Rajko Grlić: Need a title
Need a bio and head shot too
HM: Rajko, thank you so much for agreeing to this interview. I’m really looking forward to discussing your photography exhibition and your extraordinary filmmaking journey. But first I’d love to hear more about you—your background, your upbringing, and how you got into film. Could you share that story?
RG: Sure. I was born and raised in Zagreb, Croatia, which at the time was part of Yugoslavia. Back then, Yugoslavia was a communist country, but it was quite different from the stereotypical image people in the United States might have of communism. It wasn’t all gray and oppressive. We had passports, we could travel, and we had access to music and films from around the world.
After finishing school in Zagreb, I went to Prague in what was then Czechoslovakia—also a country that no longer exists in the same form. I studied at FAMU (the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts), which many considered one of the best film schools worldwide. I spent about five years there. By the end of it, I earned a Master’s degree in directing feature films. One of my professors was an acclaimed director who later won an Oscar.
When I returned to Yugoslavia, I was only 26 when I made my first feature film. I’d already made a few shorts that won some awards, so I applied for funding from the Ministry of Culture. The system then was that you’d submit a script, or at least a description. I played a bit of a trick by proposing an experimental film, something unusual enough to stand out among all the standard feature proposals. Surprisingly, they said, “Okay, let’s give this kid a chance.”
HM: That must have been incredible—to direct a full-length feature so young. What was that first film about?
RG: It was called If It Kills Me, It Kills Me. The premise was very simple: a young man wakes up one morning and decides he’s not going to work in a factory anymore—he wants a different life. The camera “decides” to follow him. It was a fiction film shot in a documentary style, with a raw, on-the-street feel. It didn’t attract a huge audience, but it was well-received at festivals in Italy and elsewhere, which opened the door for my second and third features.
The second film made it into the Directors’ Fortnight at Cannes, which is a massive deal for filmmakers worldwide. Then I did a third film, which got into some trouble with the authorities—my negative was even confiscated by the police.
HM: Confiscated? That sounds intense. Why did they do that?
RG: The film depicted a former partisan who became a police officer and realized that his revolutionary utopia had fallen apart—that what was once a glorious dream had become a kind of nightmare. Let’s just say the official political line at the time didn’t appreciate that perspective. However, I managed to send a print through a stewardess to my sister in Paris, who submitted it to the Cannes Film Festival. When we got accepted, the negative was still in police custody.
For about two months, nobody knew what to do. Eventually, after a lot of back-and-forth, the government allowed me to present it at Cannes. It was proclaimed one of the festival’s biggest surprises. That success gave its distribution in many countries, though it remained controversial back home.
HM: And after that, you continued making films and documentaries?
RG: Yes, I made several more features and documentaries. Some were banned for years. But I kept going. Over time, my films collectively gathered more than a hundred international awards, some of them quite prestigious. Then the war broke out in Yugoslavia, nationalism took over, and I spoke out publicly against it. That’s when I was effectively blacklisted.
HM: So you decided to leave?
RG: More or less. I had a Fulbright to do an artist residency at UCLA, which I couldn’t use earlier because I’d been busy shooting. When I was finally free to go, I moved my family to Los Angeles for that program. But when Yugoslavia started to disintegrate, the Fulbright funding—which was administered through Belgrade—got complicated. We ended up in a potentially difficult financial situation.
And then just out of the blue while I was still in Los Angeles I got the call from NYU. They were running a Director Series in the graduate program and invited me to show my latest feature. After the screening, I spent nearly two hours doing a Q&A with the students—really smart, curious people.
Anyway, after the session, the head of the graduate film school at the time, Ross—he was Australian, a very tall, imposing guy—took me out to dinner. He said, “Listen, if you’d like to start teaching here tomorrow, you’re more than welcome. I can offer you a position right away.”
I was flattered, of course, but I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to stay in America permanently. I thanked him and asked for a little time to think it over. I still had some hope that I could go back to my home country and continue making films there.
HM: So you did go back?
RG: Yes, I went back home, but the political climate was impossible for me. I realized there was no way to continue my work without completely changing my personal and political beliefs. I had been pretty vocal about my stance on nationalism and the war—it effectively made me an “official enemy” in certain circles.
So I decided to return to the U.S. and take NYU up on their offer. I ended up spending a very rewarding year teaching there. The students at NYU were some of the best I’d ever encountered—very motivated, creative, and open-minded. Eventually, they offered me a longer-term position.
HM: How was the experience of teaching in NYU?
