A Portrait of Innocence Under Pressure

Behind the Pose, directed by Sally Lomidze, is a quietly devastating drama that peers beneath the polished surface of the fashion industry to reveal the vulnerability it so often conceals. The film follows Masha, a 16-year-old Eastern European model living in a cramped New York apartment, whose private coping mechanisms clash with the unforgiving demands of her work. When her agent threatens punishment and deportation after discovering her secret, Masha is pushed into a situation where power, control, and validation become dangerously entangled.

What begins as an intimate, improvised photoshoot slowly transforms into something far more unsettling, capturing the moment where fantasy fractures and innocence is irreversibly altered. Through lyrical imagery and restrained storytelling, Behind the Pose explores exploitation, agency, and the cost of being seen too soon. It’s a haunting coming-of-age story that lingers in the quiet aftermath—where composure replaces safety, and growing up happens without permission.

Can you take us back to the moment when this story first crystallized for you?

One late night, an unfamiliar instrumental song, now the film’s soundtrack, came on in my headphones, and before I knew it I was in tears. The lonely, echoing piano notes felt like barefoot steps running away from something unbearably painful. That moment cracked something open in me, and I realized I was finally ready to tell a story I had been carrying quietly for a long time.

The film feels deeply personal without ever feeling didactic. How did you translate lived experience and research into a narrative that feels truthful but restrained?

Making this film was a crucial part of my healing journey, which began with years of research into the dynamics of grooming, abuse, and dissociation. That research helped me understand how subtle shifts in a moment—small boundary crossings—can lead to something deeply traumatic. The biggest challenge was honoring that subtlety: creating a narrative where something feels off, but you can’t immediately articulate why. That restraint felt essential to telling the truth of the experience.

Setting the film within the modeling industry creates a powerful contrast between surface-level confidence and inner vulnerability. What did the fashion world allow you to explore that another setting might not have?

I’ve been fascinated by the modeling world since I was a little girl, especially how early it teaches harmful ideas about a woman’s value and place in the world. It’s an environment where young girls are often objectified, where careers depend entirely on external validation, and where confidence is something you’re expected to perform. I was drawn to the contrast between the polished, self-assured images we see and the awkward, vulnerable girls behind the scenes. Setting the story there allowed me to explore objectification, immigration, and self-image in a very intrinsic way.

So much of the film’s tension exists in quiet moments and barely perceptible boundary shifts. Why was it important for you to focus on subtlety rather than overt dramatization?

I’m drawn to truthful storytelling, and in real life things are rarely overtly dramatic. Abuse and exploitation often live in quiet moments, not grand gestures. It was important for me to restrain myself and keep the narrative simple and subtle, so the audience could feel the discomfort without being told exactly how to feel.

Masha’s emotional experience is often conveyed through small gestures, physicality, and visual metaphor rather than dialogue. How did you work with your actor to build that internal life on screen?

I give so much credit to Ksena Samborska, who stole my heart the moment she walked into the audition room: I just knew she was Masha. Both of us come from Eastern Europe, me from Georgia and Ksena from Ukraine, and we shared an unspoken understanding of Masha’s world and her immigrant experience. Ksena embodied the character with such honesty and intuition that I rarely had notes for her. Her performance carries so much emotional truth in the smallest moments.

Inspired by the courage of the Me Too movement, the film feels like part of a larger dialogue rather than a conclusion. What role do you believe films like Behind the Pose can play in ongoing conversations about power and agency?

The courage of the women who spoke out at the beginning of the Me Too movement made it possible for me to look at my own story without shame. One of the most healing parts of making this film has been the conversations that followed: people approaching me at screenings to share their own experiences. It reminded me how many stories like this exist, and how deeply connected they are to larger systems of power and patriarchy. If the film can open space for those conversations, then it’s doing its job.

What did the process of making Behind the Pose give back to you, personally or creatively?

This film was my healing journey. Before making it, I was afraid to share my story, worried people wouldn’t understand or that it was something shameful. Instead, every person involved met it with care and generosity, and the energy on set felt purposeful, like we all knew we were creating something meaningful together. Creatively, it feels like my first truly mature body of work: the first time I felt I had something essential to say. I hope to continue living, reflecting, and processing the world through film.

What books, podcasts, or platforms do you recommend young filmmakers explore?

I believe that to be an impactful storyteller, you have to develop yourself as a person first. Whatever moves you, whether it’s film, music, art, books—lean into that curiosity. I don’t consume much film-industry-specific content; I find more inspiration in literature, visual art, and journalism. Lately, I’ve been drawn to investigative podcasts, especially those examining sexual harassment in schools and sports, because they remind me how powerful careful, compassionate storytelling can be.

Can you share some of your favorite short films you’ve seen lately?

I’m always drawn to short films that trust silence and restraint, where emotion lives in image and performance rather than explanation. I’m constantly inspired by my community, and two recent short films by friends of mine that have stayed with me are How Not to Date While Trans by Nyala Moon and Hana’s Big Holiday by Jack Murtha and Yu Uemura. Both films are rooted in truthful, lived experience and told with care, vulnerability, and a strong sense of voice. Short films like these remind me how powerful it can be to tell stories within and alongside a supportive creative community.