Tata – What does remain after the movie ends. A conversation with Lina Vdovîi
Two or three years ago, while having tea with a close friend, she told me something that still lingers with me today: that I had grown up in a harmonious environment, so different from hers – or from that of most people we encounter. In the months that followed, I took stock of my friendships and realised how right she was. Nearly everyone close to me, whether a friend or a relative, had experienced some form of pain within their family.
Most of those around me have divorced parents, or parents who no longer speak to each other and have reduced their relationship to a partnership; a brother or sister from whom they’ve grown estranged, or who is constantly in need of support. I’ve heard stories about everything: drinking problems, physical or verbal abuse, absent parents, favouritism, control and possessiveness, or a parent’s obsession with pushing their child to excel at everything. We are all the product of the same communist era that shaped and scarred our parents, and much of who we are today is linked to these transgenerational traumas that have been passed down to us. Those of us who are aware of them fight to break the cycle, to free ourselves, and to raise our children differently.
This is also the case for Lina Vdovîi.
She is the author of the documentary Tata (Father), co-directed with Radu Ciorniciuc, which premiered last year at the Toronto International Film Festival and went on to win awards at Krakow, Trieste, and Astra. A film that carefully examines dysfunctional families and harsh parents, abuse both at home and in the workplace, and the condition of the Eastern European migrant worker. The protagonist is Lina’s father, a man who spent decades working in Italy to support his family, who used to beat his daughters with a belt and time their phone conversations to the minute when they were children, and who, in old age, becomes the victim of a violent employer. One day, Lina receives a video from him, showing his bruises and asking for her help.
It was 2018. She and Radu had been together for a year, working on Acasă, My Home (2020), his debut documentary, which they co-wrote. They had not yet spoken about their pasts or about their relationships with their parents, and Lina never imagined she would be forced to reveal so soon the environment in which she grew up. For years, she had kept her distance from her father, given that she had a tough childhood. She was born and raised in Moldova until the age of 18, when she felt the need to flee the place where she had experienced so much suffering. In the years that followed, she thrived professionally as a journalist – fellowships abroad, awards for her articles – but personally, she struggled with herself.
“When I arrived in Italy and had the conversation with my father that you see in the film – where he tells us about the abuse he endures and asks for help – it stirred up all the emotions I had tried so hard to bury, to overcome. It was shocking, even infuriating, that the same person who had been harsh with us as children was now a victim. A victim who had been living in this abusive context for many years and who had done nothing to escape it.”
What helped her was that she had been in therapy for two years, which allowed her to process and, more importantly, understand her emotions. “After years of keeping my distance, I suddenly found myself speaking to him every day, being drawn back into his orbit. Without the safe space of therapy, where I could work through everything and prepare myself, I don’t think I would have been able to finish this film in its current form.”
That was also how Radu came to learn about Lina’s childhood. After that confrontation, the two of them took a walk through the hills of northern Italy, a bottle of wine in hand, and she shared with him her past with her family. “Of course, we both realised this could become a story worth telling, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it then.” What followed were years of applying to the CNC with various script versions centred on the life of an Eastern European migrant worker. “We didn’t know what we would discover, but we knew my father was living through an abusive situation, and both Radu and I had previously reported on such stories as journalists.” Although they hadn’t initially intended to turn the camera on themselves, it became inevitable after her father sent them the first hidden-camera footage, along with a video letter addressed to Lina. “That’s when we realised it was time to also talk about the violence and the women in our family, about the culture my father comes from.”
Her father never resisted being part of the project. And whenever there were difficult conversations, they were mostly held with Radu. “Radu played an incredibly important role as a mediator between me and my father – a buffer whenever I needed one. He knew when to step in and when to step back. Having him by my side, carrying some of the weight of these difficult situations, made all the difference.”
