As part of the 46th edition of the Cairo International Film Festival (CIFF), held from November 12 to 21, 2025, Turkish filmmaker Nuri Bilge Ceylan — president of the International Competition jury — took part in a special session titled Cinematic Reflections: A Journey Through Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s Worlds.
Moderated by film critic Ahmed Shawky, president of the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI), the conversation unfolded as a slow, reflective journey through Ceylan’s artistic path, blending photography, literature, philosophy, and the intimate experience of life into one of contemporary cinema’s most distinctive bodies of work. Members of the jury were in attendance, underlining that this was not merely an honorary encounter, but a true exchange of perspectives at the very heart of the festival.
A Singular Path
Born in Istanbul in 1959, Nuri Bilge Ceylan began as a photographer before turning to cinema. He studied electrical engineering at Boğaziçi University and then filmmaking at Mimar Sinan University, both in Istanbul. His first short film, Koza (1995), was selected at Cannes, marking the beginning of a lasting relationship with the festival and the start of a singular filmography where nature, silence, and contemplation occupy a central place.
With The Small Town (Kasaba, 1997), Clouds of May (Mayıs Sıkıntısı, 1999), Distant (Uzak, 2002 – Grand Prix and Best Actor at Cannes), Climates (İklimler, 2006), Three Monkeys (Üç Maymun, 2008 – Best Director at Cannes), Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (Bir Zamanlar Anadolu’da, 2011 – Grand Prix at Cannes), Winter Sleep (Kış Uykusu, Palme d’Or 2014), The Wild Pear Tree (Ahlat Ağacı, 2018), and About Dry Grasses (Kuru Otlar Üstüne, 2023 – Best Actress Award at Cannes), Ceylan has built an oeuvre shaped by existential inquiry, visual precision, and a profound sensitivity to both human and natural landscapes.
Photography and Philosophy of Vision
Ceylan’s cinema is defined by a deliberate pace, sparse dialogue, and an emphasis on silence and faces — all deeply rooted in literature and photography. He recalls that his connection to images began in his teenage years: at fifteen, he was “a very introverted and solitary boy,” and photography became “a passion for loners.” It was both a refuge and a way of observing the world.
By his mid-twenties, after frequenting cinemas obsessively, he realized that film could be a continuation of this visual pursuit. He bought a camera, filmed and edited alone, capturing nature and the people around him in the countryside. Gradually, he brought in collaborators, building small teams but always keeping that intimate, hands-on relationship with the image. Even today, he reminds, his sets rarely exceed six or seven people.
For Ceylan, as he expressed in Cairo, everything he creates — in photography or film — stems from “a single philosophical vision.” Each image, he said, “carries the same core” as those in his films. “Art is not divided,” he added; it is the spiritual and intellectual extension of a single search for meaning. His photography exhibitions, shown in galleries and museums worldwide, share with his films a contemplative spirit, meticulous composition, and a quiet visual language devoted to the smallest human details — fragments of reality that form the heart of his artistic experience.
Cinema as an Exploration of the Soul
Ceylan rejects the idea of cinema as mere “moving images.” For him, film is a way of recording life’s most precise instants, of illuminating human experience with philosophical depth and emotional nuance. His realist yet poetic visual style becomes a way of exploring the soul and its connection to the world. What stands out in his discourse is his constant return to the human — never to theory or ideology, but to perception, solitude, reading, and observation.
From the Intimate to the Universal
He outlined two distinct phases of his filmmaking journey. His early works, made with family members and non-professional actors, were deeply personal, filmed in familiar surroundings. This stage, he believes, was essential: one must first explore oneself before telling more complex stories. His later films expanded in scope and philosophical depth. Yet Ceylan insists that he is less interested in storytelling than in inquiry: “Stories don’t interest me — I prefer questions.” His films, he says, are not narratives but explorations — places where doubt is tested and questions remain open.
Writing in Doubt and Discovery
Once a film is finished, Ceylan often needs a year before thinking of another. “I never have projects waiting in a drawer,” he admitted. “When a film ends, the next doesn’t exist yet.” Inspiration returns unpredictably — and though he jokes about his lack of motivation, he always pushes himself to continue. Every day, he says, he thinks of quitting, but cannot imagine doing anything else.
He writes with his wife, Ebru Ceylan, with whom he shares ideas, arguments, and moments of creative friction — particularly over dialogue. He welcomes such disputes, convinced that they move the project forward. Writing, for him, is not isolation but confrontation. He enjoys crafting “small group stories,” simple on the surface but rich in psychological detail — “questions,” he says, that often resemble therapy. “I ask, I search for answers, I go so deep that sometimes I can’t even express what I mean.”
