Miss Jokovic was in San Francisco recently to help promote the Yugoslavian film The Powder Keg. The film’s story follows several short but intense incidents in the lives of Belgrade citizens, and the madness, lawlessness, and pointless horror that pervades their everyday lives.

The film heaves the chaotic atmosphere of Yugoslavia directly into your lap, and leads viewers to grasp a sliver of understanding of the complicated current events in that part of the world. The stories of its many characters interweave to create a tapestry in which each event is somehow related to every other in order to show that the effects of violence spread like ripples across the waters of society and ultimately affect everyone. The film does this with both straightforward and harrowing moments of uncontrolled and terrifying violence, as well as a sly sense of wicked gallows humor.

My discussion with Miss Jokovic was in many ways much more intense than watching the film itself. Although the film bears the ring of truth, Jokovic’s words are the real thoughts and feelings of a Yugoslav citizen and Serbian whose life has been irrevocably changed by years of the kinds of experiences that the rest of us hope that we never have to face.

Although Jokovic is extremely articulate and her command of English is fantastic (and much better than my Yugoslavian), I have in some places edited her words to better get her point across, while still maintaining her unique quirks of speech.

Allen White: Since most American audiences are not familiar with your work, could you tell me a little about your background?

Mirjana Jokovic: The latest thing that I did was Electra on Broadway, which was very successful. I did one movie last year, an American film called Side Streets. Tony Gerber directed, and it was shown in Sundance. And most of my other years living here I was going back to Europe doing films, like Vukovar, Underground, Powder Keg, a couple of others.

AW: So you worked with (Emir) Kusturica, then? Is he as wonderful as I think he is?

MJ: Well, I think he is a genius, and he has incredible visions, and he is really an incredible director. But Underground was particularly a difficult project, because we were shooting for 200 shooting days, 14 months. It is a kind of an army of work. I mean, after that, everything is easy. It’s like, "How many days? 32? Hah!" It’s funny.

In that period of time it was very tense and people are trying to do their best, so a lot of the personal things that you find out about people are not necessary for you to know at all. It just comes up through, you know -- a casualty of being so long with each other.

But I’m very pleased that happened in my life, really, it’s amazing, it was a special momentum, it was done in Prague with our refugees then. Then we moved back to Belgrade, it was a testimony of the country that we are from, that it once was, and it was an incredible spiritual experience to go through that, trying to create at the same time.

AW: What was it like making a film under the conditions in Yugoslavia at the time?

MJ: Well Powder Keg, comparing to other movies that I did -- one of them was Vukovar, that I did before Underground, and it was made in Vukovar, which is the Hiroshima of the Balkans. And that was really a war zone.

And it’s a tremendous difference between actual danger -- that you’re in danger -- and it’s a different atmosphere when you feel something’s gonna happen. It’s almost more difficult when you feel something’s gonna happen, because when you’re already in danger you’re kind of prepared to defend; you’re very sharp, you know -- it’s very distinct what is good, what is bad. In situations like this you never know what’s gonna end up. I mean, it’s kind of like everything is normal -- but it isn’t. Powder Keg was good, because we did it all night, we had a lot of guests on the set, which made the atmosphere very pleasant.

It’s a feeling of bigger responsibility these days when you’re doing a film, which means that you’re not really that crazy to shoot a film about a guy who’s selling French fries falling in love with a little cowgirl. It’s about something that you’re not even sure that you know that much. You feel it. You don’t understand it, but you feel, and you know that people feel like you, and you’re trying to materialize your feelings. And it’s beautiful, because it’s creation alongside difficulty, and it’s educational, because you really go into the area of anthropology to find out things about defending certain characters.

AW: That leads perfectly to a question I had, which is what is the artist’s responsibility in a situation with a country at war with itself?

MJ: It’s very hard to answer and not to be pretentious, because there are things in life of course that have priority. And those are things and matters of life and death; your family, thinking how they’re gonna survive next winter, is there gonna be food, is there gonna be heat. You know, there are certain things that put you in a different perspective, that your life changes, as all of us who are from there are changed, no matter if you live there or live here. In a certain way, I think that the only thing that is left is to cope with the problems with dignity, with knowledge, to try to explore things that you didn’t know about, to try to be honest, brave, and to be a messenger -- because you are a messenger.

Acting generally I think is a kind of a privilege, because you are representing human souls. If you are playing a murderer you have to find reason to defend him, because there is somebody living like that. And it’s not enough to be justifiable or not; God in the end will tell us. So we are just living people and sinners. But it’s always difficult, and on a certain level beautiful, when you have need to be better than you are, when you have to improve yourself. And in this situation you are representing people, so it’s not about when everything’s done, people say, "Well, you looked gorgeous!" That’s the last thing that you want to hear. That means you didn’t do it. It’s not about that.

It’s almost about getting rid of all vanity, which is very hard, because ninety-nine percent of actors they make their career just on that self-centered thing, and at some point I guess you have to have it in order to build yourself, to make yourself who you are. But then there is a certain point of being mature when you say, "Well, hold on, I cannot lie to myself, I cannot act to myself." There are people who act all the time -- you want to go crazy, you know, because they are actors.

I think that this thing makes things more substantial, that proves you in a way that you don’t have any more time for small talk. You have to do something, and I have to do it right, I have to try to do it right, I have to put in everything that I can, and then after that it’s my time. But it’s a different responsibility.

AW: If all of you are messengers in this film, then what is the message that you hope that people get?

MJ: To feel our pain. To feel devastation and absurdity, and to feel that these people are not doing that because they enjoy that. They’re doing it because they were pushed to that point, to become enemies of their own lives. And not to be in the pathetic and candy way, that people are crying -- but that people are terrified. And they can say, "My goodness, what is going on here?!" And to reach for some positiveness, because it is so hard, it is such a turmoil going on, that you’re waiting for the light in the end.

