Urška Djukić & Women Voices in Slovenian Cinema

by: Ana Šturm , November 10, 2025

Urška Djukić & Women Voices in Slovenian Cinema

2025 marks the 120^th anniversary of Slovenian cinema. Film came to the region^[1]—first to the town of Maribor, then Celje and Ljubljana—remarkably quickly, in 1896, just a year after one of the most famous public screenings at the Grand Café in Paris. In the decade after those early screenings, the country’s cinema culture began to take shape. In 1905, Dr Karol Grossmann—a lawyer, amateur photographer, and a passionate film enthusiast from Ljutomer ^[2]—shot his first film, Dismissal from Mass in Ljutomer (Odhod od maše v Ljutomeru, 1905). Although a handful of innovators, entrepreneurs and enthusiasts, such as film pioneers Metod and Milka Badjura^[3], produced short films—mostly documentaries, promotional reels, ethnographic, or educational works—the small nation undeniably struggled to establish a consistent film industry during that early period. It wasn’t until the 1930s that the first two feature-length films, In the Realm of the Goldenhorn (V kraljestvu Zlatoroga, 1931, Janko Ravnik) and The Slopes of Triglav (Triglavske strmine, 1932, Ferdo Delak) were made. Both were silent, semi-documentary amateur alpine productions.

Only after the Second World War, when Slovenia became part of the Federal People’s Republic of Yugoslavia (FLRJ), could one begin to watch professional films made by Slovenians. A more fruitful era started with the first feature sound film, On Our Own Land (Na svoji zemlji, 1948), directed by France Štiglic, one of our most prominent filmmakers of the time. Yet the Slovenian film industry wasn’t truly ‘on its own’ until the country’s declaration of independence in 1991.

The first film produced in the newly-formed Republic of Slovenia was Grandma Goes South (Babica gre na jug, 1991, Vinci Vogue Anžlovar). This upbeat road movie follows a headstrong grandmother, Sara B., who escapes a retirement home and hitchhikes to the seaside. It opened the door to a new chapter in Slovenian cinema. After a somewhat uneven start during the 1990s, the production began to consolidate around the turn of the millennium. The 2000s became a pivotal period for Slovenian film. Idle Running (V leru, 1999, Janez Burger) is often cited as a turning point in this transformation. In 2001, Slovenia joined Eurimages, in 2004 it became part of the European Union, and in 2007 it joined the Eurozone. By 2008, then, Slovenian cinema at last entered a truly transnational phase (Petek 2020: 208-10).

The first decade of the new millennium was also significant as Slovenia finally saw the long-overdue release of its first two feature films to be directed by women. That long-standing barrier was broken by Maja Weiss with her feminist and LGBTQ+ film Guardian of the Frontier (Varuh meje, 2002), and Hanna Slak with Blindspot (Slepa pega, 2002). For far too long, women creators remained a glaring blind spot in Slovenian cinema. As Jasmina Šepetavc poignantly observes, this marginalisation can be traced back to one of the earliest Slovenian films. In In the Family Garden (Na domačem vrtu, 1906), Karol Grossman frames the shot in such a way that his wife’s head is cut out of the image. According to Šepetavc, this act symbolically ‘decapitates’ women and seals their cinematic fate—pushing them to the very margins of the frame (2021: 79-80). The findings of Slovenia’s first national research study on gender in cinema, which examined the period between 1995 and 2017, confirmed this exclusion. Nearly 90% of all films during that time were directed by men, and approximately 80% were written and produced by men (Gričar 2018). ^[4]

In the decade from 2010 to 2020, the numbers and visibility of women in Slovenian cinema improved, albeit slightly. Women are increasingly present not only as directors and screenwriters, but also as producers, members of expert commissions, and key decision-makers. A landmark moment came in 2018 at the Festival of Slovenian film, when director Urša Menart became the first woman ever to receive the Vesna Award for Best Feature Film for her directorial debut, My Last Year as a Loser (Ne bom več luzerka, 2018). She was also the first woman to receive the Vesna Award for Best Screenplay (Petek 2020: 216). Equally important is the fact that women directors have brought distinctly different sensibilities, aesthetics, perspectives, and thematic concerns to the Slovenian cinema. In 2020, Polona Petek observed that ‘it might not be unreasonable to expect that the next decade might be the women’s decade in Slovenian cinema’ (Petek 2020: 216). Voices such as Sonja Prosenc, Sara Kern, Ema Kugler, Urša Menart, Hanna Slak, Maja Doroteja Prelog, Petra Seliškar, Urška Djukić, Maja Prettner, Andrina Mračnikar, Špela Čadež, Katarina Rešek-Kukla, and Nika Autor have finally been heard—not only in Slovenia, but across the globe. And after 120 years, 2025 may be the year when Slovenian women rewrite the history of Slovenian cinema, with more films by female directors than ever before. Leading this cinematic revolution is one of its most powerful voices: Urška Djukić.