Actors and the Art of Trust
Ceylan’s relationship with actors is rooted in instinct and observation. He begins with no fixed idea, filming auditions and editing screen tests to observe chemistry between performers before assembling the final cast. Doubt, however, never leaves him: “At the start of every shoot, I fear I’ve made the wrong choices.” He dislikes excessive rehearsals, preferring just one reading of the script. “Too many rehearsals,” he said, “and I start to hate the film.”
He expects precise memorization, believing that discipline in dialogue builds trust. Over the years, his scripts have become denser and more demanding, pushing him increasingly toward professional actors. Ceylan also recalled the one time he acted himself — an experience he “hated,” he confessed, due to his shyness. Yet it helped him understand actors better and direct them with deeper empathy.
Nature, Climate, and Silence
Nature and weather are never mere backdrops in his films. Seasons, for Ceylan, are dramatic forces that shape both image and narrative. The choice of a snowstorm, a crushing summer heat, or a rainy autumn is always meaningful — it reflects life’s tangible realities and emotional states. Across his filmography, Anatolian landscapes, deserted roads, and isolated villages become silent but essential characters, shaping the inner lives of those they frame.
Humiliation as a Mirror of Humanity
One recurring motif in Ceylan’s work is humiliation. “I hate being humiliated,” he admitted, “and maybe I fear it.” When a character is humiliated, he explained, “we see who they really are.” It’s an emotional test that reveals hidden depths. He referenced Dostoevsky, who also explored humiliation as a moral condition. In today’s digital world, he noted, humiliation takes new forms — amplified through social media, public scrutiny, and the erosion of privacy.
Ceylan, who grew up in a small town with little exposure to the outside world, compared this new reality to “a small village where everyone watches and judges everyone else.” His films, by confronting both visible and silent humiliations, extend this reflection on the fragility of human dignity.
Literature as Lifeblood
Literature, especially Russian, is central to Ceylan’s imagination. He acknowledges Chekhov’s influence in all his films — sometimes subtly, sometimes quoted directly. He read Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky at nineteen and was deeply struck; rereading it years later, he realized that “we don’t change as much as we think.” Recently, he discovered Egyptian author Tawfiq El-Hakim’s Diary of a Country Prosecutor, which he loved so much he wanted to adapt it, before learning it had already been turned into an Egyptian film. “I’d love to see that version,” he said. This curiosity for other cultures and literary worlds reflects his openness and the breadth of his artistic dialogue.
A Philosophy of Life and Creation
Ceylan spoke with humility about self-perception: “I don’t think of myself as important.” What matters, he said, “is humanity — even if I don’t fully understand what that means.” He described a universal “instinct for protection” that he enjoys testing — breaking pride, confronting vulnerability, exposing false strength. Even in difficult moments, he finds himself smiling. “I see life differently,” he confessed. “It doesn’t have a big meaning. That doesn’t make me frivolous; it just means I observe differently.”
Editing, Duration, and Freedom
Ceylan laughed when asked about the length of his films. “I don’t know why they keep getting longer,” he admitted. “Everyone complains — distributors, producers, festivals, audiences — but there’s nothing I can do.” Human psychology, he said, cannot be simplified: “When I write, I never think about length.” He even joked that he offered his French producer a deal — to pay him less if his next film again exceeded the expected runtime, just to work in peace.
Editing, too, is a process of discovery. “Sometimes I realize a scene doesn’t work,” he explained, “so I shoot more to have options.” The digital era allows him to film extensively — sometimes up to two hundred hours of footage. His budgets are large not because of expensive actors but because of this patient process: multiplying angles, emotions, and nuances until he finds the essence of the moment.
Music, Humor, and Universality
Ceylan chooses music only at the very end of editing. He sees it not as an emotional cue but as a continuation of rhythm. “Music must follow the image’s movement, not dictate it.” Likewise, though his films are rarely comedies, humor is never far. “Life is funny,” he said. “I dislike sentimentality. I aim for realism — and sometimes, that makes people laugh.”
He also rejects the idea that his work is specifically Turkish: “I talk about human beings, not Turks. People are the same everywhere.” His universality, he insists, isn’t a conscious pursuit but a natural outcome of his focus on emotion and truth.
A Slow Gaze in a Fast World
The event, part of CIFF’s Industry Days, embodied the festival’s mission to foster dialogue between filmmakers and audiences and to celebrate those who expand the language of cinema. The hall was packed, eyes fixed on Ceylan as he spoke — though some lamented that overly technical questions left little room for anecdotes or more personal moments.
What remains, however, is a vivid impression: that of an artist who never separates thought from form, or life from art. As jury president, one can’t help but wonder how his meditative, doubt-filled gaze will shape both the films he judges and those he will make next. In a world rushing ever faster, Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s presence in Cairo is a reminder that cinema can still take its time — to see, to listen, and to think.
Neïla Driss
