Natalka Vorozhbit: "You have to write in such a way that you'd be embarrassed to invite your parents to see your play"

How can one create vivid, complex characters in an era when society seeks to divide people into “us” and “them”? Playwright and screenwriter Natalka Vorozhbit discusses the author’s inner ruthlessness, the line between sincerity and exploiting others’ pain, as well as why it’s so hard for Ukrainians today to laugh at themselves and how self-censorship prevents us from telling the whole truth to a foreign audience. 

You said in an interview that people often infuriate you, and that becomes the starting point for a play. Who or what in contemporary Ukraine annoys you the most right now—so much so that it could definitely give rise to a new piece?

What annoys me the most, I suppose, is that we argue among ourselves. The fact that we’re prone to this kind of thing: yesterday we adored someone, but today they made a mistake —and we start to “tear them down” in unison, forgetting all their previous merits.

<picture></picture>
SCREENSHOT: YouTube Intenta

Because we’re under constant stress, we sometimes lose our ability to think critically. We become dogmatic and make extreme demands on others. Everything becomes black and white, even though people aren’t like that at all. We forget that we need to understand one another and put ourselves in the other person’s shoes.

And a playwright must be able to do this, because it’s one of the tools of their trade. You have to experience being both good and bad, to empathize with different characters—even the most negative ones—and find a motivation for each one. Because even in the worst of deeds, there’s always a motivation. No one will admit to intentionally doing something bad; everyone will justify their actions. And it is precisely this perspective that is important to understand.

At the same time, you often write about people who are hard to love. Why are you so interested in human complexity? Aren’t you afraid that it’s easier for today’s audience to think in terms of “us versus them”?

Yes, I understand that perfectly well. These psychological nuances really do seem out of place right now. But I’m not interested in anything else—otherwise, it’s like painting with only two colors. The world isn’t really black and white. Although I’ve become radical in some respects myself—and for me, there is an enemy— this divisionbetween “us” and “them” is very clear.

<picture></picture>
SCREENSHOT: YouTube Intenta

But when I’m working, my professional bias kicks in—I can no longer think simplistically when I write. I’m interested in delving into human psychology to understand it better. And when you understand even your enemy, it’s easier to develop strategies.

You work a lot with real-life stories. Have there been instances where people recognized themselves, approached you because of it, or asked you to change names because the story was too recognizable and could cause problems in their lives?

I always change the names quite a bit. If I’m writing a purely documentary story about a specific person, I always ask for permission and clarify certain details. But if a character is based on several real people—which is usually the case—it’s hard to find fault with it. I don’t think I’ve ever used a story that matched a real-life event 100 percent.

There have been various situations. For example, in the film *Cyborgs*, there are several heroic characters. Since I interviewed many soldiers, these characters are composite. Although I know who the very first real-life inspiration actually was, the soldiers liked this character so much that almost everyone I spoke with later said in their interviews that it was them. They wanted the story to be about them. Of course, I didn’t argue—it’s very flattering.

<picture></picture>
SCREENSHOT: YouTube Intenta

But there was another story: a high school friend called me late at night and said, “How could you describe our youth like that? I saw it in a positive light, but you portrayed everything so harshly and didn’t spare anyone.” I really did change all the names as much as possible, but it wasn’t hard for her to recognize herself. My only excuse was that I described myself in that story just as ironically and ruthlessly.

For a writer, this is the main justification—to be ruthless toward oneself, to examine one’s own life under a microscope. My thesis is this: you should write in such a way that you’d be too ashamed and afraid to invite your parents to your play or movie, because you’ll be saying things there that you’ve never told anyone before. This honesty with yourself justifies being a little ruthless with other people as well. But I still try to understand even the most negative characters, even if I can’t bring myself to love them. My criticism doesn’t stem from condescension. It comes from the fact that I’m on the same level as them—I’m just like them.