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Urška Djukić first came into the limelight with her animated short Pregnancy Test (Dober tek, življenje! 2016), a humorous, visually playful exploration of unwanted pregnancy. For that piece, she received the Vesna Award for Best Short Film at the 19th Festival of Slovenian Film. I begin with this title from her filmography for two reasons: first, because it perfectly encapsulates the vitality, humour, and courage that characterise all her work; and second, because the Vesna Award marked only the beginning of her remarkably successful creative journey.

Following her early success, Djukić was selected in 2018 to participate in the SEE Factory program, curated by the Directors’ Fortnight (Quinzaine des Réalisateurs) in collaboration with the Sarajevo Film Festival. As part of the program, she co-directed the short film The Right One (2019), which premiered at Cannes. That same year, she was also chosen for the renowned Cinéfondation Residence, where she developed her first feature film, Little Trouble Girls (Kaj ti je deklica, 2025).

Between those two films, she directed a short, After the Hunt (Lovka, 2019), described as ‘a miniature reflection on femininity in the era of gender equality,’ a work perhaps ahead of its time. Next, Djukić collaborated with French animator Émilie Pigeard to create the animated short Granny’s Sexual Life (Babičino seksualno življenje, 2021). The film received over 40 international awards, including the European Film Academy Award (EFA) for Best European Short Film in 2022 and the César Award for Best French Animated Film in 2023. In the same year, she also received the Župančič Award for outstanding achievements in arts and culture, presented by the municipality of Ljubljana. With Little Trouble Girls, Djukić continues her successful streak, as the film opened the new Perspectives competition program at the 75th Berlin International Film Festival.

Djukić’s work stands out both formally and thematically. By blending diverse genres—from animation and fiction to experimental techniques—she creates innovative, dynamic cinematic worlds that leave a strong emotional impression on viewers. Thematically, her films consistently explore feminist issues: from unwanted pregnancy and female friendship in Pregnancy Test to a possessive mother in The Right One; she questions femininity in After the Hunt and explores the sexual lives and systemic abuse faced by women in the 20th century in Granny’s Sexual Life. Her films also feature a rich array of complex female (anti)heroes and a continuous feminist inquiry into the nature of the modern woman and her resilience against systemic sexism and dominant male narratives.

In her feature debut, Little Trouble Girls, which took over seven years to develop, Djukić remains faithful to her thematic preoccupations. The coming-of-age film explores the influence of patriarchal social patterns, passed down through generations, on girls and their relationship with their own bodies. Set in the magical environment of an old town along the Nadiža River, the story follows shy and sensitive teenager Lucija as she navigates social expectations and her emerging sexuality. In its sensibilities, Djukić’s film is similar to Celine Sciamma’s Water Lilies (Naissance des pieuvres, 2007). It is refreshingly light-hearted and refrains from moralising. The film’s sun-drenched, sticky summer atmosphere is also reminiscent of Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me by Your Name (2017), but here youthful self-discovery and the awkward negotiation of turbulent emotions, bodily changes, and sexual awakening are told from a distinctly female perspective.

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Ana Šturm (AŠ): When did you first start thinking about this film? What sparked its creation?

Urška Djukić (UD): The initial spark came when I first heard one of the Slovenian girls’ choirs perform. The power of their voices, on the cusp of awakening their feminine power, moved me so deeply that I had to hold back tears to avoid crying during the concert. I felt there was something profoundly important in these young women’s voices. Among the audience were also three priests, equally moved. Watching adult celibate men listening to girls brimming with emerging sexual energy struck me as an unusual and powerful image. At that moment, I felt compelled to explore that feeling through a feature film. I spent some time observing the choir, studying its dynamics, and drawing inspiration for the script. That led me to further explore the female voice—which through history has often been silenced—and from there on into themes of bodily awkwardness, sexuality, sin, guilt, transcendence, and ultimately, the experience of personal power. Through the character of a sensitive young girl, shaped by patriarchal notions of sinfulness, I explore how a young person comes into their own strength.

AŠ: The choir and singing serve as a kind of anchor in the story. For the film, you even created your own project choir, which is quite a significant and somewhat wild undertaking for a Slovenian film.

