On a sunny April Saturday afternoon in the park, Andreea Lăcătuș sat with me for a revealing conversation on the stakes, strategies, and struggles behind Romania’s most politically attuned documentary film festival. Now in her second year as Festival Director, Lăcătuș took over the role from acclaimed filmmaker Alexandru Solomon (Arsenie. An Amazing Afterlife, The Great Communist Bank Robbery), who helped establish One World Romania as the country’s most vital human rights-focused cinema event. Lăcătuș also embodies a generational shift in the space: less obsessed with auteurist prestige than with the difficult work of collective authorship, audience engagement, and institutional critique. She arrived with a background in fiction filmmaking and community-based art, but through its liminal promise of truth and stubborn rejection of spectacle, she has found a resonant home in documentary.

The 18th edition of One World Romania, which wrapped its in-person program on April 13, presented over 50 documentary films across three cinemas—Muzeul Național al Țăranului Român, Elvire Popesco Cinema, and Union Cinema—and expanded platforms for civil society participation. Centred on “dialogue” and the bubbles we create in an era of heightened ideological fracture, the 2025 festival's curatorial framework was as much an invitation to conversation as it was a provocation for dissent. That invitation found its most urgent form in the films themselves, which drew clear lines between vulnerability and resistance, history and immediacy.

The Stimming Pool, directed by Steven Eastwood and the Neurocultures Collective, is a thoughtful yet sensory portrait of neurodivergent self-expression. Marching in the Dark follows a group of Indian widows as they channel their grief into political resistance through a new form of political dialogue. No Other Land, co-directed by Palestinian filmmaker Hamdan Ballal, who was recently detained by Israeli forces in the West Bank, prompting an international outcry within the film world, documents Palestinian and Israeli activists navigating perhaps the most entrenched geopolitical bubble of all: the frontlines of Palestinian displacement. Trains, the 2024 International Documentary Festival Amsterdam award winner, assembles decades of archival footage to examine how trains have carried both utopian dreams and totalitarian horrors through the heart of Europe.

Among the Romanian entries was TATA, co-directed by Lina Vdovîi and Radu Ciorniciuc, a film that explores generational trauma and domestic violence, having already won awards at several festivals, including Trieste 2025. Dad’s Lullaby offers a meditation on fatherhood and daily resilience in war-torn Ukraine. Tooth & Nail, a frontline account of Romania’s illegal timber trade, gained national attention when its filmmakers and protagonists were violently assaulted during production by loggers in 2023. An Almost Perfect Family follows filmmaker Tudor Platon’s parallel journey through his parents’ separation and his own new beginnings, while Bright Future unearths the surreal pageantry of a 1989 youth festival in Pyongyang during the waning days of the Cold War.

Guest of honor Marc Isaacs brought his brand of ethical interventionist cinema to a multi-film retrospective and masterclass. Meanwhile, the “Extended Dialogues” program transformed screenings into politically charged forums for debate, where select films were followed by in-depth discussions on student protest, rising extremism, historical memory, and filmmaker precarity. Beyond the guests and galas, the NGO fair, the “Adopt a Documentary” initiative, and the Youth Jury section helped ground One World Romania's mission in the social fabric.

So, what does building a festival around dialogue mean when institutions remain indifferent, funding is precarious, and the audience is still learning what a documentary can be? That question grounds our extensive interview with Lăcătuș below.

I'm always interested to hear how a festival director or artistic director defines their role within the festival, especially within the context of a wider team.

Being here means many things. One part is what happens before the festival starts, and another is what happens after.

Before the festival, I thought my role was to bring together the right people who could shape the vision for that year's edition, because I really valued a consultative and participatory approach. I don't think we've fully achieved that yet because I've only been here since last year. The team is made up of people who've been with the festival for many years and newcomers like myself. As you've probably seen, it's a very mixed team.

Some of them have smaller roles, and some have bigger ones. It combines what the festival needs and what each person can offer.

Some people are still involved because they really love it, and we want to keep them in the mix—even if they can't take on a full role that we might technically need. It's really important to maintain that core team, even if not everyone has the time or space in their lives right now to commit fully.

Another reason is that there's a lot to do—lots of activities and preparations. And I'd still say we're not enough, at least not during the festival days. Most of the team works during the festival itself, while the rest helps with the preparation stage. So, one of my main goals is to develop a way of working that gets people more emotionally invested in both the concept and the event's creation.

