Norwegian helmer Nina Knag makes her feature debut with “Don’t Call Me Mama,” which world-premiered in the Crystal Globe Competition of this year’s Karlovy Vary International Film Festival (July 4-12). Anchored by a brave central performance from Pia Tjelta, this provocative drama explores the complex, often uncomfortable terrain of power, control, and emotional need through the story of Eva, a popular teacher who forms a controversial bond with a young Syrian refugee.
Inspired by real-life stories and developed over seven years, Knag’s film dares to humanize a morally ambiguous protagonist while interrogating gendered dynamics of agency and transgression. Here, the director speaks about the film’s origins, casting process, working with her actors, and how she navigated both the psychological and technical challenges of making a story that refuses easy answers.
You mentioned in the press notes that you got inspiration from some news articles you read in 2018. When did you realise this material had the potential to become a feature film?
Yes, I was actually working on a drama series about Afghan refugees in Norway—and during that research, I met a lot of these young people and the women who helped them. I came across some news that revealed that some of these mature women were having sexual relationships with the young men they were supposed to support. I was shocked at first, but immediately curious. Who were these women? The focus was always on the men, but I wanted to understand the women behind these stories. Initially, I was judgmental and repelled, but then I started wondering—could this be me, or anyone else? That was the turning point. I wanted to create a relatable, likeable female character who crosses boundaries we rarely see women cross on screen. This was also shortly after #MeToo, when there was so much focus on men, but not much about women and power dynamics. I saw an opportunity to explore that.
When it comes to writing, how did you manage to balance judgment and empathy?
NK: Well, I had to start by letting go of my own judgment. You can’t write a character authentically if you’re judging them. I had to step into Eva’s psyche and see the world from her perspective. She starts out as a likeable character, but gradually crosses lines many of us wouldn’t. I believe it’s her circumstances and her own vulnerability that push her to do what she does. Many people live in the tension between façade and truth—privately and publicly. We all lie, sometimes to survive or stay in control. That duality really defines Eva’s behavior.
How did you approach casting Eva, and what qualities were you looking for?
When we started casting years ago, I was met with some skepticism from Norwegian actresses. The theme was seen as too sensitive or controversial. Some actresses outright said, “I can’t play someone like this.” That really shocked me—I thought they’d jump at the chance to play a complex female lead. Initially, I hadn’t considered Pia Tjelta because I thought she might be too young. But we sent the script to her, and she responded immediately. She said, “Wow, finally a director who wants to say something important.” I asked her if she was afraid of playing this part, and she laughed and said, “Afraid? Of course not. That’s why I became an actress—to push boundaries.” That was the quality I was looking for: bravery. I knew then she was the one.
Shifting perspective to Amir—how did you develop his character and go about casting him?
It was always clear to me that we would see the story from Eva’s perspective. But it was crucial to convey Amir’s vulnerability as well. He’s a bit of a mystery because Eva herself doesn’t know everything about him. Still, I wanted to show what’s at stake for him—it’s literally life and death. The poems he writes became a window into his emotions. Interestingly, Tarek Zayat, who plays Amir, wrote the poems himself. I hadn’t found a writer, and he joked he could try. He’d never written before, but went to some poetry nights in Denmark and sent me two poems—both incredibly moving. That made him even more connected to the role. We found him after I saw him in the Danish film Shorta. It was his first role, and he wasn’t trained. I tracked him down and brought him to Norway for a screen test with Pia. They had amazing chemistry. I wasn’t sure how vulnerable he could be—he had only done tough roles—but after speaking with him over Skype, he told me, “I know I’m the right person for this.” He really proved it through his preparation and depth.
Generally speaking, it sounds like you were open to actors’ input in shaping their characters. Can you walk us through the film’s development timeline?
This autumn it’ll be seven years since I first got the idea. Initially, I thought about making a short film, but the theme was too big. I began writing in 2019. In 2021, I joined the Norwegian Film Institute’s Neo Program for first-time directors, and got a development grant. In 2023, we secured production funding and shot the film in 2024. Post-production wrapped in February 2025. The film premiered here in Karlovy Vary, and it will open in Norwegian cinemas in October. Writing the script was definitely the hardest part. It just had to take the time it needed.
From a technical standpoint, how did you work with your cinematographer to maintain Eva’s perspective without making the tale overly empathetic?
Time and budget were major constraints. I had some of the biggest Norwegian actors, but only 20 shooting days. So my DoP, Alvilde Horten Naterstad, and I decided to shoot handheld to stay flexible. That freedom really suited Pia and Kristoffer Joner, who plays her husband. I wanted to stay close to Eva—see the world through her eyes—but also pull back occasionally to show a wider, more political context, and create a sense of voyeurism. Because the relationship is illegal, paranoia had to build. We used the town’s setting—high mountains, closed spaces—to create an atmosphere of tension. I love working with long takes, letting the camera roll to capture those unexpected moments after a scene technically “ends.” That’s where the magic happens.
Can you elaborate on the post-production process and your work with editor Vidar Flataukan?
Working with Vidar was one of my favorite parts of making this film. It was our first collaboration, and it went so well. He was initially supposed to do a rough cut in six weeks, but called me and said, “Nina, you have so much material. I need more time.” It was a lot—20 days of handheld footage. He edited the first rough cut alone, and when I joined, I was thrilled with the choices he made. We had some test screenings, and reactions were intense. In one, two women started arguing—one called it a love story, the other shouted, “This has nothing to do with love!” That’s when I thought, okay, maybe we’ve made something meaningful. My goal was to raise tough questions—about power, longing, judgment—without providing answers. Vidar and I focused on stripping away exposition. We wanted audiences to wonder: What is she thinking? What is he thinking? That ambiguity is central to the film.
I assume you worked with an intimacy coordinator. How was that experience?
Absolutely. From the moment I had the idea, I knew I couldn’t make this film without an intimacy coordinator. One of my closest friends, Camilla Glaister, had just been certified—she’s one of Norway’s first—and she was involved from the start. She had private conversations with Pia, Tarek, and Kristoffer about their boundaries, so that power imbalance between director and actor didn’t interfere. We had several rehearsals, almost like choreography sessions, for the intimacy scenes. Everything was planned: how to touch, how it would be shot. That way, the actors felt safe and prepared. Ironically, those scenes were some of the easiest to shoot because the preparation was so thorough. Everyone knew the limits—and within those, they had total freedom.
