From Vision to Oscar Contender: Christoffer Rizvanovic Stenbakken on Anngeerdardardor (The Thief)

Christoffer Rizvanovic Stenbakken’s Oscar-qualifying short film, Anngeerdardardor (The Thief), is a deeply personal and authentic portrait of life in East Greenland. Drawing on real-life experiences and local communities, Stenbakken crafts a story that feels both intimately rooted in its setting and universally resonant. In this interview, he opens up about the origins of the film, the challenges of shooting in one of the most remote corners of the world, and the delicate balance between truth and fiction in portraying his lead, Kamillo Ignatiussen.

I read somewhere that this film is based on real events, can you tell me about how you first learned about this story and what compelled you to adapt it into a film?

Yes, it’s true—the story is based on the real-life experiences of Kamillo Ignatiussen, the boy who plays Kaali. At least the beginning of the story comes directly from something he lived through.

I wanted to make a film that felt authentically Greenlandic. Growing up in Tasiilaq, I saw a few films set in Greenland, but to me, they always felt like someone had written the script elsewhere and then simply filmed it there. The language and setting might have been right, but the stories didn’t feel genuinely Greenlandic. I wanted to do the opposite: create a story that came from the inside, capturing the life and culture of East Greenland, which is quite different from the West Coast in language, traditions, and way of life.

To find that story, I actually went without a script, which was scary because I usually work as a screenwriter. I brought a small team—one a longtime childhood friend from the town, another from Nuuk—and we spent months with the young people of Tasiilaq, doing acting and writing workshops, visiting homes, and simply observing life in the community. We worked with around 75 to 80 kids, but one boy stood out to me: Kamillo. I had noticed him the year before walking through town with a large dog on a chain. In Greenland, dogs are typically work animals, not pets, so it immediately caught my attention.

When we finally met, he was hesitant to join the project. He initially said no—but offered to play guitar for us instead. Sitting on the hood of a rusty old car—the same car that appears in the film—he sang and shared the story that would become The Thief. It was raw, powerful, and moving; everyone on set was in tears. In that moment, I knew we had discovered something important.

From there, we worked together to adapt the story for film. I knew from the start that I didn’t want the ending to mirror real life exactly—unfortunately, the dog had died—so we collaborated to craft a conclusion that worked for the story while staying true to the spirit of Kaali’s experience. That’s how the film came to life, entirely rooted in the people, culture, and stories of East Greenland.

As someone born and raised in Tasiilaq, how did returning to your hometown influence the way you shaped the narrative and the characters?

I’ve been home to East Greenland many times, so I think I have a unique access there. I know most people, and many know my family as well. Making a film in that environment can be very difficult if you don’t have that kind of connection. Being so familiar with the community obviously influenced every aspect of the project—because, to be honest, there really wasn’t a story until I went there and immersed myself in the place and the people.

“Classic Italian films like The Bicycle Thieves came to mind while making this project—a simple, searching story that’s emotionally powerful without being flashy. Those kinds of films remind me that focusing on story and authenticity is what really matters.“

Did you take any other inspirations from other films or filmmakers when making this film?

Yes, absolutely—I’ve been influenced by many filmmakers. My mentor, Michael Noer, a well-established Danish director known for his documentary-like realism, has had a huge impact on me. He helped me find a way to make filming in East Greenland even possible, because the reality of shooting there is so different from most other locations.

I wouldn’t say I’m a very technical director; sometimes I feel more like a screenwriter bringing a story to life. I’m inspired by the Danish Dogme filmmakers like Thomas Vinterberg and Lars von Trier, who work in a very loose, raw, almost rock-and-roll style without big lighting setups. I also admire the Dardenne brothers—their films feel so simple and grounded, completely devoted to the story rather than the technicalities of filmmaking.

Chloé Zhao has also been a big influence. Seeing what she achieved with Nomadland and a very small crew was incredibly inspiring—it made me think, if she can make something so beautiful with limited resources, maybe I have a chance too. And of course, classic Italian films like The Bicycle Thieves came to mind while making this project—a simple, searching story that’s emotionally powerful without being flashy. Those kinds of films remind me that focusing on story and authenticity is what really matters.

You spoke about your casting process a little bit but can you go into it a little bit more detail on how you casted for this film? How did you convince these kids to be in your film.

Money. Not the most romantic answer, but it’s true. In Denmark, we have a strong short-film tradition, and most people work for free on shorts. From the beginning, I knew I didn’t want to follow that approach in Greenland. There simply isn’t the same filmmaking tradition there, so it felt important to provide at least some financial support for the actors.

Casting was also closely tied to discovering the story. I’ve worked a lot with young or untrained actors, and I think that works as long as they’re familiar with the world, the situations, and the emotional beats. Kamillo, for instance, knew the story intimately—after all, it’s based on his own experiences. That understanding was key.

Other actors, like Mikkel Paalu P. Bianco, who plays Bartilaa, were already friends with Kamillo and the older boys who play the bullies. Their real-life relationships created a safe, supportive environment on set, which made the process smoother.

That said, it was still a leap of faith for everyone involved. Many of the kids had never been on camera before, so the whole process—from repeating the same scene multiple times to shooting out of chronological order—was unfamiliar and sometimes boring for them. I feel very privileged that they put so much trust in us. I think it wasn’t until the premiere that they fully understood what we’d been doing and the power of the film. That moment of realization made all the challenges worthwhile.

Your protagonist is autistic and experiences both loss and suspicion in a tight-knit community. What was your approach to writing and portraying his character authentically?