I can only imagine what it must be like to be thrown, after just a year of a relationship, into the middle of a trauma that had shaken a family for generations. I’ve known Radu and Lina for five years, and from the very beginning, they struck me as the kind of couple that would stand the test of time. It’s hard to put into words – there’s a grounding, a sense of calm that imprints itself on your face and gestures once you’ve found your match, and you only truly recognise it in moments of pure clarity. That’s how I saw them then, and that’s how I see them now, perhaps even more united. “At a Q&A in Sarajevo this summer, someone asked what our dream was with this film, and Radu answered: ‘to make it out of this film together.’ And he was right, because it’s not easy to work with the person you also share your life with.” Many in his position would have looked for a way out, frightened by the complexity of the situation and the level of involvement it demanded. But the fact that he saw the potential of the story – and, more importantly, recognised how deeply Lina needed him in order to tell it – transformed their relationship. It taught them to negotiate creative differences, to let go of ego, and to give each other space. “It’s an experience I learned so much from, and I’d make another film with Radu anytime.”
Tata is a deeply personal film that arrives in a Romanian cinematic landscape where autobiographical documentaries have visibly multiplied in recent years. From Timebox (dir. Nora Agapi, 2018) to Us Against Us (dir. Andra Tarara, 2020), Holy Father (dir. Andrei Dăscălescu, 2020), or the more recent An Almost Perfect Family (dir. Tudor Platon, 2024), many filmmakers – especially women filmmakers – have sought to understand their families and their past through the lens of the camera. I’ve seen them all, and I dare say that Tata is by far the most authentic and honest. Because, as critic Victor Morozov points out, the film is rich in emotion without ever becoming sentimental.
I found myself wondering about what happens behind the camera, ethically, when the filmmaker becomes the protagonist. Do you feel the urge to control the material more? How do you protect your loved ones without interfering in the story? “I believe a filmmaker has a responsibility to everyone who appears in front of the camera. There are always things you keep that help you tell the story, and things you leave out because they are harmful and don’t serve your characters. You don’t want to exploit anyone or be unethical. I don’t think this is an issue unique to personal documentaries, though I understand that in this case you might feel an even stronger need to tread carefully.”
Before discovering documentary filmmaking, Lina worked for many years as a journalist, always seeking to tell the stories of those who suffered abuse and injustice. She wrote about war victims, tortured prisoners, and migrant workers – men and women like her father. Her articles won awards and were published in outlets such as The Guardian, Decât o Revistă, Dilema Veche, and Courrier International. Along the way, she developed a sharp instinct for compelling stories that could be turned into films. And it all began with her love for investigative journalism, a passion she shares with Radu. “A feature story always starts with a character and a narrative. I think we trained that ability to build stories as journalists for many years before making the transition to documentary film.” Since discovering this new way of capturing the lives of vulnerable people, she feels she now has many more tools at her disposal, as well as a direct connection with audiences through post-screening Q&As – feedback she could never have received in journalism. “Documentary is a gift. If we’re talking about impact on audiences, I’ve heard things from people after this film that I never once heard as a journalist.”
For her, making the film was also a way to finally confront her father about a subject she never imagined she would be able to speak of so openly. It was a chance to reposition herself emotionally within their relationship. Perhaps the hardest part was the direct confrontation. “In therapy, I used to do exercises where I would write letters to my father, telling him everything I felt. I already had many of those reproaches clearly formulated in my mind, which helped me say them out loud to him without the fear that had always defined our relationship.”
I confess that I was moved by the love that shines through the screen between her and her father. A love that allows us, as viewers, to empathise with him, but also to create space for judgment of his actions. Watching them together, I understood that the interactions of her childhood followed a pattern passed down through generations – one that, in his eyes, did not cancel out the love he felt for his daughters. And yet, did Lina ever feel loved by her father as a child, or was she mostly marked by negative emotions such as fear and shame? “I don’t remember if it was him or my mother, but someone was always telling us that dad did love us, actually. Which is twisted, because it made me believe that this is what love is supposed to look like.” She never thought she would build a family of her own. “When you come from such a dysfunctional family, you can’t imagine being in a relationship where you genuinely get along, without daily conflict, and where you also have children. I never even wanted children – I didn’t believe I would ever find someone with whom I could build something so fulfilling and harmonious. It feels like some sort of reward from the universe after everything I went through.”
