T-Port Blog

Slovenian-born filmmaker Jan Krevatin chats to us about his tender short GREEK APRICOTS, a quiet story of two strangers meeting under neon lights at a gas station. 

Krevatin, who now lives in Zagreb, is a participant in the European Film Promotion’s (EFP) Future Frames programme, spotlighting the next generation of European cinema. Thanks to our partners at EFP for bringing GREEK APRICOTS and other films to T-Port. 

Hi Jan, could you introduce yourself?

I’m Jan Krevatin. I grew up in the seaside town of Koper, Slovenia, and now live in the capital city of Zagreb, Croatia. I briefly lived in London, UK, somewhere in between. 

I started making films in my mid-teens—and somehow, I’m already 26. Over the years, I’ve made dozens of short films in all formats: some fiction, some documentaries, some just a few minutes long, others closer to half an hour. They were made in film schools, for fun, but mostly because I needed to get something out of my system.

What inspired you to become a filmmaker?

I can’t really pinpoint one specific thing that inspired me to become a filmmaker—there was no single romantic moment, just a mix of a thousand small impulses that built up over time: films I watched, books I read, conversations with people around me who were into the same stuff. 

But if we’re talking about what inspired me to start making films back in high school, the most honest answer is that I just thought it was cool to have a camera, that other people saw me with it, and that I could be recognised as a filmmaker—just for the sake of it. You have to be something, right? It wasn’t until film school that I started to feel something deeper—like, oh, wait, you can actually say something through film: through characters, framing, rhythm, and most of all, stories that are personal. That was probably the first time I felt truly inspired to stay a filmmaker.

Filmmaking quietly turned into a specific personal need—to get something out of my system. And maybe a part of me still enjoys the feeling that it’s something quite cool, something that lets you open up small passageways into other people’s minds and hearts.

If you could watch one film on a loop forever, what would it be?

AMARCORD (Federico Fellini, 1973)

How did you first start working on this film? What was the process like and what first sparked the idea to make it?

It started with me observing the gas station at night as a kind of microcosm. It has this strange, quiet atmosphere—truck drivers spending nights in their temporary homes in tiny cabins, people speaking different languages, coming from different places, all sharing a space for a very short time. 

I began doing research and spoke to a man who had worked at gas stations for over 20 years. Through him, I started to understand the rhythm of that world—a mix of strangeness, humour, melancholy, and roughness. 

As he told me about his experience working there, it struck me that, unlike most of the people passing through, he was the one who was always there. From that, I created two characters: a gas station attendant, stuck in the monotony of everyday life, and a truck driver, far from home, who stops for just one night before continuing her journey. That contrast felt like a strong foundation for a quiet, romantic story about two strangers finding comfort in each other, each lonely in their own way.

And then when you began the practical side, how did the production process pan out for you?

The production process panned out really well for me — largely thanks to a fantastic crew and to Josip Gregov, with whom I co-produced the film and who helped at every step of the way. Between me finishing the script and the start of the shoot, there were only two months, so it was a very intense period — but in the best way possible. I was constantly thinking about creative decisions and communicating with a crew that was assembled from three different countries, as there are also several languages spoken in the film.

When we all met on set, I tried to create an atmosphere where anyone felt free to contribute their ideas out loud — where even the boom operator or camera assistant could say, while we were shooting, if something felt phoney in the way a scene unfolded for them. And sometimes those ideas were fantastic — even better than what was in the script. I feel that maybe if you’re too close to the material, you can miss the more innocent way of looking, and that it’s important during production to stay open and not treat the shooting as a pure execution process. After the production of GREEK APRICOTS finished, I felt content and couldn’t wait to start editing.

What were the biggest challenges you encountered during making your film?

One of the main challenges we encountered was the intensity of the shoot. We had seven consecutive night shoots and had to adjust to a completely new biorhythm. It was a long stretch for a 20-minute film, but it gave us the time and space to try things — and I’m really grateful that it was possible to improvise when needed. Some scenes were even made up on the spot, including a few with real truck drivers we met during the shoot. That turned out to be incredibly valuable, because it gave us a lot of material to work with in the edit — where, in a way, the story of the film was remade one last time.

Another major challenge was securing a location. The biggest gas station chain in Slovenia, with whom we had arranged and planned everything, denied us permission just five days before shooting was about to commence. With crew already arriving from different countries, we had to find a new location overnight. Luckily, we managed to secure a privately owned gas station as the main location for the film — which came as a huge relief, as we were on the brink of cancelling everything. Of course, I had to rethink the mise-en-scène together with the director of photography, Urh Pirc, but that was a minor inconvenience. We quickly adjusted the style, and it actually turned out even better — the new gas station had a slightly older, more deserted feel we had originally aspired to.