Kamillo was really at the center of our approach—his reality shaped the character of Kaali. I want to be clear: Kaali is not Kamillo, and Kamillo is not Kaali. While some elements of his life informed the film—for instance, he did attend a special education class—that didn’t mean I wanted to make a documentary. In small communities like Tasiilaq, showing intimate details of someone’s life carries responsibility, especially because I’m based in Copenhagen. I go there, make a film, and leave, but the person stays with that representation. I didn’t want to misrepresent him or his life.

So we treated it as a negotiation. For example, the decision to include that he went to a special class came with the agreement that I would clarify in every screening and publicity that Kamillo is very well liked in town. That way, the portrayal stayed respectful and honest, without turning him into a fictionalized stereotype.

Working this way opened doors creatively that I couldn’t have anticipated. Many scenes, like Kaali singing to his dog or the moment he prays, came directly from Kamillo’s real life. He’s a devout Christian, so when it came to the praying scene, he didn’t want to ‘fake’ it. The compromise was simple but effective: we filmed him praying naturally for the visual, and then he whispered the scripted lines for the audio. Combining the two allowed the scene to feel authentic without compromising the story.

Overall, collaborating with Kamillo in this deeply respectful way allowed us to create a film that’s both truthful in spirit and imaginatively cinematic, drawing on real life while shaping it into something universal.

“The process itself was liberating … It was spontaneous, intimate, and incredibly organic—something I don’t think I’ll ever experience again.“

I believe when I did my research that this is the first short film ever made in East Greenland, How did you navigate logistical or cultural challenges while filming? Was there any?

The main challenges were really logistical. East Greenland is incredibly remote—it takes a day and a half to get there from Denmark, including an overnight stay in Iceland—and the travel alone is expensive. I couldn’t bring a large crew; the budget only allowed for a skeleton team. In many ways, the film’s approach and look grew out of those limitations. Trying to run a conventional, highly structured European production there would have been almost impossible and creatively stifling.

That said, one of the unique advantages of this production was time. Because we weren’t bound by a strict schedule, we could shoot when the weather was exactly how we wanted it, often overcast and condensed—perfect for the tone of the film. The process itself was liberating. For example, the boys didn’t have phones, so we would drive around in the car, rolling down the windows, asking if anyone had seen Kamillo, then head to the harbour or the football field and shoot a few scenes on the spot. It was spontaneous, intimate, and incredibly organic—something I don’t think I’ll ever experience again.

I’m also proud that the film is fully Greenlandic-funded. The budgets were small, but the trust placed in us was enormous, and it shaped everything we did. Every creative decision, from the shooting style to the casting, grew out of the realities of filming in such a remote, unique environment.

The film itself feels very naturalistic. How did you work with the cinematographer to capture the atmosphere of the town?

I was very lucky to have a brilliant DOP, Philip Peng Rosenthal, on the project. He has a strong documentary background, though he’s done some fantastic fiction features as well. I love working with cinematographers with that kind of experience, especially in a setting like East Greenland, because they’re adaptable, creative on the spot, and open to challenges. Philip also has a wonderfully poetic eye, which was perfect for this film.

I wanted to make a film that wasn’t about the usual Greenlandic imagery—glaciers, fjords, mountains, ice—which, to be honest, doesn’t interest me much. What I find truly compelling about Greenland is the people, the Greenlanders themselves, yet they rarely take centre stage in films from there. So I focused on being close to the characters and capturing their world intimately.

Of course, I wasn’t entirely successful in hiding the landscape—everyone notices the mountains! But I can’t complain; Tasiilaq really is one of the most beautiful towns in Greenland, and I suppose some scenery is impossible to avoid.

The film premiered, as you said, at Berlin Film Festival. What was the experience like bringing such an intimate Greenlandic story to a global stage?

It was incredible to bring the boys and the entire Greenlandic team to the premiere—the first time many of them had ever left Greenland. The journey was long and complex: helicopter and propeller plane rides, an overnight stay in Iceland, a flight to Copenhagen, then a night drive through northern Germany. They slept in the car and went straight from that into their suits, onto the red carpet, through photo walls, and signing autographs. Surprisingly, they handled it all very comfortably.

Seeing the reception of the film was mind-blowing. None of us expected it to travel so well when we were just shooting with a crew of four in Tasiilaq. The story always felt very specific—to that place, that culture, and to Kamillo himself. But I think the specificity helped the film travel. When a story is deeply rooted in a particular place and culture, it gains authenticity, and universal themes can emerge naturally.

For me, the core of the film became simple but powerful: being different is hard, no matter where you are—whether in East Greenland, the rainforest, or New York. That universal truth, seen through the specifics of this story, is what resonates with audiences everywhere.

Are you working on anything new? What’s next for you?

I’m heading back to Tasiilaq in March with another director and a producer to do research for a feature film there. This past summer, I also shot another short in Bosnia, in Sarajevo and its surroundings. My wife is from there, so it’s part of her story as well. I’m currently editing it whenever I can find the time.

From the remote streets of Tasiilaq to international film festivals, Stenbakken’s journey with The Thief underscores the power of specificity in storytelling. By staying true to the community, the landscape, and the people who inspired the film, he has created a work that is both uniquely Greenlandic and universally relatable. With new projects on the horizon, including a feature set in Tasiilaq and a short in Bosnia, Stenbakken continues to explore stories that are deeply personal, yet capable of reaching audiences far beyond their origins.

Megan Hilborne (Instagram: meghillbilly) is a freelance writer and film critic based in Portsmouth. She graduated with a degree in Film in 2020 and has continued her study of the medium in her day-to-day life. She takes particular interest in indie, horror, feminist and queer cinema.