"97"

“97” is a performative art film (10 minutes) based on a

same-titled poem, combining monologue and physical theatre. It creates a vulnerable space for reflection and release, confronting the trauma of witnessing death and exploring the uncontrollability of loss, war, and love.

"97" trailer

poem written by

Marichka Lukianchuk

the soul clean from mud

the soil clean from blood

My record was not breathing for 97 seconds—

94, 95, 96, 97...

I emerge to the surface, taking a sip of air,

just before the mud begins to swallow my body.

A brief thought of her flashes in my mind,

and suddenly, I’m sinking all the way to the bottom.

My ankles are stuck in the soft, wet ground.

I start counting again,

as my feet search desperately for something to push against.

She always smelled of cleanness—

freshly washed laundry, soft, translucent skin.

A gray hoodie that matched her eyes.

94, 95, 96, 97...

Do you still think of that night?

Sometimes, in the back of my mind.

But I don’t have nightmares anymore.

Three hours ago, I saw him near the bar—friendly and smiling.

What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were in Berlin.

You probably forgot.

I close the safe, turn off the light, and shut the door.

I see three people mopping up blood

from the spot where he used to lie.

Where did all this blood come from?

And why are they cleaning it now?

While water mixes with blood and floods the ground.

I approach an unknown woman, feeling the need to thank her for cleaning.

She hugs me carefully, trying not to touch me with her gloved hand, now dark red,

while holding the mop in the other hand, keeping it far from me.

I want to clean the toilet too. Like a ritual to say goodbye. Which cabin was he in?

First cabin on the right.

94, 95, 96, 97...

I wanted to be so clean with her—

with my thoughts, with my words, with my touch.

I hoped that through all the mud,

she could still see the cleanness of my intention.

94, 95, 96,

97... I was born and began my fight with things I cannot control.

After hearing from somebody that old people die,

I became very sad that the time

with my grandmother could come to an end.

I knew that death would come from the darkest corner of the room,

from an old wooden drawer with a mysterious lock.

I tried to open it every day, but I did not have the key.

Every night I watched the drawer until I was sure my grandmother was asleep.

Knowing that death would come the moment it wasn’t watched,

I kept listening to her breathing –

94, 95, 96, 97...

He was lying on the ground,

He broke my record for not breathing.

I stood near him for what seemed an eternity—

Not moving, not taking my gaze from his face.

She stood behind, hugging me.

Please, breathe.

Please, please take a sip of air.

I watch; you can’t die.

In my way of praying, I spoke to the old dark drawer—

Take anything from me, but please let him breathe.

But it refused to take it. A mysterious lock

for which I don’t have the key.

When I heard my first explosion,

I started cleaning the dishes.

It had to be our fault.

We had closed our eyes to too many things.

I’ve always believed that when things go wrong, it’s my fault.

It’s what I did and what I failed to do.

I give up: I can’t control it.

I couldn’t control him dying.

I couldn’t control her leaving.

I couldn’t control them invading.

I let go of control and allow my body to take a sip of air when it needs it.

I can live with the sense of guilt,

Or I can surrender to my helplessness

I can learn to breathe in the mud,

or I can try not to drown—

I put on gloves

to clean the dark drawer of my mind.

94, 95, 96, 97...

The starting point for “97” was a deeply personal need to reflect on and release the traumatic events of the last three years: the first explosion I heard, the first death I witnessed, and the love I’ve lost. These events are interconnected—they trigger the same internal patterns and lead to a breaking point, when one can no longer look away and must confront and reconstruct deep psychological mechanisms.

Though rooted in personal experience, the film also touches upon collective trauma and the destructive impact of war: the awareness of becoming a target, the injustice of loss, and the guilt over what cannot be controlled. It gives shape to heavy emotions— feeling of loosing control, helplessness, grief, guilt. The film also invites the audience to engage with their own pain and trauma. The performer opens a dialogue, confronting viewer's doubts and conscience and creating space for an open conversation about the complexity of human experience in crisis.

