Yorgos Tsemberopoulos, the director of “Stelios,” a film that has surpassed 760,000 tickets, was unable to fully savor the joy of its success: “After the premiere at the Pallas Theater [in Athens] and in Cyprus last December, I tried to get up from an armchair and couldn’t. Something happened between my knee and thigh. As a result, I couldn’t experience the full joy – packed theaters, people applauding. Last Saturday, I went to the Athinaion Theater for the first time, but there were neither tears nor applause. They liked the film very much, but that was all. And to think, I used to roam the theaters, mingle with the audience, and listen to their reactions – not just to my own films but also to those of my friends, Giorgos Panousopoulos and Nikos Perakis. I had done this so many times, and now I couldn’t experience it – at a moment when three generations were watching the film together, crying and clapping…and ”and
Stelios Kazantzidis is the unifying element of this emotion and euphoria. “The wings of popular music” provided the momentum. “I always like to describe a finished film as a little boat. You place it in the water on the shoreline and watch what happens. Will the public embrace it? Will the festivals or intellectuals take notice? Or will no one touch it, and it will remain still? By then, it has a life of its own. ‘Stelios’ [original title: ‘Yparcho’] is alive now. It’s too early to draw conclusions,” the director comments.
Tsemberopoulos’ narrative is not linear. It includes flashbacks to the past and long digressions. After all, his journey has been defined by success since “Megara” (1974) – Greece’s first ecological and political documentary, co-directed with Sakis Maniatis, which earned awards in Berlin and Thessaloniki – and later “Sudden Love” (1984), which sold 200,000 tickets (an “astonishing number” for the time). Over his 50-year career in cinema, his filmography may not be extensive (just six films), but it is distinctive.
“The point isn’t whether the films made a splash when they were released. The real question is, do they live on today? That’s the question,” he says. I repeat the question to him. He replies, “Yes, they live on.”
Reflecting on his seven years in the United States, where he studied cinema at the American Film Institute, two moments stand out: “I was at the AFI when Jan Kadar [known for “The Shop on Main Street”] was the director of studies. This older man gave us a list of films we had to analyze, and none of us had heard of them. We were all expecting Federico Fellini. But he said: ‘Everyone wants to be Fellini. I’ll show you bad films so you can see the mistakes and learn what to avoid from others’ errors.’”
“In America, I truly became a director when I got involved in theater. During a workshop, I was asked to go on stage and act. The director was firm and uncompromising; he didn’t accept refusal. The way he guided me revealed how much potential lies in working with actors. A side of me emerged that I didn’t even know existed – I became someone entirely different. I realized that our job as directors is like that of an orchestra conductor, with the actors as musical instruments.”
Was the choice of the lead actor for ‘Stelios’ challenging?
I was at a deadlock. One evening, at 11.30, my close collaborator, Makis Gazis, the casting director, called me to suggest Christos Mastoras, whom I admit I wasn’t familiar with. As I read about him, I “saw” a connection: the stories his North Epirus [southern Albania] grandparents told by the fireside were ones of persecution and exile – similar to the history of Kazantzidis’ family. The fame that Kazantzidis grappled with had already been embraced and mastered by Mastoras. When I met him, I felt the same kind of infatuation I had once experienced with Keti Papanika [the lead actress in “Take Care,” 1991].
Why did you want to make a film about Kazantzidis?
Honestly, it wasn’t my choice – it was proposed to me. And I thought: “Why wouldn’t I take on this challenge? Why step back? To avoid risking failure or exposure?” The budget was significant (2.7 million euros), which created opportunities. The film isn’t a full biographical account of Kazantzidis’ life. It focuses on his journey from childhood to the moment he chose to walk away from it all. One of the most pivotal moments in his life was when he was at the peak of his career. His immense talent not only elevated him but also inspired lyricists, who would say, “We’ll write for Stelios.” And then, at the age of 35, he reached a breaking point – partly due to the harsh conditions in the music venues. “I was 35 years old, and I had no soul left,” he said. At the height of his success, he was both assertive and unyielding.
‘Today, poverty often comes with violence and anger. Back then, everyone was poor, and only a few were rich, but poverty didn’t breed despair’
Did you grow to love him through the film?
He had only reached third grade at school, yet his diction was unparalleled for a singer. His speech was flawless, his words remarkable, and the letters he sent from America – [bouzouki virtuoso and composer] Christos Nikolopoulos showed me 13 of them, preserved in a folder – were visually stunning. It was as if a calligraphy teacher had guided his hand from above. Do you know what Kazantzidis read throughout his life? The Helios single-volume encyclopedia. He read it constantly, learning new words until the end. To truly engage with this film, I had to both love and understand him.
Is Kazantzidis’ Greece a “Greece of lament”?
It’s deeply unfair to define the Greece of pain, division – where brothers fought and killed each other – poverty, toil and progress as a “Greece of lament.” No, I cannot accept that. I wasn’t among the persecuted; I grew up listening to the Rolling Stones, [Dionysis] Savvopoulos and Bob Dylan, and I would dismiss him as “the whiner.” But I wasn’t being fair. In the film, of course, we included an anthology of his songs. Part of the script draws directly from his lyrics. For instance, when he experiences a breakup, and you hear, “My share of joy has been taken from me by others” – that’s pure poetry, not lament.
Which phrase or lyric do you think best captures the spirit of that era?
“My whole life is a responsibility / It takes everything from me, gives me nothing in return.” That’s the order in which the song conveys its meaning. You know, we’ve been working on translating the lyrics because the film will be shown internationally, and we’ve been stuck on the word “efthyni” [responsibility] for three weeks. All the young translators interpret the word as “burden,” as something heavy. But I told them – I even turned to AI for help – it cannot be “burden.” For people of that era, being entrusted with responsibility made them soar. It brought them to life. How can you achieve progress without taking on responsibility? If you see it as a burden, you strip it of its meaning. Back then, responsibility symbolized advancement.
In your opinion, what is the key difference between then and now that made rehearsals challenging?
Rehearsals in cinema aren’t just about learning lines. They’re about each actor immersing themselves in the spirit of the time – how they behave, how they interact, whether they’re familiar or distant with one another. Today, we have to understand that poverty back then wasn’t synonymous with misery. People were poor, yes, but they made it a point to enjoy life, to have fun with whatever little they had. They valued family and maintained order in their lives. The woman was in charge – she ensured the household’s survival, often in subtle ways. She managed the family’s resources: ensuring the husband left enough money to send their child to school or buy food for the day. The man, on the other hand, was the breadwinner. Today, poverty often comes with violence and anger. Back then, everyone was poor, and only a few were rich, but poverty didn’t breed despair.
Cinema starts with the producer
“Healthy cinema exists when it is made for the country itself,” emphasizes Tsemberopoulos. “Over the years, at various conferences held in Greece, influential people would tell us: ‘Focus on how to succeed abroad, individually, one by one. If you don’t appeal to your own country, how will you appeal elsewhere?’ And for many years, we’ve struggled to appeal to our own country. For decades, Greek cinema lacked producers and was instead dominated by artists. What’s truly needed is a producer who selects a screenwriter, who then develops a script, and then presents it to the director. It takes three to tango. I say this often – it’s my theory. The offers I’m receiving now, after the success of ‘Stelios,’ are numerous, but my response is always the same: ‘Can I see the script?’”