It's really hard to pull off something like this when it always falls on just two or three people. Coordinating with folks who don't have enough time or mental space is difficult. But I encourage anyone who wants to be part of this core shaping team. Realistically, we don't have the resources yet to do full co-creation with the whole team. Still, I dream of having at least a larger core team involved in shaping things, maybe with a smaller group that makes the final decisions.

One of my primary roles is bringing the right people together and encouraging an approach that encourages more diversity and inclusion. I also try to create dialogue with the audience, festival goers, and the team itself.

Obviously, the plurality of experiences and perspectives is important, especially within human rights–centric festivals. You can't really call yourself a human rights festival without having a diverse team and diverse experiences.

But what about from a programming perspective? What is your role within that space? Within the sort of artistic vision of the festival?

If you think about this festival the way you think about Cannes or Berlinale, you won't get the right answer from me. I don't see this festival like them.

Being the festival director is not about programming films. That's also a huge and important part, but the curators must have full freedom in that area. Of course, we talk to each other, but my role is mainly about creating the context for the festival. I see that as an artistic approach because it's not only about the films. This festival is more than just showing films. It's not just about bringing the best directors. It's not the "Directing Olympics." It's about how you shape the experience. The curators decide on the direction of the films. First, we decide on the year's theme together. Then, they begin looking for the films. They handle the curating process, coordinate it, write the texts for the sections, and so on.

The festival is also about what organizations you bring to the festival, gatherings, events, and implementation partners you choose. Also, on a philosophical level, it's about what ideas you want the festival to express that year. I'm responsible for getting those answers and implementing them. If we say this year is about "bubbles" and how we communicate with each other, how do you make the festival actually about that? Sure, you can find films about bubbles—but that would be reductive and, honestly, not that interesting. The selection is broader than the theme, but the theme becomes clear through all our actions.

For example, we have an NGO fair with 19 NGOs. We also have the "Adopt a Documentary" program, in which organizations lead the post-film discussions and bring their communities to the cinema. We also have many events. For instance, for the first time in the Romanian context, we've scheduled a three-hour slot at Elvire Popescu for an event that isn't a film. It's a conference. Conferences don't usually happen in cinemas, but I really pushed for this, and it's both necessary and important.

Why have this particular conference?

It's about the legal processes corporations, governments, or others use to file lawsuits against journalists and whistleblowers.

However, this idea of intersectionality, whether it's industry intersectionality or film and NGO work, might be the most important part of the festival, in my opinion.
But what about your background? How did you come to this festival? Was your education or experience rooted in some intersection between human rights, NGO work, and film? Or was it strictly cinema?

I'm a film director myself, but I've never worked in documentary. I work only in fiction, and I've made some short films. I've been to festivals like Shanghai, Sarajevo, and Trieste with my short films. When I was a student, I felt that I didn't really fit into the industry system, where there was always this "Olympics of directing." It was always about the best director, who made the best film, and so on.

I felt like I didn't leave my small hometown, community, and everything else just to become part of that. So, I started an NGO with some colleagues—they were actors—and we said, 'Okay, we don't have a big portfolio, but we're starting to get some recognition for what we do.' But short films are never really enough. And if it's not Cannes or Berlinale, it's very hard to get commercial gigs. And I'm not the kind of person who wants to do commercial work.

So, we started this NGO and said we wanted to go into small communities and do these mediation programs. We also just needed to go somewhere where no one would judge us. Where we could be free. We found these community houses in Romania, which had been renovated with EU money, but nothing happened in them. They were mainly used for weddings or baptisms. We went to this small village and stayed for three years. Together with the people there, we made that community house into something really active, co-creating the events with the community.

Whereabouts in Romania?

It's about 150 kilometers from Bucharest. I had met the community on another occasion and was impressed, so I wanted to return. Then, the pandemic came, and things slowed down. But now, for example, when touring shows pass through a village, they include it. And that's important. Our project even got national media coverage, so we were successful in that regard. And then I returned to cinema. It was like coming back to something I'd always loved. When I started film school, I was so passionate about cinema. But by the time I finished, I no longer saw a place for myself in it. After spending time in those villages, people would say, "Oh, poor her, she left cinema. What a shame, she was talented." But that experience brought me back. It helped me understand what I was really looking for.

So, I came back, made another short film, started travelling with it, and then began a Phd on the ethics of filmmaking in vulnerable communities. Then, this opportunity with One World came up. Even though I wasn't making documentaries, it felt very close to my heart because I've always used documentary methods in my work. And now, I've just discovered the people working in documentary and the documentary scene, and I find it more interesting. So maybe I'll start making documentaries…

Did your experience with the community center spark your interest in the intersection of social activity and art? Or was that interest always there for you?