UD: Yes, it truly was wild. Forming our own project choir was a huge endeavour. We held auditions for young singers, selected 27 girls, and included our four actresses, who at the time had little to no singing experience. Then the hard work began. The choir was led by conductor Jasna Žitnik, and actor Saša Tabaković (who plays the conductor in the film) had the opportunity to learn conducting and choir leadership from her throughout the process.

AŠ: How did you select the songs that the choir rehearsed and that we hear in the film?

UD: I was drawn to Slovenian folk songs—the ones whose themes and atmosphere could support the emotional tone of specific scenes. Songs like “Kaj ti je, deklica”, “Triglav moj dom”, “Igraj kolce”, and “Kresna”. Choir leader and musician Jasna Žitnik helped us immensely in arranging these songs.

At the end of the film, we also include a very old Italian prayer, which was suggested by our collaborator, vocal artist Irena Tomažin. She worked together with Jasna and selected singers to adapt and perform it for the scenes in which the nuns sing in a cave behind a waterfall. The song has such a powerful resonance that it moved everyone on set. When we recorded it, we could all feel the deep emotional energy of this ancient prayer, which speaks of purification.

The film ends with the well-known track “Little Trouble Girl” by Sonic Youth, which also gave the film its English title and nicely ties up the story and its meaning.

AŠ: Sound is a crucial element in the film. In addition to the music and singing, there’s also an inner voice, a whisper, connected to Lucija’s inner world. What does that voice represent?

UD: To me, sound is the most important aspect of the film—it’s about vibration, and the world itself runs on vibrations. Sound can reach deeper than images, deeper than rational thought. The soundscape was crafted with great care and precision over a long period of time, together with my wonderful collaborator Julij Zornik. We aimed to achieve a blend of naturalism and magic.

In shaping Lucija’s inner voice, I worked with vocal artist Irena Tomažin, who is a fantastic and deeply inspiring creator. She seems connected to something greater, and she expresses that through her voice. After seeing Irena’s monodrama Zidanje skadra—which, by the way, is one of the most beautiful performances I’ve ever experienced—I was inspired to create a whisper: the voice of a mysterious old woman speaking in an unknown, abstract language. It’s the voice of the soul—an ancient voice guiding Lucija to listen to her own body.

Through the pain of being cast out and a profound physical experience, Lucija undergoes a kind of redemption. But redemption never comes from the outside—it comes from within, from the body itself. With this new awareness, Lucija moves forward in life, choosing to trust her intuition.

AŠ: The film is about growing up—about discovering who you are and what you truly want. It’s also tender, luminous, and inviting, drawing you into its world with ease.

UD: Gentleness was a central concept during the creative process. At some point, I mentioned that word to every collaborator. It might sound idealistic, but I truly believe that in this world, gentleness can overcome harshness—it is the stronger force.

Editing played a crucial role in conveying that feeling of gentleness. It set the rhythm and created the right balance between tension and tenderness. That delicate equilibrium was co-crafted with the exceptional editor Vlado Gojun, who both listened and gently guided me. Our collaboration was full of creative sparks and deep understanding. Editing is truly the heart of a film. While we all know that in theory, it’s only during the process that you realize just how much the rhythm and tempo shape the raw material—shaping not only the footage, but also the ideas, performances, and the film’s entire concept.

In terms of visuals—light and colour—I was greatly supported by the talented director of photography, Lev Predan Kowarski. We began collaborating closely about a year before filming, developing the camera concept together. I wanted to be very close to Lucija, to focus on her inner emotional world. It was summertime, and Lev went to great lengths to capture that light and the carefree atmosphere of a hot summer. The film radiates with the spirit of youthful ease—long days by the river, a gentle breeze, and the simple comfort of wearing only a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

The film’s colour palette is quite distinctive. I aimed for something that feels both cinematic and authentic. The exceptional production design by Vaska Kokalj and costume design by Gilda Venturini played a major role in achieving that sense of authenticity—something nostalgic yet timeless.

AŠ: Beyond the feeling of a carefree summer, the film’s atmosphere is also profoundly shaped by its location. The setting inspired the story in unexpected ways. For example, the now-iconic scene with the sour grapes—does that superstition really exist, or did you invent it?

UD: I made up the part about the sour grapes. It came from the setting. It was fascinating how the story emerged from the place itself. When producer Jožko Rutar first brought me to Cividale, to the Ursuline monastery where we would later shoot the film, I immediately felt a kind of guidance. The more time I spent at the monastery, the more the space began to speak to me and shape the story.