All elements—performing, sound, camera, light, acting—function as dramaturgical tools in order to build a shared rhythm, establish a sense of control, and then rupture it, creating tension through the illusion and loss of predictability. We explored the ebb and flow of tension throughout the monologue—building it up and then releasing it in order to grow again and guide the journey toward catharsis.On set, we aimed to choreograph the interaction between actor, camera, and light to find a shared flow and function as one mechanism in real time.

We used long continuous takes with an active, experimental camera to preserve the rhythm of the performance while exploring the dynamic between the actor and the lens. The film begins with a close-up and gradually expands into a wide shot, revealing more about the space and costume. Rapid zoom-ins create and disrupt the rhythm and allow us to visually access the protagonist’s inner state, treating the body as an abstract landscape, a texture, a structure. Body and physicality are central to the film: it reflects psychological states and becomes a site of vulnerability, distortion, and transformation, not shying away from death being a physical experience.

We treated costume and set design as a unified whole. The costume—created by layering nude-toned fabric—was designed to evoke a sense of nakedness and fragility without sexualizing the body, while also introducing the discomfort of bodily distortion.

The 4:3 aspect ratio enhances the claustrophobic feeling of the space, emphasizing the protagonist's inability to escape her inner confrontation. In the dance sequence, we explored the power dynamics between the protagonist and the camera and lighting: them following her, her following them.

Through an intense rehearsal process, we found a balance between the performer as storyteller and as vessel. We explored multiple vocal tones, from documentary-style reporting to intimate confession, framing them with metaphors like court testimony or therapy sessions. We played with spatial dynamics—placing the unseen characters she addresses in different corners of the space—and broke the fourth wall by having her look directly into the camera. With breath and natural body reactions guiding the movement, we evolved them into anchor gestures that found full expression in the dance—a catharsis.

Sound design was built around rhythm and its disruption: breath, counting, time. The laugh of a hyena became a motif of the mocking, observing presence. We developed distinct sound elements for different emotional threads—romance, memory, death—using a minimalistic approach that gradually loses control, allowing the performer to do the same during the dance.

We filmed in the Berlin Story Bunker—a WWII civilian bunker and museum that actively supports Ukraine through media, research, and funding. The space allowed us to conceptually bridge historical trauma with the present. It could be read as a shelter, like those many Ukrainians hide in today. The bunker also mirrors the protagonist's inner world: a space she doesn’t fully understand until she begins to see its exits and hidden rooms. To emphasize this, we used set and costume design to blend the performer into the space as one monochromatic landscape, reinforced in the color grading.

Our team consisted predominantly of FLINTA creatives, with women in key roles, and included migrants from Ukraine and other countries living in Berlin. Anna (the performer) and I have collaborated on multiple projects in various roles. In the theatre piece Kharkiv Calling, I worked as dramaturg and video editor; she performed as an actor. In the upcoming short film NOVYNA (now in pre-production), we are co-writers and co-directors. "97" offered us the opportunity to deepen our artistic partnership as director and performer—a collaboration that strengthened our shared creative language and vision.

Although Anna and I are both Ukrainian, we chose to create the film in English—the original language of the poem. This allowed us to build an international artistic language for confronting traumatic and vulnerable experiences. We hope this film offers both Ukrainian and global audiences a space to experience and process these emotions—through words, movement, and the unified language of cinema.

written, directed & edited by
MARICHKA LUKIANCHUK

actor, dance choreographer
ANNA MRACHKOVSKA

director of photography
MICHELLE ROMERO PASTERNACK

gaffer
NINA BATMALO

sound recordist

ELLINE MAY GRAF

lighting technicians
LEV DANYLOV
ZALÁN KIRI
SAMANTHA SANCHEZ

1st assistant camera

KRISTINA SUBOTINA

costume & set designer
ZOË SEBANYIGA

costume assistant & stylist
CLARA PAUCKSTADT

set runner

ANASTASIA VOGIATZAKI

colorist
NOUR JAZBECK

sound composer
QVIT

sound mastering
ANDRIY NERETIN

location partner
BERLIN STORY BUNKER

equipment partner

SEE YOU RENT

special thanks

ENNO LENZE

WIELAND GIEBEL
OLENA LUKIANCHUK
CHLOÉ POMMARET
SOFIIA KROSHKA