Close the Door is a feature-length film I have been making for the past four years. It is a poetic magic-realist
portrait of my grandparents and their war-scarred home in Bosnia. Shot like a drama, rather than
a documentary, it captures their every-day life more than twenty years after the war. Old age and the
awareness of one's own life passing are acute. The day is split into routine and segments. Yet, the
memory of the war and of loss disrupts everyday life. Longing, sorrow and love flow through the cracks
created by the sudden and inhumane breaks caused by war. How can we move forward when the past
has such a strong hold on us?
The war may be officially over, but the scars remain, and the story largely untold. Telling this story is a
testimony of the strength of the human spirit, the power of compassion and the sad reality that in a war,
everybody loses. This website is both a platform for raising funding in order to complete the last
production stages of the film as well as a platform providing an expansion of the film: an entrance into
the world of my grandparents and their universe of war, loss and love, through a series of
written stories, each accompanied by a 2-5min film.
Contributions
$8,190.00 of $37,000.00 raised in Round 1
We appreciate you taking the time to find out
about our story. A huge chunk of creating this film
is already behind us. Now we need just the resources
for the last little push. If you would like to help, check
out the Contribute Page or share this story
through
Facebook,
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LinkedIn.
Many thanks!
Stories
On Leaving and Returning
Time is like a mysterious stranger, whose intentions remain unclear. The buttons on my bed-cloth take a deep dive into my ear, the thread holding together the pillowcase forms the same wave as my mother’s nightgown as she walks on the other side of the door.
Making Of
Jul 11 - A Hello
Very glad to see you managed to find your way here somehow. Welcome to our little corner. We are very excited about the launch of this website and are looking forward to the next steps in the last bit of stretch when it comes to taking this film to completion ...
Another Kind of Light
The war ended in 1996. At least this is what the newspapers say. But sometimes endings come slowly
and peace comes even slower. In 1992, when the war began, I was barely eight years old. In 1994, we
managed to escape to Germany. In 1998, I arrived in Canada. I still remember the light-ray sneaking
through underneath my bedroom door, the headlights of the taxi. The taxi is not a taxi. It is only a
yellow car, but it is easier to leave when you believe the drive is short and your departure temporary.
This was the car that took us all the way to Germany.
I remember a lamp that I imagined my grandfather gave me. He said that nothing bad can happen to me when I press the button to turn it on, because it is a magic lamp and magic lamps make all the horrors of the world disappear. I remember an apple my grandmother gave me for the trip. She said that if I peel it in one long line, I will not forget that while the war arrived, life arrived much sooner.
Maybe creating this film is a way of pressing the same button as the one someone pressed to ring the bell at the door with the abandoned umbrella. Or maybe it is the light-switch on my grandfather's lamp that might shine its rays on the apple my grandmother gave me.
I remember a lamp that I imagined my grandfather gave me. He said that nothing bad can happen to me when I press the button to turn it on, because it is a magic lamp and magic lamps make all the horrors of the world disappear. I remember an apple my grandmother gave me for the trip. She said that if I peel it in one long line, I will not forget that while the war arrived, life arrived much sooner.
Maybe creating this film is a way of pressing the same button as the one someone pressed to ring the bell at the door with the abandoned umbrella. Or maybe it is the light-switch on my grandfather's lamp that might shine its rays on the apple my grandmother gave me.