I’ve always been curious: do you think about the audience when you sit down to write? Do you write for yourself first, and only then consider whether anyone would want to watch it?

In general, I advise all writers not to think about the audience while working. Otherwise, you risk losing your inner voice, and constant self-censorship sets in: you strive to please and are afraid of offending someone.

However, on a subconscious level, you still take the format into account, because commissions vary. An international project has one kind of audience, a Ukrainian theater has another, and television or arthouse cinema are entirely different stories. These adjustments happen automatically. In a bold theater project or an auteur film, you allow yourself more candor, brutality, and controversial topics, and you’re not afraid of hurting anyone’s feelings. But if you’re writing a TV series for a broad audience, you limit yourself to make the story more accessible to viewers.

You wrote the series *Catching Kaidash*, which was equally loved by critics and the general audience. How did you manage to stay true to yourself while also creating such a popular show? Was that a strategy or a coincidence?

On the one hand, I understood what television wanted; on the other, I’ve loved this classic work since childhood. I didn’t limit myself, and the producers gave me complete freedom and trust. There are very few producers like that in Ukrainian television and film. They didn’t force me to rewrite anything or adapt it to any specific formats. Back then, I hadn’t even imagined that I’d become a showrunner, so there was a certain sense of recklessness during the writing process—after all, you don’t know that you’ll later have to figure everything out on your own on set, live.

And then something magical happened: advice from friends helped, and the right people came together—people who genuinely fell in love with this project. And one more crucial factor—we weren’t micromanaged by the studio or the TV network. They didn’t give us enough money—less than the series needed—but they left us alone. They simply didn’t have high expectations for us. We were lucky that part of the funding came from the government. If the network had financed the project 100%, they would have micromanaged us relentlessly for the sake of ratings. But as it was, we had complete freedom, which is what made what you saw possible.

What’s the biggest mistake producers make when they approach a screenwriter? Usually, they ask for ratings, emotion, and action. But what should they really be asking for?

Back then, the situation was downright dismal. The main mistake producers made was that they always asked for “something like something else.” Not an original work, but, for example: “We need ‘House M.D.,’ because it’s getting crazy ratings right now.” And everyone rushed to write about some cynical doctor. But you can’t replicate someone else’s success—you can only create something new of your own. Other people’s templates don’t work.

Another mistake is that they’re convinced they know their audience inside and out. Producers assume that viewers “won’t go for” certain things. Even when they watched the first episodes of *The Kaidash Family*, they said, “My God, this is so wonderful, but it’s a niche product. The general audience won’t watch this; they’re not interested in it.” In other words, they meant: “We have such refined taste, so we like it, but the general public won’t understand.” You can see how wrong they were.

<picture></picture>
SCREENSHOT: YouTube Intenta

In reality, producers often don’t know their audience. That famous TV network theory about “Antonina 40+” is already outdated. Netflix and other researchers have proven that audiences are now measured in a completely different way. That’s why the winners are bold people with good taste who know how to trust the creator, rather than being driven solely by the desire to make money.

Ukrainian society is currently extremely sensitive to moral judgments. Do you feel any internal or societal censorship? Have there been stories you didn’t write because you realized society isn’t ready to hear them yet?

Of course, self-censorship is now deeply ingrained in all of us. When you write for international audiences, you realize that the main task right now isn’t so much to impress them with your artistic skill as it is to tell them about Ukraine in a way that increases their support and understanding. The main thing is to win the war, not to show off how great an artist I am.

That’s why you can’t tell them the whole truth, even though they’re asking for it. You won’t tell foreigners about our corruption, internal strife, or the fact that we have a lot of “freeloaders.” That would weaken the country’s position. This self-censorship makes it very hard to be 100% honest. You look for topics that will resonate with them—ones that won’t worsen our situation but will show that we’re reflecting and growing as a society. That’s incredibly difficult.

