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“The reality changed our plans,” explains Ukrainian writer Anna Melikova of her new screenplay “I Rarely Wake Up Dreaming.” She is seated next to her wife Isabelle Stever, the director of their new film, at the Locarno
Film Festival. Their second creative collaboration after the Berlinale premiering “Grand Jeté” (2022), “I Rarely Wake Up Dreaming” marks Stever’s long-awaited return to Locarno after her debut “Gisela” played in the Filmmakers of the Present section back in 2005.
“I wanted to write a story about my friends, about their love story,” Melikova continues. And while “I Rarely Wake Up Dreaming” retains its original shape as a version of this queer love story (with a dash of Melikova and Stever’s own), the screenplay was forced to evolve rather abruptly in 2022 when Russia mounted a full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Melikova’s Berlinale Kompagnon Fellowship Award-winning script was no longer simply about how transition impacts a couple, but how it does when their lives are interrupted by war.
On New Year’s Eve, a few months before the invasion, Oleh (Markus Bright) has much to celebrate; he has finally received a passport with his name and gender marker adjusted to male. His long-term girlfriend Olya (Tania Myronyshena) gives him another reason later when she spontaneously proposes: the two can marry now that the state acknowledges them as man and wife. When their excitement for the future is disrupted by Russia’s attacks, the two forge an exit plan that tests the fundamentals of their commitment.
For the German-Ukrianian pair behind the film, many things did not go according to plan. For practical reasons, Melikova and Stever originally counted on a limited number of days of shooting in Ukraine. “We wanted to film only a few small scenes, all of them outside, with everything else [shot] in Germany.” When they came to Kyiv, looking to cast their paramours, “we felt that we had to film there.” Their reason: authenticity.
A similar pursuit was reflected in the way the filmmaker-writer duo went about assembling their cast, ensuring that it honored the script. Luck followed intention. Melikova recollects being part of a festival jury at Kyiv in 2026 and asking if anyone knew of a transgender actor who might be right for the film. “In five minutes, people sent me pictures of Markus. I showed it to Isabelle and felt that we found Oleh.” Olya was found on the phone when, doomscrolling on Instagram, Melikova chanced upon Myronyshena’s picture.
Oleh and Olya, the central characters of the film, were imagined as people who shared a likeness — evident but not limited to their similar sounding names. “Isabelle had this vision,” Melikova explains. When Bright and Myronyshena appear on screen, the symmetry of their appearances — short haircut, light eyes — overlaps, enlivening the filmmaker’s intent.
Such intimacy of gaze, that sees the other only to see themselves better, accounts for the more tender moments in the film. They also feel like a marvel given that both Bright, a transgender man, and Myronyshena, a journalist at the Kyiv Independent, are non-professional actors. “But,” Stever intervenes, “the way they treated each other and respected the other’s safe space transformed the film from timeless to timely.”
Yet, mounting a project with them at the frontline and a war raging in the background implied tackling multiple safety concerns. The makers protected the actors from pressure, and learnt to keep the camera rolling even as drone sounds threatened to infiltrate their make-believe world. In one early scene, the shoot had to be moved inside when spatters of drones could be heard nearby — not just an interruption to the schedule, but a concern for the safety of the cast and crew. “You cannot be afraid everyday for three months. You have to have energy for tomorrow. You have to work and sleep through the air alarms.”
“I Rarely Wake Up Dreaming” also appears inclined to settle for safety. Despite its impassioned advocacy for an alternative way of life, the film concludes with a seemingly conventional image that pricks with its neatness. It might seem self-defeating but Stever and Melikova maintain that the ending is, in fact, a question. “What happens when you categorize people and leave the space within?” What happens when the world, volatile in its divisiveness, denies the basic dignity that allows people to sleep? They rarely dream.
