14.03.2025
Interview: Ezgi Oğraş - Illustration: Naz Tansel
The paradox of creation: A conversation with Vuslat Saraçoğlu
With her distinctive cinematic style and festival successes, Vuslat Saraçoğlu has emerged as one of the most talked-about directors and screenwriters of recent years. She is the guest in this year’s “Short to Feature” section at the 21st Akbank Short Film Festival, while also serving as a jury member for the Forum - Screenplay Competition. Her feature debut, Debt (Borç), which was granted with Golden Tulip for the best film, and her short documentary Children of Müslüm Baba (Müslüm Baba’nın Evlatları) are part of this year’s festival selection.
Before the 21st Akbank Short Film Festival, which will take place across both sides of Istanbul—from Beylikdüzü Atatürk Arts and Culture Center to Kadıköy Cinema and Akbank Sanat between March 17-27, we spoke with Vuslat Saraçoğlu about her cinematic journey, creative process, and this year’s festival.
You completed your undergraduate studies in Sociology and International Relations at Bilgi University and pursued a master’s degree in Modern Turkish History at Boğaziçi University. Could you tell us about the process that led you to cinema? How did filmmaking become a medium of expression for you?
To be honest, before my master’s studies, I had no real connection with cinema. My initial plan was to pursue an academic career in sociology. While doing my master’s at Boğaziçi University, I would stop by Mithat Alam Film Center after classes to pick up films. Whenever I felt exhausted from reading academic papers, I would watch these films. Over time, cinema started to excite me more and more, and I felt the urge to learn everything I could about it. Eventually, I decided to shift my focus to filmmaking and took a break from my thesis. I never returned to it.
At this point, cinema is one of the biggest factors in maintaining my mental and emotional well-being. It allows me to process, question, and heal from everything that overwhelms, frustrates, or even destroys me—while also celebrating what excites and makes me happy. (Of course, music and literature also play a role in this.) But in the early days, what truly fascinated me about cinema was this: If someone points out a mistake you made, it’s not always easy to accept. It can feel like they’re reprimanding you. But through cinema, you can reflect on so many things without facing any direct accusations or judgment. It provides a peaceful environment for self-examination, almost as if it were a space where everyone forgives everyone unconditionally. Even though this isn’t possible in real life, the mere idea of it is incredibly comforting.
That said, while I believe cinema helps preserve mental well-being, it can also test it. The filmmaking process is filled with challenges at every stage, sometimes to an overwhelming degree. But even in those moments, I turn back to cinema as a way to recover. There is that paradox to it.
Your first directing experience was the short film Kakafoni. What does short as a format mean to you, both technically and creatively? As a filmmaker with experience in both short and feature forms, where do you see their differences and commonalities?
I wrote Kakafoni, but I co-directed it with Murat Düzgünoğlu. Since I leaned heavily on Murat’s experience and expertise, I find it a bit difficult to consider it my first film. Because, in a way, making your first film is like jumping into the water without knowing how to swim.
After that, I watched a lot of short films and thought deeply about the subject. I have many short film projects in mind. Why do I want to return to shorts after making two features? Simply because each format serves a different type of storytelling. For instance, I believe that short films are not particularly suitable for objectives such as character exploration, depicting a social class, or offering an in-depth look at a specific community. Take Majority (Çoğunluk) as an example. I view that film as a detailed panorama of the upper-middle class. To truly examine the nuances of this class, you need a slow, flowing rhythm. You have to move slowly. A concise or compact narrative would not allow for that kind of exploration. If Majority had been condensed into less than 30 minutes, it might have risked becoming overly direct, losing its immersive portrayal quality.
The same applies to Debt, which aims at deeply questioning the concept of goodness and closely examining the relationship between a print house worker and societal values. Similarly, Not What You Know (Bildiğin Gibi Değil), which tries to explore the relationship between siblings in depth and address the concept of memory. However, Kakafoni was more event-driven, where the characters’ symbolic representation mattered more than their stories. It had a clear statement on the relativity of morality rather than deeply debating an issue. That said, this should not imply that short films are only about delivering messages—they can certainly convey a feeling or a situation as well. However, I don’t think a short film allows for the luxury of comfortably structuring scenes based on “the hero’s journey” like a feature film does.
Due to the need to convey a lot within a short timeframe, short films often require a dense use of symbolic elements and I think crafting an effective narrative in this format demands significant skill and maturity. Every creative choice carries an amplified impact and there might not be enough room to tone down these choices. Be it a highly emphasized close-up or a scene with an intense emotional tone, every decision can feel dominant. You need to develop techniques to counterbalance this risk. For instance, I recently watched a short film about poverty. It included three consecutive scenes explicitly showing that the character was struggling financially and this created a sense of overload, making the film feel heavy-handed in delivering its message. If the same story had been a feature film, those moments would definitely have been spread out. This led me to think: Instead of three repetitive scenes emphasizing poverty, a single, deeply resonant scene, enriched by well-crafted sound design would tell more. This example reaffirms that short films require distinct technical approaches. Rather than overloading the work with similar moments, filmmakers can enhance the power of specific "moments" by making certain choices during post-production.
I’m curious about your motivations to shoot your short documentary Children of Müslüm Baba, which will be screened at the 21st Akbank Short Film Festival. How did you decide to focus on Müslüm Gürses’ fans rather than the artist himself, and what motivated you to tell this story in documentary form? Do you plan to continue working in this genre?
