Interview with GIANNIS KASSIS, Director, Writer and Producer, for the documentary LALOUDA

Gianni Kassis, Καλώς ήρθατε. Welcome to the World Film Festival in Cannes and our heartfelt congratulations on the Best Director Documentary Feature & Best Cinematography award! What does this win inspire you?

Thank you so much! It’s an incredible honor to be here at the World Film Festival in Cannes and to receive this award. This recognition means more than just a personal achievement — it highlights the power of art, history, and storytelling. Lalouda is not just a documentary; it’s a journey through time, through the sculptural work of Michalis Kassis, exploring survival, instinct, and human expression.

This win inspires me to continue shedding light on untold stories — the stories of people like Michalis, whose art bridges the past and the present. It pushes me to delve deeper into how history shapes our instincts and how art becomes a timeless form of resistance and survival. Most importantly, it reminds me that cinema has the power to connect us all, no matter where we come from.

How did you come up with the subject for your documentary? And can we tell us more about the significance of “Lalouda”? How is the meaning different from the Greek word “Petra”?

The idea for Lalouda was born from a deep fascination with the connection between art, history, and human survival. I was inspired by the sculptural work of Michalis Kassis, whose art is deeply rooted in his life experiences in Mani — a land with a rugged beauty, marked by history, war, and the struggle for existence.

The title Lalouda carries a unique significance. Unlike the Greek word Petra, which simply means “stone”, Lalouda is a local Maniot term that embodies something more — Lalouda isn’t just a rock; it’s a symbol of endurance, rawness, and transformation. This word reflects the way Michalis sees the stones of Mani :

as silent witnesses to history, shaped by time and human hands.

In Mani, the Lalouda represents both the physical and the metaphorical — it speaks about survival, about how nature and humans coexist, and how instincts, carved over centuries, are reflected in art. In fact, Lalouda feels alive, much like Michalis’ sculptures, carrying the weight of the past while pointing towards the future.

Greece has always been the gods’ paradise. It is such a beautiful country. However, it is interesting to discuss how harsh and inhospitable it can have been for the local population due to the presence of endemic rock formations. Since times immemorial, the terrain must have forced humans to hone fine skills to recognize edible plants for survival. The Greeks had to learn to graze to survive the German occupation. Why is this so little known?

That’s a powerful observation. Greece is often seen through the lens of its beauty — the sun, the sea, the ancient ruins — but there’s another side to its history, one of struggle and survival, especially in regions like Mani. The rocky, unforgiving terrain has shaped not only the landscape but also the people. In Lalouda, we explore how the land itself became both a challenge and a teacher. During the German occupation in World War II, for example, survival often depended on ancient knowledge — the ability to identify wild edible plants, to graze like the animals, to draw on instincts passed down through generations.

This wasn’t a romantic return to nature — it was a harsh reality. I believe this history is so little known because, for years, the focus has been on the grand narratives — the battles, the revolutions — rather than the quiet, everyday acts of resistance and survival. People didn’t just fight with weapons;

they fought with knowledge — of the land, of the seasons, of what the rocks and plants could offer.

Through Michalis Kassis‘ sculptures, we reveal this hidden layer of history. His art doesn’t depict mythical gods — it speaks of human endurance, of hands hardened by labor, of bodies shaped by the struggle for existence. It’s a reminder that the roots of Greek identity lie not only in its ancient glory but also in its people’s ability to survive against all odds.

Previous generations lived in extremely rough conditions in Greece. Would you say this is why this country has produced generations of sculptors?

That’s a very insightful question. Yes, I believe the harsh conditions in Greece have played a significant role in shaping its sculptural tradition. Sculpture, at its core, is about working with what the land provides — stone, marble, wood — raw materials that have endured just as the people have.

In regions like Mani, where the landscape is rugged and unforgiving, there’s a deep, almost instinctive relationship with stone. Sculpture isn’t just a medium for art — it’s part of daily life. People built their homes, their towers, their walls from the same rocks they walked on. The act of carving stone, of shaping something so unyielding, mirrors the resilience of those who lived off this land.

Michalis Kassis‘ work captures this perfectly. His sculptures seem to carry the weight of history — you can feel the struggle, the survival, the instincts of generations who learned to coexist with their environment. The land itself seems to teach its people how to sculpt — not for beauty alone, but as a way of expressing their connection to history, to survival, and to the constant push and pull between human hands and unforgiving stone.

So yes, I think Greece has produced generations of sculptors not only because of its artistic heritage but because the land demanded it — ultimately, the harsh conditions of the land taught its people to carve, both out of necessity and artistic expression.

For your sculptor, wooden tools from the past are the “diamonds of poor, isolated, forgotten people”. As such, they should be saved, upcycled, or displayed in a museum. It would be amazing if, in our age of single-use plastic consumption, ancient wooden tools were recognized as just as precious as Byzantine pieces, which are so ubiquitous in Greece.

Absolutely — that’s such an important point. In Lalouda, Michalis Kassis often refers to the wooden tools of the past as the “diamonds of the poor” — simple, handmade objects crafted by people who had little but knew how to work with what the land offered. These tools, carved from local wood, carry the fingerprints of forgotten generations — they’re not just functional items, but symbols of survival, ingenuity, and craftsmanship.

In today’s world, where single-use plastic dominates, these wooden tools take on an even deeper significance. They remind us of a time when everything was reused, repurposed, and valued. Nothing was disposable — not materials, not knowledge, not even the simplest object.