Tell us about the visual choices in your film. What were your main goals and techniques in creating the visual style of your film?

When I first sat down to discuss my script with the cinematographer, Urh Pirc, we both felt how the gas station, as the sole location, had something of a deserted island feel — or maybe a roadside saloon in the middle of the desert, where cowboys stop to spend the night with their horses. We wanted the location to feel both self-contained and transient — a place where some people belong, and some just pass through. And that western-like atmosphere stayed with us and shaped how we approached the space. It became the foundation for a visual language focused on constantly contextualizing the characters within their surroundings. That naturally led to a lot of wide shots — some so wide that the actors appear like tiny ants moving through the frame. 

Our aim with that wasn’t to be emotionally distant, but rather to stay more objective — to make the gas station feel like an ever-present motif in the story that emphasizes the characters’ isolation. That distance, though, raised another question: how to stay close to the characters’ inner state? That’s where sound became essential. A clear example is the shot where Mak and Nada are walking back to the gas station: they’re almost swallowed by the night sky, the trucks, the highway — but we hear every word they say, every pause. The emotional proximity doesn’t come from the image, but from how the sound holds us near the characters. It became a way of staying with them — of listening closely — without needing to move the camera in.

What was it like for you working with the actors you cast? Do you have a technique for directing actors you can tell us about?

There’s a lot of chit-chat in the film between the two main characters—Mak and Nada—so I looked for great actors who seemed quick-witted but also had a “thinking” face, like something else was going on underneath, as all that chatting is underlined by a feeling of melancholy. What mattered to me in terms of chemistry was that, when watching them act, I could feel a genuine interest between Mak and Nada as characters—like they were really trying to connect, however clumsily. Mak Tepšić, who plays the lead, is my best friend—we played handball together as kids, went to the same high school, and made our first film there. I basically wrote the part with him in mind. People who don’t know him sometimes assume he’s playing me, which is wild. We’ve spent so much time together that we’ve picked up each other’s gestures. 

For the character of Nada, Labina Mitevska was the first actress I contacted. I’d seen her in quite a few films and really admired her work. I sent her an email with a short logline of the plot, which she found interesting. Soon after, Mak and I drove to Skopje, where we spent a week rehearsing. Once we started working, she proved to be the best possible choice—she has great concentration and works with incredible attention to detail, breaking gestures into small pieces and making even the quietest moments, like waiting for Mak to pour them rakija, feel alive and interesting.

Can you share the most important lessons you learned through the process of making the film?

I would say the biggest lesson I learned was in how I approach the number of takes during the shoot. Most of the scenes I did were in long, continuous takes, and I thought I was following some kind of pattern… In the first take, the actor’s feel for the scene is already about 70% there — the energy is fresh, alive — but there are small adjustments that need to be made. So I start talking to them, working on specific details take by take… but somewhere around the 10th take, the first spark has already faded. The scene becomes more “correct,” but the feeling drops — it’s now at 50% of what we’re after. From that point, it becomes more about repetition, and I find myself trying to direct the actors in a way that helps them recapture the energy they had at the beginning, until we finally reach the take. 

Plot twist: when I got to the edit room, I realised I couldn’t really see all those minor differences I thought I was shaping. The takes almost looked the same, and I had a hard time picking one out of the 25 we shot. So the lesson for me is that shooting doesn’t necessarily need to become a kind of live rehearsal — even if there’s enough space on the memory card. Each take needs to carry some kind of concrete, noticeable evolution in the quality of the scene — or even a clear misstep — but it has to be something, some difference.

If you could go back in time to pre-production and give yourself one piece of advice, what would it be?

Don’t go too far with script rewrites before involving the actors — they always help.

How has the process of distributing the film been for you so far? What have you learned?

The process of distributing GREEK APRICOTS has been both demanding and valuable. I handled everything by myself: the applications, emails, film copies, materials, and gathering of contacts — and it took a lot of my energy and time, which surprised me. I want to direct and write, so doing distribution alone was a challenge. That said, I didn’t mind it and learned a lot along the way. What I’ve realised is that I’d love to partner with a distributor in the future — someone I can share the load with, so we can carry the film together into the festival world.

What do you wish you’d known before you began the distribution process?

Before I began the distribution process, I wish I had known that some festivals do offer a screening fee if you ask.

What’s next for you on the filmmaking front?

I’m currently preparing to shoot my new short film titled THE CHIMNEYSWEEP’S CARNIVAL this September, and at the same time, I’m half-way through writing my first feature film.

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