The monastery wasn’t even in the first draft of the script. But I was so captivated by the building and its surroundings that I allowed myself to follow that creative pull—and relocated the entire film there. The workers renovating the monastery weren’t in the script either. That idea, too, came directly from the location. When we arrived, we discovered the monastery was under renovation. Scaffolding, building materials, and the constant noise of drilling filled the space. I asked the museum curator how long the renovations would last, and she told me at least three more years. I felt disheartened and kept wondering how we could possibly shoot a film in the midst of all that. Then it struck me—this is actually brilliant. An old, rigid structure being renewed by young energy—a metaphor for rebuilding crumbling foundations with something fresh and alive.

Behind the monastery flows the Nadiža River, and beside it lies an old vineyard. While writing the script there, I saw the grapes still green and unripe. I walked past them daily, and one day it hit me—if you eat that sour grape, it’s truly unpleasant! (laughs) And so it became a metaphor for self-punishment and guilt. That’s how that playful scene was born; the scene that actually holds the film’s central idea. Many viewers assume it’s a real custom because it feels so genuine, like an old local tradition.

That scene is a perfect example of how the monastery—and the place as a whole—guided the creative process. The town itself, the famous Devil’s Bridge, the shimmering Nadiža River in the summer sun—all became symbols of purity, youth, and emotion. That’s how the swimming scenes came to life. Everything grew out of the space. The place where the film unfolds is inseparable from the story.

AŠ: How did the casting process unfold? Did you have a clear idea of the main character from the start, or were you more open, looking for specific traits in the actresses?

UD: I was searching for a girl who was in the process of transitioning from girlhood to womanhood. I wanted to find someone who embodies grace—someone who radiates light. When working with actors and actresses, as well as with other collaborators, I generally start by considering what they bring to the project with their own unique qualities and life experiences. I chose Jara Sofija Ostan, who plays Lucija, through a casting call. When I first watched about 60 short introductory videos from different young actors who had applied, I immediately knew she was the one I was looking for. I could instantly sense something magical in her: she has the aura of an old soul trapped in a young girl’s body, one that’s slowly beginning to awaken. Her eyes carry a kind of sadness that makes her even more sensitive.

Intuitively, I felt she was the right choice, but at first, she wasn’t entirely sure if this was something she wanted. We weren’t sure whether she would be able to carry the entire film. It’s a huge responsibility for any actor. Therefore, the beginning was challenging, but as the process progressed, she opened up as an actor and began to contribute significantly. She worked with many coaches and teachers who gradually helped her develop the skills she showcased in the film. Through the process of acting, Jara started to understand her body better, truly feel it, and express herself through it. In just one year, through her personal growth, she underwent a transformation, and we captured that on film.

I also learned a lot during this process, for instance, that I need to go with the flow and allow the material to guide me. I need to embrace what the actors bring to the table and what they are naturally good at. If I tried to push Jara in a direction that didn’t suit her, it didn’t feel authentic. So, I adapted the script to fit her personality. This approach was the same with all the actors. I believe that for me what’s often called “type casting” is essential for creating authenticity in a film.

Mina Švajger, who plays Ana-Marija, was chosen in the same way. Her wild blue eyes and fearlessness were the perfect contrast to the gentle and shy Lucija. Staša Popovič and Mateja Strle also created strong supporting roles. Currently, there are many exceptionally talented young actors in Slovenia who are not afraid to explore, experiment, and improvise.

AŠ: How did you develop the relationship between Lucija and Ana-Marija? At times, it feels like their bond goes beyond mere friendship.

UD: I wanted to explore and challenge informal boundaries, particularly the idea that sexual energy is rigidly tied to whether the other person is male or female. In reality, that energy can be felt in many different forms. The fact is, we as humans have created countless rules and expectations surrounding sexual practices, which end up restricting us and causing all sorts of trauma, fears, and misunderstandings. Those rules often don’t align with our nature, so they don’t work. Lucija is confused about the origin of sexual energy; she questions what’s right and what’s wrong, and that inner conflict creates a sense of tension and guilt.

My focus was on the concept of attraction—what is it that draws us to someone or something? It’s not always about sexual desire; sometimes we’re attracted to something the other person has, something we don’t possess ourselves, but wish we did. This, too, is a form of sexual energy. The relationship between Lucija and Ana-Marija is built upon that dynamic. Lucija is drawn to something she doesn’t yet understand—something that calls her toward a path of personal growth.

AŠ: The film feels personal; you get the sense that it comes from intimate experiences. There’s also a strong presence of Christian symbolism. Where does that context come from?

