Tracks of history: an interview with the filmmaker behind Trains

At its core, Trains is not merely a historical recounting of locomotives but an exploration of what train travel has symbolized in 20th-century Europe. The film opens with jubilant scenes of steam engines, bustling rail yards, and passengers embarking on journeys filled with hope. But as the narrative unfolds, the celebratory imagery gives way to stark reminders of trains as instruments of war: soldiers deployed to battle, refugees fleeing devastation, prisoners transported in harrowing conditions.

"A train compartment is a unique space," the filmmaker explains. "For a few hours—or even days—passengers exist in a temporary society, their lives dictated by the rhythm of the timetable. There is something beautiful, magical, and often profoundly painful about train journeys. In my notebook, under the date September 19, 2014, I wrote down the first idea for this project. It begins with the sentence: 'A train journey is a metaphor for life.' It marked the beginning of this film."

IDFA: Trains is entirely composed of archival footage. How did you approach selecting and integrating these materials?
The research process involved exploring the collections of ninety-eight archives worldwide. The final cut of the film features nearly 600 shots from forty-six of these archives. In my process I first enter what I call a state of ‘total documentation’. I try to watch as much archival material as possible. For Trains, this meant combing through hundreds, even thousands, of films. I approach these images with the curiosity of a child—if something moves me, whether it’s an entire sequence or just a single frame, I request a screener for editing.

From there, I work closely with my editor to sort through this vast collection, categorizing it by themes and starting to build an initial narrative structure. At this stage, our approach becomes more analytical, piecing together a dramatic arc that allows the footage to tell the story.

The editing of Trains indeed plays a crucial role in crafting its emotional and rhythmic impact.
I’ve been working with the same editor, Rafał Listopad, for many years. Editing a film like this involves an ongoing dialogue. Together, we analyze archival materials, and given our generational differences—Rafał is significantly younger—we often find different values in the same footage. We jot down our ideas on sticky notes and pin them to a massive magnetic board.

From the scripting stage, I knew I wanted to structure the narrative using recurring elements. Trains, initially symbols of joy and mobility, quickly became tools of war, embodying both peace and conflict—a devastating cycle that continues today. This focus on human stories, coupled with the search for harmony and contrasts, defined our approach.

The editing process spanned over a year. When we finally watched the completed film, we doubted the strength of the final sequences, feeling the ending was fragmented. Ultimately, we revisited the edit, creating more than 30 versions of the final minutes. Throughout, we kept searching for additional archival materials. The film's dynamic editing creates a sense of a unified journey, even in sequences that don’t take place inside train cars.

The absence of text, sound, or spoken voices in the film allows for a purely visual and auditory experience. At what point did you decide to leave out narration or dialogue?
My previous montage films relied heavily on text. I spent over a year researching archival texts written on trains—letters, travel diaries, official documents—aiming to construct an intimate, synthetic portrait of humanity across the 20th century. But once the editing began, I realized the archival footage didn’t need textual support.

Initially, this realization made me uneasy, but over time, I found that the painstaking work on this film had revealed new pathways in my understanding of the archival world. I followed the truth contained in these reels as if documenting reality with an observational camera. My goal was to preserve their unique atmosphere, focusing less on deconstructing individual episodes and more on building layers of meaning through the connections between sequences.

This project taught both Rafał and me a sense of humility toward the archival source—a humility grounded in silence and concentration, which allowed us to delve deeper into the material, to inhabit it, and to explore its nuances.

How did you approach sound design and its role in the storytelling?
I worked with a highly sensitive sound designer from Lithuania, Saulius Urbanavicius. The film’s foundation is a six-minute recurring motif from the piece Compartment 2, Car 7 by the brilliant Polish composer Paweł Szymański. My aim was to integrate the music and ambient sounds with great respect for the archival material.

Documentary sound design walks a fine line; too much, and it can overpower the visuals. We carefully crafted the soundtrack to evoke emotions that guide the viewer through the film. While we used train-related sound effects, we also incorporated other elements, including metallic creaks and clunks I recorded myself in a Warsaw power plant during the unloading of coal wagons.

Silence, composed of delicate sounds, also plays a significant role, appearing at pivotal moments. Structurally, I treat sound on par with imagery. My experience making large-scale radio documentaries in the 1990s deeply shaped how I perceive the world—even with my eyes closed.

You and your team worked with multiple archives across Europe, including the Eye Film Museum in the Netherlands. How do you navigate such an extensive collection of materials?
Initially, I planned to personally visit many archives for in-depth research. However, the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted those plans. This film would not have been possible without the assistance of researchers from around the globe. When contacting archives, we focused on the human element because this film isn’t about the history of trains and locomotives; it’s about people.

Our collaboration with various archives was a multilayered process. Even during the advanced stages of editing, we continued to reach out for highly specific footage, such as fragments depicting prosthetic faces for World War I veterans.

Could you describe the feeling of discovery when you come across archival footage that perfectly captures the essence of what you want to convey?
My relationship with archival materials is deeply intimate and personal. I love watching old films and do so constantly, even outside the scope of specific projects. Many times, I’ve stumbled upon something utterly unique.

In 1990, while making my debut documentary Hera My Cry, about Ryszard Siwiec’s tragic self-immolation in September 1968 as a protest against the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia, I discovered a seven-second shot—a wide-angle view of this harrowing event. Those seven seconds (196 frames captured on 35mm film) shaped the entire dramaturgy of the film. I realized I needed to stretch this brief moment, which wasn’t easy given the technology available at the time. Ultimately, my 40-minute documentary devotes over six minutes to unpacking those seven seconds.

But I’m not only a consumer of archival materials. For example, I initiated the digitization of student films at the Łódź Film School, resulting in an engaging, modern online archive. Additionally, I founded the Polish Home Movies Archive, part of the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw. Over the past four years, we’ve collected and digitized home movies shot on formats like 8mm, Super8mm, and 16mm film. Our bilingual website now hosts over 50 family collections and more than 120 hours of meticulously annotated, unique material.

I mention these projects because archives are a timeless and fundamental value to me—perhaps even more important than my own films.

How does Trains fit into your broader body of work?
Before Trains, I made two found-footage films. The first, One Day in People’s Poland, explored an ordinary day in communist Poland—September 27, 1962. Over five years, I pieced together a narrative from archival materials to illustrate both citizens' lives and the state's activities on that unremarkable day. The result was a bittersweet film that became a metaphor for those bleak, oppressive times.

The second, Violated Letters, was based on private correspondence illegally intercepted and read by the Polish security services from 1945 to 1989. It exposed the regime’s intrusion into citizens’ intimate lives, making it one of my darkest films. Both projects resonated emotionally with audiences worldwide, transcending cultural and historical boundaries.

If I reflect on my life and work, I’ve spent countless hours in archives, combing through thousands of meters of film. I’m fascinated by the act of repurposing source materials to create entirely new meanings. The challenge lies in using the expansive possibilities of cinematic language to forge an emotional connection between the audience and archival reality.