Love, War, and the Dreams We Dare Not Have
There’s something profoundly moving about art that emerges from chaos. It’s not just the story being told, but the story behind the story—the invisible threads of resilience, adaptation, and sheer human will that hold it all together. When I first heard about I Rarely Wake Up Dreaming, I was struck by how its creation mirrors its narrative: a love story interrupted by war, a script forced to evolve, and a film crew navigating the impossible. But what makes this particularly fascinating is how the filmmakers, Anna Melikova and Isabelle Stever, turned disruption into depth, crafting a work that feels both intimate and universal.
A Love Story Rewritten by Reality
At its core, I Rarely Wake Up Dreaming is a queer love story—a tender exploration of transition, commitment, and identity. But what many people don’t realize is how the film’s narrative was reshaped by the 2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine. Melikova’s original script, a Berlinale Kompagnon Fellowship Award winner, was never meant to grapple with war. Yet, as she herself notes, ‘the reality changed our plans.’ This isn’t just a plot twist; it’s a stark reminder of how external forces can hijack our most personal stories.
Personally, I think this is where the film’s power lies. It doesn’t shy away from the messiness of life. Oleh and Olya’s journey—from celebrating a gender-marker change to fleeing a war zone—feels raw and real. Their love isn’t idealized; it’s tested, stretched, and redefined. If you take a step back and think about it, this is the kind of storytelling we need more of: honest, unflinching, and unafraid to ask difficult questions.
Authenticity as an Act of Resistance
One thing that immediately stands out is Melikova and Stever’s commitment to authenticity. Initially, they planned to shoot only a few scenes in Ukraine, with the bulk of the film taking place in Germany. But when they arrived in Kyiv, something shifted. ‘We felt that we had to film there,’ Melikova explains. This decision wasn’t just logistical; it was emotional, even political. In a world where stories about marginalized communities are often told from the outside, this felt like an act of reclamation.
The casting process further underscores this point. Markus Bright, a transgender man, and Tania Myronyshena, a journalist at the Kyiv Independent, were not professional actors. Yet, their presence on screen is electric. Stever notes that their respect for each other’s ‘safe space’ transformed the film from timeless to timely. What this really suggests is that authenticity isn’t just about representation—it’s about trust, vulnerability, and the courage to let real people tell their own stories.
The Weight of War in Every Frame
Filming during an active conflict is no small feat. The crew had to navigate safety concerns, air alarms, and the constant threat of drone attacks. In one scene, they were forced to move indoors when drone sounds became too loud. This wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a reminder of the fragility of their endeavor. As Melikova puts it, ‘You cannot be afraid every day for three months. You have to have energy for tomorrow.’
What makes this particularly haunting is how the war becomes a silent character in the film. It’s not always visible, but its presence is felt—in the tension of a stolen moment, in the urgency of an exit plan, in the way dreams seem like a luxury. This raises a deeper question: How do we hold onto love, hope, and identity when the world around us is falling apart?
An Ending That Refuses to Settle
The film’s conclusion is both conventional and subversive. It ends with a neat image, one that might feel self-defeating given its themes of disruption and resistance. But Stever and Melikova argue that this ending is actually a question: ‘What happens when you categorize people and leave the space within?’ What happens when the world denies us the basic dignity to dream?
From my perspective, this is the film’s most powerful statement. It doesn’t offer easy answers, but it forces us to confront our own complicity in a world that often prioritizes order over humanity. It’s a reminder that even in the face of chaos, love and identity are worth fighting for.
Final Thoughts
I Rarely Wake Up Dreaming is more than a film; it’s a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. It’s a love story, a war story, and a story about the dreams we dare not have. What makes it truly remarkable is how it balances the personal and the political, the intimate and the universal.
Personally, I think this is the kind of art we need right now—art that challenges us, moves us, and refuses to look away. It’s a film that stays with you long after the credits roll, not because of its neatness, but because of its raw, unfiltered truth. And in a world that often feels divided, that’s a rare and beautiful thing.
