When Art Meets Survival: Dmytro Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk's High-Stakes Filmmaking

Art Under Fire

When Russian forces launched their full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, it wasn't just the country's landscape that was transformed—it was the very fabric of its creative industry. For Ukrainian filmmakers like Dmytro Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk, the conflict brought not only physical danger but also a profound existential crisis: How do you make art when your home might be destroyed at any moment?

I've been following Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk's work for years, and his latest project, Something Strange Happened to Me, is perhaps his most ambitious yet—a film that grapples with time, trauma, and the haunting power of memory. But what sets this film apart isn't just its bold narrative or genre-blending aesthetic; it's the raw, unfiltered courage required to make it.

"When the Russian rockets began hitting Kyiv, I cared about my apartment," Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk tells me. "But it's been years now, and I realized nothing was changing. My apartment continues to be at risk. It could be bombed any day, so I stopped caring so much and holding onto it. Might as well use the money to make the film."

This is a man who has chosen to risk everything for his craft—a choice that speaks volumes about the resilience of Ukrainian artists during wartime.

From Concept to Crisis

The idea for Something Strange Happened to Me first took root in Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk's experimentation with the concept of 'less is more' following the invasion. It was a time when traditional filmmaking had become nearly impossible, and Ukrainian creatives were forced to find new ways to tell stories that mattered.

His initial plan was ambitious: a one-year development period followed by another year of production, all with a tight budget and minimal resources. The goal? To make filmmaking as efficient and urgent as the situation demanded.

This is where things get personal. Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk recalls how he first heard about family constellation therapy—an experimental practice involving role-play to uncover subconscious family dynamics. What sounded like something out of a science fiction novel became the seed for his film's unique premise.

"It looks weird; it sounds weird," he admits. "It's like theater. You have a moderator who interprets experiences based on some kind of knowledge that sounds esoteric." He decided to test this concept on stage first, collaborating with the Kyiv National Theatre for a two-month residency. What started as experimental theater evolved into a screenplay, and ultimately, a film with elements of historical detective work and body horror.

Breaking Boundaries

What's particularly striking about Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk's approach is how he uses the concept of time as both narrative device and artistic challenge. The film jumps between present-day Kyiv and a distant past, creating a visual and emotional dissonance that mirrors the dislocation felt by Ukrainians during wartime.

"I was obsessed with the idea that we should feel the historical time changing radically," he explains. "And to have the aesthetic inside the movie mirror that jump." To achieve this, he plans to shoot the past sequences in 16mm film stock—a deliberate choice that adds an imperfection to the image, making it feel more authentic to the era being portrayed.

This technical decision isn't just about aesthetics; it's a statement. In a digital age where perfect images are the norm, Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk chooses imperfection to reflect the chaos of war and memory.

Financing the Fight

Despite the creative risks involved, financial ones were equally daunting. After four years of war, the Ukrainian film industry faced unprecedented challenges. The director himself acknowledges that funding has become increasingly difficult since the initial wave of international support began to wane.

"Times have changed," he notes. "A couple of years ago, if you were making a film in Ukraine, you automatically had attention to your projects. Now people look at [the war] as if it's a regular thing."

That's why his decision to mortgage his family's apartment was so bold—it was a personal gamble with his future. "I now have debts; I took huge loans from the bank; I have mortgaged my apartment," he admits. "But I think it is worth it. It's the only way we can make the film."

The European Solidarity Fund for Ukrainian Films (ESFUF) has provided some financial relief, but Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk knows that securing the remaining funds for post-production will be critical to completing the project.

Art as Resistance

Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk's film is more than just entertainment; it's a form of resistance. In a time when Ukrainian voices are often overlooked or dismissed, his work represents something vital—the insistence that art matters even when the world seems to be falling apart.

"Two years ago, the country [of origin of your project] came first," he reflects. "It was: where are you from? And then what is your project, are you talented, and what is your artistic vision? Now, I think only very strong visions and deeply artistic voices will have the chance to get movies made in Ukraine."

This sentiment captures the current reality for many Ukrainian filmmakers—only those with truly innovative and compelling stories will find support. Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk's film is one such story, a testament to both personal courage and artistic vision.

As he prepares to present his work at Venice's Gap-Financing Market, there's a sense that this isn't just another film project—it's a declaration of independence for Ukrainian cinema. In the face of adversity, Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk has chosen to keep creating, to keep telling stories that matter.

In doing so, he's reminding us all that even in the darkest times, art can be a beacon of hope and a powerful form of resistance.