And when you write for Ukrainians—well, everyone here is traumatized and vulnerable. Any humor is taken very seriously. We’re not ready to laugh at ourselves right now, because we’re the victims in this war, and we just want to be glorified as heroes. But not all of us are heroes, by any means. And if you’re going to write honestly about our times, you have to portray the so-called draft dodgers, the wives who won’t let their husbands go to the front, and the bad soldiers whose negligence causes people to die. We need to write about everything. But you hold yourself back, realizing that the time isn’t right, that it will have to wait for “later.”

Is there such a thing as a Ukrainian hero in contemporary drama today? If it’s not a soldier or a politician, then what kind of person is it? Who do you want to write about?

A hero in drama isn’t necessarily someone who performs feats of valor. It’s a person who reflects their time as accurately as possible—so much so that our era will later be studied through works about them. That’s why any of the vividly portrayed characters can become a hero.

Of course, this includes women. Military personnel—that’s obvious; there’s enormous potential here for research from various angles. But others are interesting too: people who avoid the war; women who shoulder the entire burden of the home front; female soldiers; and the wives of soldiers, who are often overlooked because all attention is focused on the men.

<picture></picture>
SCREENSHOT: YouTube Intenta

Another interesting group consists of people for whom this is now “the best of times.” Those who’ve gotten the chance to steal or make a fortune off others’ misfortune. Or those who’ve suddenly found themselves volunteering and finally feel needed by society. I wonder what they’ll do when the war ends and this need disappears? Where will they go from there?

After the films *Cyborgs* and *Bad Roads*, aren’t you afraid of becoming an author from whom people will always expect only stories about the war?

That’s not entirely true. I’m often approached with offers to write something completely different. I’ve written a screenplay based on Kobylianska’s work, and I have pieces about the 1990s. I’m not afraid of commissions; I’m afraid of something else: will I be able to psychologically bring myself to write about anything other than war?

Right now, I can’t switch gears. All my thoughts, personal issues, and midlife crises—everything is overshadowed by the war. It takes up the most space and causes the most anxiety and distress.

Do you envy screenwriters from peaceful countries who can calmly write about love, family quarrels, or a midlife crisis without having to explain to the world what war is?

It’s not that I’m envious… On the one hand, we as writers have been “lucky” in a way amid this tragedy. Matters of life and death are the greatest drama—one thataffects everyone and evokes the strongest emotions. What could be more powerful than the drama of survival?

<picture></picture>
SCREENSHOT: YouTube Intenta

We had this powerful creative “fuel,” especially after 2014. Back then, we wanted to shout about it, explore it, and tell the world about it, because for our generation, it was the first war. But now, after 2022, I don’t even want to think about it anymore. You just physically can’t do anything else. I’d gladly either write nothing at all or write about some everyday, peaceful things, if only I could.

Which fear is stronger today: that the world will stop paying attention to Ukraine, or that it will start viewing it as an ordinary country—with all our internal shortcomings?

The world already sees our flaws. The only thing unusual about us is the war; corruption, on the other hand, is a common occurrence in most countries around the world—it’s just more prevalent in some places and less so in others.

I really want us to finally become an ordinary country, where there’s nothing extreme, just a normal, peaceful life. My dream is that we use the word “patriotism” as little as possible, so that we don’t have to constantly rely on it. After all, we see European nations as ordinary countries—so let them see us that way, too. That’s what we should strive for.

What makes you feel today that Ukraine isn’t just one big source of pain, but a place where you truly want to live?

Oh, absolutely everything. When I was forced to live abroad for a year, I still shudder at the memory. On the one hand, everything there was comfortable and good, but psychologically, I felt depressed and deeply unhappy every day.

And as always, when I returned to Ukraine, I instantly felt happy and fulfilled. Every little thing here brings me joy. Even the sounds of war in the background simply reminded me that I was home, and being home is the greatest happiness. I feel these moments very keenly precisely because of the contrast. And I keep telling myself, “God, what a happy person I would be if it weren’t for the war.”

Ната Чернецька