It was always there, but I was ashamed of it in film school. Everything there was about aesthetics, about art for art's sake. That was the main reason I felt like such a misfit. I couldn't see myself in an environment where it was only about the product.

I found validation primarily through the projects I became involved in. For example, received a fellowship from CEC ArtsLink and completed a residency in Los Angeles. I was with the group called the Los Angeles Poverty Department. They've been active since 1985. They work with people who live on Skid Row. I was there with them, and finally, I found artists I could admire—not just for their art but also for their socially engaged work. Their practice is rooted in politics and actual, lived social engagement. When I met them, I finally realized that it was not just me. I needed to know this. People would always say, "Yes, yes, yes," but I still felt like I'd never found someone who actually cared about these same things. Now I understand that in other parts of the world, there are many people like that—even here in Romania.

For me, someone like Alexandru Solomon, who is the director of the One World Association and led the festival for many years, is an amazing dialogue partner. His trust and willingness to invest in me, with the freedom to help shape the festival, make me feel like I'm finally close to where I've always wanted to be.

I relate to this as someone who's traveled around the world my whole life. With parents from two countries, I was raised across different continents, and now I travel virtually half my life for professional reasons. I went to a film-peripheral school, but a very activist-heavy one in New York: The New School for Public Engagement. In that regard, that urge to work within the social and political space was always there. But the "Olympics' you talk about weren't there. I had friends at NYU and Columbia, and it was in those more product-facing environments.

It's interesting because those dynamics create thick bubbles for people. And that, at least within the documentary journalism space, and even among writers in the cultural scene, can be a dangerous place to end up. That's why my work interests have always leaned toward being diverse, international, and across the board.

But what about the space that One World Romania occupies within the wider One World Association? Do each of these festivals play a specific role within the association? Or is it more of an umbrella network, each pushing a similar agenda?

What happened was that 18 years ago, One World Prague wanted to organise ten "echo" events, one of which was planned for Romania. But Monica Stepanova, who was the director of the Czech Centre at the time, wanted to do more than that. She said, "Okay, we'll take some films from you and use the name One World, but we're also going to do something shaped by Romanian realities." So that's what they did. And after about a year, they started an NGO.

Now, the festival only shares the name with the one in Prague. There's no actual connection anymore.

It's good that you've maintained that independence. Maybe not so much in the human rights documentary world, but sometimes things can feel franchised in the broad culture of late-stage capitalism. For example, there's a "parent" festival, and other regional festivals are branded under it, but at the whim of the parents' programming, aesthetics, and agendas. I've had this experience, and I find it limiting, to say the least.

Yeah, but it can also bring you more money, maybe.

What do you think are the main challenges for the documentary film industry in Romania? Is it mostly funding-related? Because there's definitely no shortage of topics, Romania is fascinating in that sense. On the one hand, you can make a very political or socially urgent film, like Tooth and Nail, for example, this year. There's also so much historical material that could make for strong documentary work. But you could also go in a completely different direction and make nature documentaries or something along those lines.

The worst thing is that the authorities and public policies completely ignore documentary films. It's way better now than when One World started. Back then, there was almost no scene at all. Just a few people, one of them being Alexandru Solomon, were making documentaries, and they were seen as eccentric. Not crazy, exactly, but their work wasn't considered as important as that of fiction film directors or producers. But now, we have a real scene. There are more documentary filmmakers, and they're doing exciting work. They're well-recognized outside the country. But here, the general public still doesn't really know what a documentary is, beyond the Discovery Channel or things like that. And the authorities? They don't understand it at all.

I can understand the general public's lack of access because we don't have art house cinemas, film education in schools, or this kind of cultural infrastructure. And the authorities—locally or nationally—just aren't invested. There may be two or three places in the country where you can get funding for documentary distribution, alternative screenings, or educational and mediation programs. This work is mainly carried out by small associations like we used to be years ago—associations that aren't really taken seriously. Without strong public policies to support the distribution of documentaries, let alone their production, it's nearly impossible to change the current situation. With One World, we've gone to smaller cities, and people were amazed to see what a documentary is.