Radu played an incredibly important role as a mediator between me and my father – a buffer whenever I needed one. He knew when to step in and when to step back. Having him by my side, carrying some of the weight of these difficult situations, made all the difference.
Today, Lina is the mother of two children, who travel the world with her and Radu as the film continues its festival run. Aster is already seven years old and has just started school. She enjoys sitting in on Q&A discussions and recently walked her first red carpet at Sarajevo, which she absolutely loved. Tilio is only a few months old and, for now, doesn’t really grasp what’s happening around him. It’s refreshing to see how Lina and Radu raise their children – and especially how relaxed Lina is as a mother. When we first met for this interview, they were in Croatia, attending a film festival. She had managed to carve out half an hour away from all responsibilities, both as a mother and as an invited filmmaker, so that we could talk on Zoom. Halfway through, Radu appeared on screen holding Tilio in his arms, asking for his mother. Lina gave them both a kiss and sent them on their way, determined to stay focused on our conversation. Watching her made me feel more confident about taking on motherhood myself – something I’ve been avoiding for years, afraid of losing my independence completely. She makes it all seem much easier than it is. “I want to raise my children knowing it’s okay to disagree with the person next to you. To never fear calling things as they are. I have many people around me who are afraid of confrontation – with themselves or with others.”
Today, I look at my father with kindness, and that has given me inner peace.
When she first showed the film to her parents, she went back home to Moldova and played it on her computer. Then they sat down to dinner, where an uneasy silence settled over the table. Immediately sensing the heaviness in the room, Radu tried to draw Mr. Pavel Vdovîi into commenting on the film, but he barely managed a few words. Only that he was glad they could still talk, after what had just been seen. In the months that followed, every time she saw or spoke to her father, he seemed troubled. They haven’t spoken of it since. “Before the film, I only ever saw my father one way – as this stern, cold parent figure who never gave me the love I needed. What happened during the making of the documentary is that I gained a much deeper understanding of him. I no longer see things in black and white. I understand that he comes from a certain background, one he still carries with him, and now I can look past what I personally lived through. Today, I look at my father with kindness, and that has given me inner peace.”
For audiences around the world, the film has created a safe space in which people feel comfortable opening up and sharing their own experiences. “At the CPH:DOX premiere, a man came up to me after the screening. He didn’t introduce himself, he just said that he would never forget what he had seen that evening and thanked me for it. You could see on his face how intensely he had lived through the film.” And this wasn’t an isolated case. In Egypt, after a screening at the El Gouna Festival, three students approached her to thank her for the film – one of them bursting into tears as she hugged Lina tightly. Even I received messages from acquaintances telling me how deeply the film had moved them.
At the recent gala screening in Bucharest, every seat in the cinema had a bag on it labelled Tata; inside, along with a small gift from the team, was a pack of tissues – much needed by many in the audience, myself included, even though it was my third viewing of the film. It was a thoughtful, unexpected touch, followed by another surprise: as we exited the theatre, I stumbled upon a group of spectators gathered in a circle, openly sharing, through tears, stories similar to those they had just seen on screen. It’s refreshing to discover films like this – films that bring people together and spark dialogue in an increasingly divided world. Films you can watch three times, each time learning something new about yourself, or about the world.
Tata is that kind of film – a film that changes you, if you let it.
Film producer and founder of ADFR, she dreamed since she was little of having a magazine one day. Alongside her job as editor-in-chief, she writes the interview of the month. She loves animals, jazz music and films festivals.
Film producer and founder of ADFR, she dreamed since she was little of having a magazine one day. Alongside her job as editor-in-chief, she writes the interview of the month. She loves animals, jazz music and films festivals.