It would be incredible to see ancient wooden tools displayed in museums with the same reverence as Byzantine artifacts. Both tell vital stories about human history — one about empires and religion, the other about everyday survival and resilience. The two are equally important because they reflect different layers of our collective past.

In Lalouda, this contrast is part of the narrative — how something as humble as a hand-carved wooden tool can hold the same weight as a gilded icon. It’s a call to reconsider what we value, especially in an era of overconsumption. Perhaps the true “diamonds” are not the objects of luxury, but the tools of necessity, shaped by human hands and passed down through time.

To create beauty, the sculptor needs to deform nature. The first rule of sculpture is that it is up to the sculptor to depict (his idea). In that way, sculpture reaches beyond the human. We learn that the ancient Greeks did not work from a model, they worked directly on the marble. Is it true that to understand art, you have to go back to nature and people

Absolutely — that’s a profound way to look at it. Sculpture, at its core, is a paradox: to create beauty, the artist must first “wound” nature, shaping raw materials into something new. Michalis Kassis often speaks about this :

how every chisel mark on a stone is both an act of destruction and creation.

The ancient Greeks understood this deeply. They didn’t work from live models; they worked directly with the marble, not copying reality but expressing an idea — an essence — that went beyond the human form. It was about capturing spirit, movement, and meaning rather than simple likeness. That’s why their sculptures feel alive, timeless.

To truly understand art, you must go back to both nature and people — because art is born from that relationship. Nature provides the materials — stone, wood, earth — but it’s human experience that breathes life into those materials. The land shapes the people, and the people, in turn, shape the art.

This is something Lalouda explores deeply. Michalis’ sculptures don’t just reflect his personal vision — they carry the history of Mani, the struggle for survival, the instincts honed by generations living off the land. His art is not separate from nature; it is a dialogue with it.

So yes, to understand art, you must reconnect with both the rawness of nature and the complexity of human experience. Art doesn’t exist in isolation — it’s rooted in the land and the lives of those who shape it.

Your documentary is a great voyage into yesterday’s Greece as seen through the lens of folk culture. It offers us a unique insight into creation and fighting tooth and nail for democracy and art. Please comment.

Thank you, that means a lot. Lalouda is indeed a journey into yesterday’s Greece, but not the Greece of marble temples and ancient myths — it’s the Greece of raw survival, of folk wisdom, and of silent resilience. Through Michalis Kassis’ art, we see how creation and struggle are intertwined — how people, even in the most difficult times, used their hands not only to build and survive but also to express and resist.

Folk culture, at its heart, is about more than just tradition — it’s a form of democracy. It’s the art of the people, by the people. In Mani, where life was harsh and the land unforgiving, art wasn’t a luxury — it was a way to record history, to communicate, and to push back against oblivion. Michalis’ sculptures reflect this spirit — they speak of war, of hunger, of learning to coexist with the land. They remind us that art is a form of protest, a way to assert one’s existence against the odds.

In a way, Lalouda reveals that the fight for democracy doesn’t only happen in the streets — it happens in the quiet acts of creation, in the preservation of memory, and in the passing down of knowledge. Every carved stone, every wooden tool, every folk song — they are all forms of resistance against forgetting.

So yes, the documentary shows that democracy and art have always been connected in Greece — not just in grand, historic moments, but in the daily lives of those who fought tooth and nail to survive and create.

Do you have any upcoming documentary or film projects?

Yes! Lalouda has inspired me to continue exploring the intersection of art, history, and human resilience. My next project will dive even deeper into the forgotten crafts and traditions of rural Greece — not just focusing on sculpture, but also on how ancient skills like weaving, blacksmithing, and herbal medicine are quietly being preserved by a handful of people in remote areas.

It will explore how these crafts are not just relics of the past, but living and breathing traditions that hold vital knowledge about sustainability and survival — lessons we desperately need today. Just like Lalouda showed the relationship between stone, survival, and instinct, the film will highlight how these fading skills connect us to the land and to each other.

I’m also developing a short film that blends fiction and documentary, imagining what the future might look like if we lose this connection to traditional knowledge. It’s a way of asking: What happens when we forget how to work with our hands?

So, yes — there’s much more to come, and I hope to continue using cinema as a tool to preserve, question, and celebrate the unseen layers of human history.

What is your vision of post-Covid cinema?

Post-Covid cinema, for me, is about reconnecting — with each other, with our roots, and with the essence of storytelling. The pandemic forced us into isolation, but it also reminded us of the importance of shared experiences. I believe cinema now has a deeper responsibility — not just to entertain but to heal, to preserve memories, and to spark meaningful conversations.

What I see emerging is a more intimate, human-centered kind of storytelling. Films like Lalouda — which explore history through personal, untold stories — resonate even more now. There’s a growing hunger for authenticity, for narratives that remind us of our collective resilience. Audiences want to feel something real, something that reflects both the struggles and the beauty of survival — much like Michalis Kassis’ art does.

I also think post-Covid cinema will push us to reimagine spaces for film. The big screen will always be magic, but we’ve learned that stories can travel beyond traditional theaters — through digital platforms, community screenings, and even outdoor showings in unexpected places. This opens up cinema to new audiences, making it more democratic and accessible. Ultimately, I see post-Covid cinema as a bridge — connecting past and future, isolation and community, art and activism. It’s a chance to use film not just as an escape, but as a way to reflect, remember, and rebuild.

©2025 Isabelle Rouault-Röhlich