When we launched the high school program last year, which I started, it was a three-day event specifically for teenagers. It included screenings, conversations, mediation, an NGO fair, and free workshops on human rights and film. It was supposed to be a small program, but it turned out to be quite big, and now it's even bigger. But when I first launched it, I would always ask, "Who here has ever seen a documentary?" I'd see maybe 20% raised their hands—not because they hadn't seen one, but because they couldn't recognize what a documentary was. Then I'd ask, "Who here has seen a documentary in a cinema?" Nobody. By the end of the three days, some of them could say yes, but only because of the screenings we had just done. In smaller cities, it's the same experience. It's even hard to explain to people what they're watching—like, "These are real people, not actors."

So that's where we are right now. It's a place full of opportunities, but also full of needs. We need more support. We need continuity. Local authorities support this kind of festival in other countries. Even in Romania, TIFF is supported by local authorities. It is not enough, but there is support. We can't even talk to our local authorities in the same way. They see us as unimportant.

What about the political angle? With a human rights-focused festival and such a wide range of topics, eventually, some of those topics will clash with the gatekeepers and their agendas. Take Palestine and Israel, for example. It's a very contentious issue. Romania's place in the EU and its further integration into Western neoliberalism make it very difficult to have these conversations in an organic or nuanced way. Do you encounter those kinds of clashes with the people in power?

They don't even understand. Honestly, I would be content if someone said, "I don't agree with you speaking about Palestine—and that's why we don't want to support your work." But no—it doesn't even reach that level. First, someone would need to be interested enough to ask what we're doing. But we're still stuck at that step. We're not being denied support because authorities disagree with our content. It's because they're not interested at all. And that's what hurts. Of course, I'd be proud to say, "We don't need your money," if someone said, "Don't speak about this."

I've also had the experience of people saying, "This isn't important." But who decides what's important? For me, it's crucial to maintain our independence. We're offering these things to the public. And yes, sometimes it turns out it's too early for them. Like last year, we ended the festival with No Other Land. No one really understood what that film was about. The conversation around Palestine wasn't really happening yet in Romania.

We didn't present it like a protest film, but we did put the issue on the table. We weren't neutral. We didn't try to hide our perspective. And now, when people are posting about what's happened—about the kidnapping of the director—everyone's like, "Finally, the film industry is speaking about Palestine." But we were speaking about Palestine last year. We had Maryam Tafakory do a performance around the subject. We had Eyal Sivan, who spoke about it. Maybe others didn't speak. But we did. We didn't just talk—we acted. We organized events.

And now we're doing it again. We're raising funds for families who've been displaced from Gaza. We're doing everything we can to support these victims of such terrible crimes. But still—it's also a question of: What can you do, as a film festival?

That was actually my next question—not so much "What can you do as a film festival," but rather "What is the role of the film festival?" especially one focused on human rights. Even the definition of "human rights" is becoming increasingly subjective, with Western countries seemingly having a completely different approach to it than the Global South or the Far East—one definition for them, another for everyone else.

As the festival director, I won't ask if you're necessarily defining human rights, but how are you consistently channeling their aura? There are certain things you can do now and things you can do over a long period. Our mission is to do what we can now while laying the groundwork for what can be done later. In my opinion, one of the most important things we can do is bring together all the people who are already doing meaningful work but whose efforts aren't being seen or appreciated.

I'm speaking here mostly about civil society. I don't know of another art event in Romania that brings together so much civil society, gathers so many NGOS and activists, and gives them a platform. Another core mission of the festival is to connect creators in Romania, particularly young filmmakers, with the concept of human rights. Because it's not something you learn in school. You're not necessarily connected to this scene, even if you study journalism or other related fields. People often speak badly about NGOs. So, it's important for filmmakers, especially emerging ones, to meet activists, engage with them, and maybe even start working with them on projects. This has been part of the festival's DNA from the beginning, shaping the scene greatly.

Returning to the theme of bubbles, I see one inherent weakness in both the documentary and human rights documentary scenes. And that is, no matter how much you invest in plurality and diversity, the discourse still tends to skew in the same political direction. Not in an extreme way, but there is a clear leaning. There's often a reluctance or almost an unspoken rule—that means no conservative voice is invited to the conversation. It's very rare, for example, to see a film at a European film festival that has a clearly conservative perspective.

I've asked some programmers about this, and they've said, "Well, look, those films just don't come. They don't apply. They're not out there." So yes, we would be open to curating them—we want plurality. But those films don't exist in our circuit.

Do you find that to be an issue of detriment?

