The modern horrors of INKUBUS’s medieval tale

What was the inspiration for the film? 

The inspiration actually comes from a true story – the case of Christine Teipel, which really happened in Germany. She was a young girl who told her entire village that she had been involved with the Devil. 

Today, scholars believe that she might have been a victim of sexual abuse and that, through her childhood trauma, she perceived her abuser as the Devil while going through these painful experiences. That true case became the inspiration for our film. 

How did you develop the concept for it? 

The original concept came from our writer, Ronja Marie Lauderbach. We spent about six months developing her original screenplay together. Originally, the story included an entire medieval village, but we didn’t have the budget for that. So we kept reducing the story to its emotional core until we were essentially left with one house and one family. 

I wrote a kind of guided meditation for every single character, creating their life from birth until the moment they first appear in the screenplay.

Our producer, Charlotte Neuwirth, was very closely involved in that process. We knew we had to find a way to turn our limited resources into a creative strength rather than a limitation. And interestingly, those limitations actually made the film stronger and more intimate. 

How do you think the risks for women and girls of being at worst abused, at least silenced, have altered the 17th century?

If I’m honest, I don’t think as much has changed as we would like to believe. Of course, we live in a different time, with different rights and institutions. But there are still an enormous number of cases of sexual abuse that are never reported. We spoke to police officers during our research, and they told us that many cases happen within families and remain hidden because victims are afraid to speak, or because families fear shame and the consequences of exposing another family member.

By taking the colour away, the focus remains on the story and the characters.

So yes, our society has changed. But this silence, this fear of bringing shame upon the family, can still feel disturbingly medieval. And that’s why I think the film remains very relevant today, even though it is set in the 17th century.

The film is beautifully shot in monochrome, what was behind that decision?

The decision to shoot in black and white had several reasons. First of all, I didn’t want the audience to be distracted by the beauty of costumes, colours or production design. We put an enormous amount of work into making the world historically accurate, but by taking the colour away, the focus remains on the story and the characters.

A child’s world should be colourful, poetic and full of imagination. But through abuse and trauma, that world has lost its colour.

At the same time, Luca Hain, my cinematographer, and I felt that black and white reflected the world these characters lived in. It was a world without many shades in between – there was what the Church declared to be true, and people were expected to believe it. So the black and white also represents this very literal black-and-white thinking.

And there is another layer that was very important to me. We are experiencing this world through a child. A child’s world should be colourful, poetic and full of imagination. But through abuse and trauma, that world has lost its colour. So the images can still be beautiful and poetic, but at the same time they feel dark and deeply sad.

We worked closely with coaches to make sure [the child actor] could understand and perform the scenes without ever having to fully understand the darker context behind them.

I love telling stories through images rather than dialogue. But visual beauty should never exist just for the sake of beauty – it has to come from the story.

Above: Director Reza Sam Mosadegh on set.

Can you share details of the shoot? Did any unexpected challenges arise?

The biggest challenge was working with a child on such a difficult subject. It was extremely important to me that our young actor was never exposed to anything that could be traumatic for her. We worked closely with coaches to make sure she could understand and perform the scenes without ever having to fully understand the darker context behind them.

There was also a practical challenge: in Germany, children are only allowed to perform in front of the camera for three hours a day. So I had to plan everything very precisely, and we ended up shooting many scenes in long takes because we simply didn’t have time for endless coverage and resets.

Steven Spielberg’s E.T. was also suddenly in a strange world, separated from his family, unable to really communicate with the people around him. I felt exactly like him.

Another challenge we had already set ourselves during the writing process was: how do you make a film about sexual abuse without ever showing the abuse? We didn’t want to reproduce that violence on screen or shift the attention toward the perpetrator. We wanted to stay entirely with the victim and her experience.

And then, of course, there were the unexpected challenges. During our church shoot, there was a power outage so we had to cut a full shooting day to half a day and rethink the scene. One slightly funnier solution was that my AD sometimes had to double for our young actress. We put him in parts of her costume and shot close-ups where you couldn’t see the face. So in a few shots, the child is actually my AD.

Above: DP Luca Hein at work on INKUBUS.

What's your background and route into directing?

When I was six or seven, my family had just fled from Iran to Germany. As a child, I didn’t really understand why we had left. Suddenly I was in a country where I didn’t speak the language, everyone looked different, and most of my family – my grandparents, uncles, everyone – was simply gone.

We never did return to Iran, but I think that experience planted something in me.

Then one evening, I saw Steven Spielberg’s E.T. on television. And for the first time, I completely identified with a character in a film. E.T. was also suddenly in a strange world, separated from his family, unable to really communicate with the people around him. I felt exactly like him.

And somehow that film gave me something that nobody else could give me at that moment. It gave me hope. My brother and I believed that if E.T. could find his way home, maybe one day we would too. We never did return to Iran, but I think that experience planted something in me.

Today, I understand that this is why I want to make films. I want to create that same kind of emotional journey for an audience – to take people out of their own lives for a moment, but at the same time perhaps make them feel or see something differently. 

Above: Plans for the build of an entire medieval village were reduced to one dwelling.

What did you learn from this project?

Of course, I learned a lot about precise planning and working with departments like costume and production design at such a high level. But the biggest learning was to trust my instincts more as a director. I didn’t approach the actors through traditional rehearsals. We built the characters together through conversations, meditation and guided visualizations. We never rehearsed the actual scenes. For me, learning to trust this more intuitive and spiritual way of working was very important.

We fought incredibly hard to make this film.

But maybe the most important thing I learned was the value of creating a family on set. From the lighting and camera crews to production, directing and the actors, there was an incredible sense of trust between us. Everyone fell in love with the story and the characters. And I learned that when you work with people you trust like family, you can take a film to a completely different level – even with very limited resources.