And we are always represented -- I’m talking about Yugoslavian people and Serbs during this war -- there is a certain "bad guy & good guy." We were "bad guy." It’s like in cartoons, which is ridiculous. It’s very disturbing that you are the one who is explaining to intelligent people that there are gray areas.

So this film is in that way showing other people, ordinary people, regular people, that this thing can happen tomorrow here -- and what then? It can happen anywhere. If it happened in my country, it can happen, I’m serious. And that’s the most frightening idea, because I never had in my worst night-dreams that this is possible.

AW: How representative of the atmosphere in Yugoslavia is Powder Keg? I mean, is it really that crazy there at times?

MJ: Yes.

AW: And probably worse in some ways, too?

MJ: I don’t know if it can get worse than this. The truth is that people are -- those are the moments, you know everybody, in our life, we have moments when you do things that it’s not us. And after that you’re regretting, and you’re like, "Oh my goodness, how could that have happened, what happened -- did I drink too much coffee, or didn’t have good dreams last night?"

Consequences are not that hard. But these conditions, extreme conditions, that we are living in, that my people are living in, bring you to the point that you don’t have another chance; for whatever you do the punishment will be ten times more. That’s what’s happening right now. So there is a different weight of words, of looks, of demeanor. There are people who…everyone has their own reasons. You can be the one who is in the city all the time, there are people who are in the front line in the war, and they think completely opposite.

It’s like you are lost; you are absolutely alone in the world, you have belongings that you have, you don’t have any vision of future, you are surviving and wondering what was your life about, and is that possible.

AW: You essentially play a victim of violence. Some of the scenes are pretty terrifying. How do you prepare for that role? How do you get into that psychology?

MJ: My case is a little bit different, although I’ve been living here for a long time, and I mentioned in the beginning I’m going back very often. So I could keep track of people changing and everything. But living somewhere else, like I live here, you’re becoming used to seeing other things. You can never forget who you are; you don’t want to forget.

I mean, what I am, I am. I came to this country not to take; I came to give as well. There’s certain things that I have nobody else has, and there are certain things that I don’t have anything of it, and that I want to have it eventually. So it’s exchange. So whenever you go back, you kind of see better who you are, which is great, because you are always culturing your personality. I keep thinking of the people who leave their country and go somewhere else, and they want to forget who they are. That’s the biggest tragedy in the world, because they’re trying to be something they’re not, and they’re constantly like lost souls, you know, searching around. So for me coming back was so intense. I would be going back as an empty sponge, and I would actually be so perceptive about everything about everybody -- I wanted to see everything.

And then you go out, and you see those incredible, brave, petit women, screaming at these huge guys -- and they could kill her right away. And you see that kind of guts, that they don’t have boundaries anymore, there’s no logic anymore. It’s only about, "Don’t play games with me, because I’m a master of it, okay? And we all went through the same thing, so let’s not pretend."

And I believe it’s in all of us, you just have to imagine what would have happened. Would you actually sustain all that pain, or will it come to the point that even if you’re made of rock that you just give up? Like, "Do whatever you want to do -- kill us both." And eventually you feel that everybody can be brought to that state of mind.

AW: What kind of perspective have you gained about your own country by living in the United States, and going back and forth between two countries? What has that made you realize?

MJ: It made realize that we, historically, had very bad luck. And it’s amazing that every 50 years every mother in every generation could send her son into the army. I think that I wondered about my country, "Why is it different?" I understand now -- because we were bombed a thousand times, as we are bombed now.

We are always going from the beginning. Paris, London, Europe -- they were never bombed; a couple of buildings, that’s it. What would have happened with all those great civilizations if they would be destroyed to the ground every 50 years? My people, it’s a tragedy that we are always going from the beginning.

When you go back to the First World War, when you go back to the Turks’ time, we were always conquered, but we never gave up. It’s going on for centuries. We are getting reborn like that; our genetic code is even stronger about that, about surviving in this way.

And it’s sad, because the process of democracy is the process of a hundred years. It’s a process of a standard of living, of progression, of layers, like a good tart -- you have one layer, you put another one. But if you make a tart, and somebody smashes it, you have to start from the beginning. Like now, with all the destruction, devastation that’s going on, we’re going back to 1941. All factories, all buildings; I mean last night a building was destroyed in the center of Belgrade that was made in the 1920’s; a beautiful building.

And you will be the only one who could say to your kids, "You know, once we were a country, and it was so good, you wouldn’t believe." And that’s why this happened. Because we lived good, and we didn’t work much. We lived on borrowed money that Tito gave us, we lived in this utopistic idea.

Also, we’re a small country, a beautiful country, and it’s just sad that they’re killing us very slowly. And that’s very painful. It will be almost easier if it can be done in a day -- do it! Get rid of us, you want that? Do it fast. This is -- (whispers) too much.

And you know what, I don’t know why, and nobody knows why, because the reasons that we’re here, they are already like yesterday’s bread. It doesn’t work; it’s not fresh anymore. There is no purpose behind it. And the only thing that is left for us is to wait to see what’s gonna happen. And that’s a terrible feeling, because you feel helpless. You feel accused, for no reason whatsoever, because in the first place, you never had power to create anything like that. You hear news that is very contradictory. You know so many moments in the last eight years that behind these reasons, things could have happened but they never did.

So what is this all about? I don’t know, I really don’t.

AW: What’s amazing, too, is that the film industry survives at all under these circumstances. I’ve never really seen an analogous situation in any other country at war with itself where there was still a film industry. That seems to be impossible.

MJ: Film is magic, I guess. It’s something you cannot control.

interview menu