We've had so many other problems that I never thought about. But you're making a very good point. Sorry to my colleagues in other countries, but I don't think it's only about whether those films apply. We also scout. Everyone scouts for films. So saying "they didn't apply" is a bit of a weak excuse, to be honest. I examine each film individually and then consider how it fits our proposed direction for that year. But we actively try to include people who don't necessarily share our values in our dialogues. For instance, we invite historians from different disciplines to participate in post-screening discussions, some of whom openly disagree with the film. We find that valuable. Even last year, I moderated a Q&A with a theatre director who took a completely different stance from the film, and we had a respectful, critical discussion.

So many factors go into film selection, regardless of the director's perspective or background.

Exactly. And maybe they wouldn't want to come. Maybe a conservative filmmaker feels like they'd be entering a space full of "lefties doing who knows what," and it doesn't feel safe for them. It's a good conversation to have with Alexandru and the curators, Anca and Andrei. They've been doing this longer than I have, and they may have come across such situations. But we should try to include diverse voices in the post-film discussions. That's something I'm very involved in. And yes, we are open to different positions as long as they are not harmful. We're very careful to ensure that we're not platforming people who want to do harm or promote hate speech. Without that care, you risk having a very surface-level conversation. Globally, we're in this tribal moment—everyone's in their own camp. There's a lot of talk about open dialogue and open minds, but it's not easy to actually get answers and solutions, rather than just talk.

A lot of what happens stays on that superficial level. In my view, this creates one of the thickest walls in the cultural world today—what I would call the "mainstream urban liberal bubble." It's the space where you proudly send a press release that states something like, "We've got 60% female filmmakers this year," and wait for the stream of congratulations, as if you've done your part. But then there are people outside that demographic—even those who share the same political views—who feel diminished by the way the language is presented. Instead of solving the conversation about egalitarianism, it creates even more division. This is a characteristic that is particularly associated with the left. The right might be disorganized, but it has a very clear sense of what it wants.

The left often eats itself—there is so much internal criticism that progress becomes nearly impossible. But everyone pats themselves on the back as if something's been achieved.

It seems that people on the left hate each other more. And what you're saying really reminds me of other countries, too. But here, it also has to do with how we've historically communicated. When I was in Skid Row and then in the U.S., I was shocked at how people talk at public events. There's this endless conversation about everything. Here, it takes years to build a group where people feel safe to speak. Either someone takes over and lectures everyone, or no one speaks at all. To even have the kinds of problems you're describing, you need to have a culture of dialogue already. And then, nothing is ever "good enough." We say, "Okay, we tried this this year; please give us feedback. Let's build on it together." But then it's, "Nope, not good enough." Okay—so then nothing's good enough? It's exhausting. Nothing is ever good enough until it's done. Then you can improve on it. But you have to start somewhere. We can't sit around waiting for the perfect plan to save the world.

Honestly, that's something I've seen around us. People are always so judgmental about how others are trying to do things. There's no solidarity like, "Okay, let's see how this works." It's just, "You're not doing it well enough, so don't do it at all."

In the U.S., we call it the ideological "purity test." Everyone is testing how pure your intentions and your politics are based on their definitions.

And in the end, nothing gets done.

There is also an underlying conservatism among industry gatekeepers here and internationally. A big part of it is that many of these figures come from very privileged backgrounds, as is often the case in culture and art positions. Maybe they don't even realize it, but they've grown up with a conservative, capitalist mindset that helped their families succeed. And that's what shaped their worldview. The child of a career politician or CEO is hardly going to view culture within an egalitarian framework... it's a product. Sometimes, finding solutions to problems isn't even in their best interests, as the problems themselves create their comfort.

Not knowing everyone has been an advantage for me. But I can only speak from my own experience. Let me say this before I go. I'm from a small neighborhood in a small town, 100 kilometers from Bucharest. We were part of that generation affected by the transition from communism to capitalism. My dad was really inventive. He started a small auto parts factory, and I know how to make all the car parts.

At one point, we made money, but my parents didn't know what to do with it because they'd always been poor. Eventually, the business failed, like so many others in the 2000s. That whole wave of small businesses from the '90s collapsed. So I grew up in between—better off than some kids, worse off than most.

I'm a product of free education, free scholarships, and Erasmus programs. I left the country only through scholarships. And after university, I worked nonstop. But I was still poorer than most of my colleagues, who had one project here and there. I thought it was my fault. Only a few years ago did I realize that my friends were getting help. Their mothers were buying them apartments or cars. I've taken care of myself since I was 21. And honestly, there are not many people like me in this industry. Or maybe they're just quiet about it.

But it's hard to look into the eyes of someone who's never been hungry. They don't understand.