live in a modern society. As someone who enjoys traveling and making films, it’s something I don’t quite understand. But nevertheless, it’s a reality for many. In some ways, maybe it’s not so wrong to think about life this way—perhaps we need to preserve what we have, instead of constantly going around and messing things up. A lot of things come to mind, but ultimately, it’s the story of a very poor region, one defined by endurance and resilience, but not so much by change.

Could you talk about the work on music and intricate sound design? How do they reflect the film’s message or underlying themes?

IS: I see this film as a kind of Mediterranean Gothic, if I were to label it myself. We shot it mainly in Italy, and I was looking for music that would fit the film. In my previous film, I didn’t use music at all. It was almost an ideological decision not to use any, except at the end, and only music that came directly from the scene. But for this film, I came across so many Italian bands online. The band Mai Mai Mai, linked to the Italian occult psychedelia subgenre, resonated perfectly with the film’s ideas and themes. The music felt like it was made for it. I can’t say there was much of a process in creating music with him—it was already done, in a way. I think it was clearly in the same genre as the film.

As for sound design, it was very intuitive and very visual. We described the atmosphere in a way that felt like painting. We tried to capture the qualities of the atmosphere—the wind, the birds—in a way that complemented the audiovisual canvas.

Could you discuss the significance of language in the film?

IS: The film is essentially about language and how language can be tricky, almost like a battlefield. The non-actors had a big task in this film. They had to speak this very archaic language, and there is a disconnect between their physical presence and the language itself, which feels almost alien, detached from reality. But for me, it worked. The vulnerability and brokenness of language— that’s the essence of the film. It also leads to the realisation that good acting is good acting, but there are many different types of acting, and not every performance should be what you expect it to be. If there is brokenness in language, and it’s consistent and rooted in the idea of the film, it works. Also, what the Djuko character writes might be bad writing, but it’s very genuine and honest. In a way, he is embodying something very truthful.

Tell us about the poetry featured in the film; I am interested in its source.

IS: The main character, a real historical figure, was a poet. It’s also worth noting that when he wrote his poems, elements of modernism were already emerging in places like France. Charles Baudelaire, for example, published his famous book of poems Les Fleurs du mal during the same period when this real character, Petar II Petrović-Njegoš, was writing poems that were quite medieval in style. However, as I’ve mentioned, I didn’t use his poems in the film; I only used letters he wrote to some people, which I included in the film twice. The poetry featured in the film comes from another poet—Ivan Mažuranić, a Croatian poet from the 19th century—who was very much in awe of Montenegro and obsessed with grand Montenegro storytelling.

Another question might be a tad philosophical. The film's title is Wondrous Is the Silence of My Master. In one scene, Djuko also reflects on Morlak’s silence, noting that not a single word comes from him. What does the master’s silence symbolise within the context of the story?

IS: Well, it’s a tricky one because, as you said, it is philosophical. There is a beautiful metaphor from an Arab philosopher who says something along the lines of: “When cotton and fire touch, they can only understand each other from the part that is burning.” In other words, they cannot understand the whole. Similarly, everything you try to understand exists in withdrawal. The master is in withdrawal from his servant. In this way, all knowledge is in withdrawal. You can only grasp it to a certain degree, and the rest remains in silence. And that silence is wondrous and mysterious. It is what makes things worth exploring. There is a mystery in life, and that’s not a bad thing. So it is about how we relate to this silence and what we do with it.

You mentioned that you worked with non-actors in this film. Why did you decide to cast non-professional actors?

IS: I prefer working with non-professional actors. I have nothing against trained actors, and I enjoy watching films with some excellent performances, thinking, “Okay, this is good acting.” But for me as a director, it doesn’t work that way because I am seeking something entirely different. I tend to go against conventional acting. When you have a person who is an actor but doesn’t really know who they are, they add another layer of training and learned techniques to the process, and layer upon layer gets added. You can end up with something that’s considered ‘good acting’, but for me, the process is completely different. What’s important to me is to strip away those layers and have a person who is present. Then, upon that presence, I ask them to do what they can—say the lines, be honest about it, and not be afraid to make mistakes. If you go for that, you can’t expect the person to speak in the way you would expect a good actor to act and speak. So, in that sense, for me, the brokenness of language—the disconnect between being and language—works.

The film may be much more successful with professional actors, perhaps even more widely accepted, but then there would be nothing for me to do because I’d simply create something that everyone expects, and it would just be another film about history or fantasy. In this way, I think I am proposing something that could be interesting. It’s a different way of working with people and a different way of creating narrative fiction. I wouldn’t have done it any other way because there wouldn’t be any subversive element. If we just did everything the way everyone else does, there would be no reason for this film.

How much room for improvisation did you have during the process of filming?

IS: There was no improvisation, and that’s different from my previous film, where I was open to things that emerged during filming—though I wouldn’t call that improvisation. I worked with the actors as though they were professional actors, not treating them as non-actors, but I accepted ‘bad acting’, if you know what I mean. I tried to push the actors to give me different interpretations of their lines. I always kept in mind that there is not just one character in this film—it’s a group. And you have this figure who acts as a mirror for them. He is an eccentric character, moody and unpredictable. You never know whether you should get along with him or avoid him. And I didn’t realise how complex it would be in the editing process to portray a moody character and reflect the other characters’ responses to his moods.

In your director’s notes, you spoke about presenting a “reimagined view of the Mediterranean in the 19th century” and offering “an alternative perspective on the historical portrayal of Montenegro.” Could you delve into the narrative strategies you employed to achieve this?

IS: As I’ve mentioned, I used a historical figure as the basis for this character. He is a mythical figure. People imagine him as very masculine, very brave, capable of doing anything and understanding everything. To this day, it’s incredible how people view his persona without considering that he might have just been a regular person—perhaps a little talented but still flawed. There is a subversive aspect to it because nobody expects to see this character as I’ve portrayed him in this film. You have this epic figure, but there is nothing epic about him in the film. It is actually very lyrical, with themes of language, poetry, jealousy, and longing. History, when you read it, is all about battles, facts, and who conquered whom. This film takes a completely different direction. For instance, we created costumes that don’t resemble historical attire; they are very modern—something you could wear in the big cities of today.

Presenting historical figures with non-actors who are very contemporary, with only their costumes setting them apart, creates a consensus among the spectators that we are watching imagery that doesn’t pretend to be strictly historical. It shows something that could exist in the present day. Reimagining historical figures also reimagines historical narratives. It’s not about truth or facts, but about shaking things up and opening a window to a parallel universe of history.