During my master’s studies at Boğaziçi University, I was researching music sociology. I was exploring topics for an academic paper when I came across Müslüm Gürses performing the song “İtirazım Var” (I Have an Objection) as “İhtiyacım Var” (I Have a Need) on TV and appearing in soda commercials with his bırrr expression. I wondered what Müslüm Gürses fans thought about this shift and decided to write a paper titled "From İtirazım Var to İhtiyacım Var: Müslüm Gürses Fans”. The field research introduced me to the world of Müslümcüler (Müslüm Gürses fans). What I discovered was completely different from the stereotypical image we had been shown on TV. Their bond with the “Baba” (Father, as they call Gürses) was far deeper than conventional fandom. I also realized that by writing an article, I was speaking on their behalf. This should instead be a work where they could speak for themselves, and we could witness their lives and their extraordinary devotion firsthand, without inserting my own voice. That’s when I knew this had to be a documentary. Many had already handed the mic to Müslüm Gürses, but I felt the actual need was to listen to his fans, a group that had often been misrepresented as “razor-blade wielding fanatics” in news reports, reduced to a distorted image. They had never really been seen or understood. They had to be seen and heard.
After my feature film Debt, I had another documentary project in mind with the title Artık Çok Geç, but unfortunately, it didn’t materialize. Maybe after I finish the screenplay for my next feature film, I’ll revisit it.
Your debut feature film Debt, which will be screened in the “Short to Feature” section, won multiple awards, including the Golden Tulip. How did this turning point impact your career? How did the response from festivals and audiences influence you?
Of course, I was very happy to receive the award. I felt understood, and it was empowering. Beyond the awards, what I truly cherished was engaging in deep discussions with audiences at festivals. It was fascinating to ask a new question through Debt and to discuss a philosophical topic together with the audience. That said, I wouldn’t call it a turning point in my life. Before the award, I was aware of both my strengths and shortcomings, and that didn’t change afterward. If I had not received the award, I would have continued my work in the same way.
Debt explores the concept of goodness and the responsibility of being a good person through a family story. One of its most striking aspects is its nuanced observation of the society in Turkey and cultural codes. How did this idea evolve into a screenplay? What kind of societal portrait did you aim to present?
While evil is often explored from various perspectives, goodness tends to be depicted in a one-dimensional way. When creating a “bad” character, writers tend to dig deep into their motivations, examining why they became the way they are. “Good” characters on the other hand, simply exist. The question, “Why is this person ‘good’?” was as important to me as the question, “Why is this person ‘bad’?” I also asked myself: If no one witnessed our acts of kindness, would we still do them? How would we feel if the people we helped never thanked us? Do we act kindly because we genuinely want to, or because we’ve been taught to? Is it truly “goodness” if we offer something that doesn’t require real effort?..
These questions eventually led me to the character of Tufan. Tufan is someone I’ve encountered countless times in my life. A quiet, helpful person whom everyone would casually describe as “a good guy.” I wanted to explore what someone like Tufan do in a situation where his usual behaviors and learned responses wouldn’t work. As this theme got deeper details of Tufan’s character became more important. I realized that all his actions, struggles, and hesitations reflected deeper societal codes.
Something about my approach to Tufan was holding me back from an unconditional sense of ownership or judgment. My feelings toward Tufan were always conflicted before, during and after the writing process. At times, he warmed my heart. At others, he made me want to run away. He felt both familiar and foreign to me. One moment, I felt compassion for him, another, I found his “ordinariness” unsettling. I sensed that this emotional complexity would benefit the film, so I tried to apply the same approach to all the characters. They were such familiar characters that it was impossible to approach them with sharp and definitive terms. I wanted them to feel so real that audiences would say, “He’s just like our Hacı Abi!” or “Wow, she’s exactly like our Şükran Abla!” I wanted to create characters that would encourage people to reconsider the everyday personalities we often take for granted, making them pause and reflect on their deeper layers.
You have experience in multiple creative fields, including acting, producing, directing, and music. What drives you to pursue such diversity? How do these disciplines influence your creative process?
I produce films out of necessity, and I absolutely hate it. I would love to discuss why I’m forced to do it, but that’s a conversation for another time.
Acting, on the other hand, is a magical form of expression. It is deeply nourishing for a director. The satisfaction of fully embodying a role and delivering a well-earned performance would be immense. However, acting is something I can only do occasionally. I can’t sustain it as a full-time profession. If it started interfering with my screenwriting or directing, I would have to stop. Because if I go two days without writing, I feel restless. Writing is the only way I can organize my chaotic thoughts.
How does it feel to be part of the Akbank Short Film Festival? You’re also serving as a jury member for the Forum-Screenplay competition. What does that mean to you?
For years, I’ve observed the Akbank Short Film Festival from afar as an established and prestigious platform. I’ve also noticed that for many of my peers, having a film showcased at this festival has marked a turning point in their careers. Given how limited the support systems are for short films, I find it incredibly valuable that the festival supports films from the screenplay stage. It’s an approach that should be widely adopted, and I’m truly happy about that.
Your latest film Not What You Know (Bildiğin Gibi Değil) has been screened at various festivals and is now preparing for theatrical release. Do you have any upcoming projects in development?
Yes, Not What You Know will be released in theaters on April 25. Our team is thrilled about it. Right now, I’m working on the screenplay for my third feature film. We plan to start seeking funding before the end of the year.