RG: Well, that was a magical time. At NYU, I was running a master class for first-year graduate students. Spike Lee was teaching the second-year cohort; Arthur Penn was teaching the third year. I found myself in the company of these huge names in filmmaking.
While I was there, other opportunities also began to surface. One particularly interesting offer came from Ohio University. I had only been to the Midwest once—Minneapolis—for a retrospective of my films—so I knew very little about Ohio. I asked a deputy dean at NYU for advice, and he told me, “Listen, you don’t get an offer like this more than once in your life. You’d be an Eminent Scholar, which means you could do your own work as part of your teaching. You’d only have to teach one class a semester, you’d have a budget for creative projects, and you’d be paid nearly twice what NYU pays.”
HM: That sounds incredible. So you moved to Athens, Ohio?
RG: Yes, I did. It was a bit of a culture shock. I’d never lived in a small town, and Athens was definitely smaller and quieter than anything I was used to. But the setup at Ohio University was too good to pass up. I initially decided I wasn’t going to make films anymore—after all the turmoil and seeing how my country could suddenly descend into war, I thought, “What’s the point?”
Instead, I threw myself into teaching and creative experiments. I worked closely with a group of students and faculty, and we also collaborated with a local computer company to develop an interactive CD-ROM about the filmmaking process. That’s how the project How to Make Your Movie was born.
HM: An interactive CD-ROM? That was quite cutting-edge at the time. Can you tell us more about it?
RG: The interactive CD-ROM project I worked on at Ohio University was a multimedia experience that allowed users to explore the filmmaking process. We created an interactive platform where students could learn about screenwriting, directing, cinematography, and other aspects of filmmaking.
The project was a great success, winning the Grand Prix for best world multimedia in 1998. It was used in schools worldwide, including in Africa and China, as a way for students to engage with the filmmaking process before even coming to the university.
The interactive nature of the CD-ROM allowed students to play an active role, experimenting with different creative choices. This hands-on approach was much more effective than just reading about filmmaking. It gave students a taste of the real experience.
Overall, the project had a significant impact, bringing the filmmaking process to life for students around the world in an innovative, interactive way. It was a proud achievement during my time teaching at Ohio University.
HM: That must have felt validating, especially after everything you went through politically and personally.
RG: It was. It reminded me that you can explore storytelling in many different forms—you don’t have to limit yourself to traditional cinema, especially when the environment back home was so hostile at the time.
Of course, technology moves quickly. We had to update the CD-ROM constantly to keep it compatible with new systems. But for those few years, it was a major success and an exciting glimpse into how education and storytelling could merge through digital platforms.
HM: So your career took quite a turn—from feature filmmaking to pioneering interactive educational technology. Have you gone back to making films since then?
RG: Eventually, yes. After some years, I dipped my toes back into filmmaking. The break gave me time to recharge creatively. I’ve found that my experiences—good and bad—inform my work in new ways, whether it’s film, multimedia, or teaching.
HM: Thank you for sharing, Rajko. It’s amazing how you turned an uncertain moment—being blacklisted, feeling disillusioned—into a completely new creative venture. Your journey from Los Angeles to NYU, then to Ohio University and beyond, underscores how adaptable and resilient you are. I look forward to seeing what you do next, whether it’s another interactive project or a new film.
RG: Thank you. It’s been a challenging but rewarding path. I’m grateful for the opportunities—NYU, Ohio University, multimedia work—and for the chance to keep exploring new ways to tell stories. If nothing else, my life has never been boring!
HM: Rajko, the last time we spoke, you mentioned creating a book of photographs that offered a glimpse into small-town life in Ohio. Can you tell me more about how that book project came about?
RG: Sure. It all started rather unexpectedly. I had a friend who’s a painter. He was asked to curate an annual exhibition in this big barn-turned-gallery in Athens County—somewhere out in Acton. They displayed a wide range of works—sculptures, paintings, amateur photography. My friend invited me just to come along and check it out.
As I was walking around, I noticed a single photograph that really hit me—this beautifully stark image conveying a profound sense of loneliness. It felt like it perfectly captured the isolation people sometimes experience in small Midwestern towns. I immediately asked, “Who took this? I’d like to buy it.” Now, I rarely purchase art, but this photo really spoke to me.
My painter friend introduced me to the photographer—a retired lawyer from a small town called Ironton, on the Ohio River. He was flattered that I wanted the photo and said, “Oh, I’ll just give it to you!” But I insisted he let me pay. I told him never to give his art away for free—artists should value their own work.
HM: So how did a retired lawyer end up taking such striking photographs?