UD: The first image in the film is an old illustration of Christ’s wound, which resembles a vulva. It’s an image from the 14th century, taken from a small prayer book made for the Duchess of Luxembourg. Around the wound, there are depictions of the tools used to torture and punish Jesus for not submitting to the dominant system. At the same time, this enigmatic image can be interpreted metaphorically as a vulva, which, in a sense, represents the source of everything, as Gustav Courbet once said. The image draws you inward, guiding you through pain into the body, where our essence resides.

The film’s theme has its roots in my previous works. I should mention that once we had a solid version of the edit, I visited Father Karel Gržan^[5] and asked him to watch it because I wanted his feedback. He was excited about the film. He immediately understood that, among other things, it addresses an important issue—that is, the understanding of sexuality, which has historically been viewed as sinful and dirty, creating much tension, trauma, and misunderstanding in people.

I, too, struggled with feelings of guilt about my own desires while growing up. Although my family wasn’t strictly religious, my mother raised me according to traditional Catholic notions of what a “good girl” should be. Only later did I realise that those ideas, particularly about body image and sexuality, were rigid and clumsy.

The body has its own primal intelligence that can guide us, if we know how to listen. People who are deeply connected to their bodies are not easily influenced by external forces, because they trust their inner, intuitive guidance. In my view, the concept of sinful sexuality and the general lack of education on this subject form a subtle mechanism that disconnects individuals from their own source of power. In the film, Lucija questions her inner, bodily sensations in contrast to societal norms and expectations. Ultimately, through a transcendental and cathartic experience of her own body, she makes a decision about which path to follow in her life.

AŠ: Little Trouble Girls addresses essential topics in an accessible and empathetic way. An open conversation about those topics is also long overdue. Could this film serve as a good starting point for that dialogue?

UD: I believe it’s important to acknowledge that the approach to sexuality in Slovenian society has been, to put it mildly, clumsy. When I presented the film Granny’s Sexual Life to high school students at Kinodvor ^[6], one of the teachers approached me afterwards and said, ‘Congratulations, really well done. I’m so glad you openly discussed this topic because we had issues at school. I had to meet with the principal to justify why we were showing films about sexuality and discussing it with the students.’

She shared with me that some teachers even protested against students watching films that explored sexuality, and some were visibly anxious about having to talk about it with the students. I was honestly surprised. Clearly, many people still hesitate to discuss sexuality openly. That indicates that fear continues to linger, and that’s why it’s so important to address these issues openly and without shame.

Now, after the #MeToo movement, we’re finally beginning to talk about boundaries—what is acceptable, what isn’t—and we’re just starting to understand that silence and shame enable sexual abuse to persist. I recognise that discussing this subject publicly is not easy, but it is the only way to raise awareness. That’s why, for me, it’s so important that artistic works like this one can spark reflection and conversation in society. And I hope it will help initiate shifts toward more compassionate and humane behaviour.

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This interview was first conducted in late autumn 2024, before the film premiered at the 75th Berlinale. It was first published in the March/April issue of Ekran Magazine. This is an updated version with a new introduction written specifically for MAI: Feminism & Visual Culture. 

Notes:

[1] Until the end of the First World War in 1918, Slovenia was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. For the following decade, it belonged to the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes (Kingdom SHS), which was later renamed the Kingdom of Yugoslavia (1929–1945). After the Second World War, Slovenia became part of the Federative People’s Republic of Yugoslavia (1945–1963), which was renamed the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia in 1963. Slovenia declared its independence from Yugoslavia on 25 June 1991.

[2] Ljutomer, in Slovenia’s northeastern Prekmurje region, is notable as the birthplace of Slovenian cinema. Today, it is home to the Grossmann Fantastic and Wine Film Festival, which celebrates genre film and regional winemaking.

[3] Metod Badjura (1896-1971) was a screenwriter, director, and cinematographer—one of the pioneers of Slovenian documentary film. Milka Badjura (1902–1992), was also a director and editor. She collaborated on all of her husband’s films. She edited several Slovenian film classics, including The Slopes of Triglav (Triglavske strmine, 1932), Vesna (1953, František Čap), and On Paper Wings (Na papirnatih avionih, 1967, Matjaž Klopčič). The most prestigious award in Slovenian cinema, the Metod and Milka Badjura Award, is named after them.

[4]  It should be noted that these findings refer specifically to feature films. While slightly more women were active in documentary filmmaking, particularly in television, the numbers remain modest and do not reflect a significant gender balance there either.

[5] Karel Gržan is a Slovenian priest and writer, widely regarded as a prominent, progressive, and well-respected public figure within Slovenian Catholicism.

[6] Kinodvor is the leading arthouse cinema in Slovenia, located in the capital city, Ljubljana.