RG: That’s part of what fascinated me. Ironton was once a bustling place—during Prohibition, the New York Mafia actually tried to set up a hideaway there. There are these random grand buildings: a huge hotel, a big cinema, and a big restaurant in the middle of an otherwise modest town. Over time, though, the area became very poor. The man had spent decades as a lawyer representing people who couldn’t afford fancy attorneys.
He told me that early in his career, he needed a photo for some legal documentation—a simple snapshot. He bought a cheap camera and, in the process, realized he loved photography. He began taking pictures of his clients, the local jail, the people in his neighborhood—anyone who made an impression on him. Slowly, he accumulated a massive collection of images capturing everyday life in rural Ohio.
HM: So you found this single photograph, and then suddenly you discovered the photographer had a whole world of images. How did you go from that discovery to creating an entire book?
RG: Well, he mentioned offhand that he had “a million photos.” I asked if I could see more, and next thing I knew, I was driving up into the hills above Athens every other day, visiting his house. I’d sit in his kitchen, and he’d show me box after box of prints and negatives.
After a month or two, I ended up with about 300 photos that really stood out to me. I took them to my studio, laid them all out on the floor, and began a painstaking selection process. Over the course of another month, I whittled them down to the group I felt best told the story of these people and this place.
With the final selection in hand, I interviewed him about each photo—who the subjects were, what happened to them, any specific memories he had. He was in his early 70s at the time but sharp as ever, recalling fascinating stories about each person. I recorded all of that and used it as the text to accompany the images.
HM: And you had the resources at Ohio University to publish this?
RG: Yes. In my position at the university, I received annual funding for creative projects. I decided to use that money to produce the book. We sent the layouts to a printer in China, had them printed and shipped back.
Then we held a big exhibition at the Kennedy Museum in Athens. The show turned out to be a huge success—the museum said it was one of the largest crowds they’d seen in decades. Many local people came to see family, friends, or neighbors featured in the photos. It made this lawyer-photographer a bit of a local celebrity.
HM: What kinds of stories or characters are captured in the book?
RG: They’re everyday folks, but each one has a unique spark. Some are families in poverty who still take pride in dressing up for a formal portrait in front of their ramshackle homes. One family, who were little people, ran a retirement home—they posed on the stairwell in their favorite clothes. Another couple had ten portraits taken in every corner of their homemade shack, smiling despite their hardships.
He also photographed some clients who ended up in jail repeatedly—tough characters, but often with a surprising vulnerability once you hear their stories. Each person chose the spot or the pose that represented them “at their best,” as they saw it.
For me, the photos offer a glimpse of rural Ohio’s soul—people surviving, adapting, and finding pride wherever they can. It reminded me of a French photographer who did something similar in Provence, asking locals to pose in their kitchens or living rooms, capturing the essence of daily life in that region.
HM: Did the museum keep this collection?
RG: Yes, the photographer eventually wanted to donate his entire archive to Ohio University. But the initial contract the university drew up was too rigid—basically stating they’d have full ownership, with no rights reserved for his family. He hesitated, so I helped renegotiate.
In the end, he signed an agreement that left his collection—thousands of photos—to the university’s Kennedy Museum. They also have an impressive collection of American prints and graphics dating back nearly a century, so these local photographs fit nicely into their broader archive.
HM: It’s fascinating that this project started so casually—just a visit to a barn gallery—and ended up as a major museum exhibit and a published book. What impact did it have on you personally?
RG: It was a profound reminder that art can spring up anywhere. You don’t need a formal degree or a famous name to create meaningful work. Here was a small-town lawyer, quietly documenting his world. In doing so, he captured a slice of American life that most people rarely see.
For me, as an outsider who came to Ohio under unusual circumstances, it was a way to understand the region’s character—its history, its poverty, its pride, and its sense of community. Curating the book and learning each story made me feel more connected to the place.
HM: Have you ever thought about taking the exhibition on the road, to share these images beyond Athens?
RG: I did suggest it. Sometimes museums tour collections, but it didn’t happen in this case. The Kennedy Museum was thrilled to host it, but they weren’t really equipped at the time to organize a traveling show. Despite that, the exhibit drew a lot of attention right where it was, bringing in locals and students who might not otherwise set foot in a museum.
HM: Rajko, thank you for giving us a deep dive into the origins of this book and exhibit. It sounds like it’s not just about photography—it’s about community, memory, and a very personal glimpse of life in rural Ohio. I hope more people get to experience these images.
RG: Thank you. It was a project close to my heart, and I’m glad it could shine a light on everyday people who often go unnoticed. Sharing their stories made the entire journey worthwhile.