— How did he come to the project?
The script impressed him from the start, and he found it compelling enough to rehearse an intimate audition scene. He recalls a striking detail: the operator behind the short film Desperate Bride, Yegor Vetokhin, is married to Anna Zaitseva. That awareness made the moment of kissing a stranger feel funny and awkward, almost surreal, because his real life connection hovered in the room with them.
– Could the heroine Anna Zaitseva be put in the shoes of someone who discovers she is the third person in another couple’s relationship? What would she do in that moment?
He would answer with humility. If he were 25 and in France, he would be more carefree, an open person who isn’t bound by a strict code. But now he stands in a different stead—two children and a beloved wife anchor his choices. In that light, choosing a path in a love triangle would probably mean avoiding harm to anyone involved.
– Do you notice a difference between acting systems in Russia and France? How did you find your own acting?
He described his path as a journey through struggle and growth. In France, beauty and charm can open doors; talent can be enough for work when backed by the right looks and a confident tone. In Russia, the training is more demanding, often building resilience like that of a soldier. Talent there is fused with steady discipline and hard work, while in France, connections can smooth the way. He now feels no envy for those who rise on lineage alone. Living with the realization that achievements you witness are sometimes folded into someone else’s legacy is a heavy truth in both worlds.
Have there been thoughts of returning to France?
His story is long and winding. He studied at the Rouen Conservatory in France, earned a diploma at the Saratov Higher Theater School, and then returned to his hometown after winning a scholarship at the Bordeaux Aquiten Higher Theater School. He also spent time in Algeria, offering his efforts as a volunteer assistant to an ophthalmologist and learning to fly. The flying experience mattered for two reasons: he wanted his son to see him embody more than acting, and he hoped to hold a real occupation in addition to his art. The French film landscape, he notes, often lacks belief in acting as a sustained profession—even a bank loan might be uncertain there.
He recalls how difficult the return to France could feel: a small 15-square-meter apartment in Montmartre, a struggle to raise money to visit his son in Madagascar, and the constant push to participate in whatever film work came his way. Many Russian roles came his way because of his grammar, yet French opportunities remained scarce, which gradually pushed him toward Russia, where his career began to take shape. He bought a car, a place to live, and a summer house; he could fly to Madagascar twice a year—things he could not afford while based in France. While he does not claim every choice was flawless, there are projects he is genuinely proud of, and he expresses a fond regard for the students at the Moscow Art Theater. He longs for freedom within the Russian theater and film scene and criticizes the system that pays for seats in educational institutions, arguing that true talent cannot be bought.
— Tell us more about Algeria, why did he go there and how did his journey lead to Russia?
At nineteen, before the first theater school, he ventured to Algeria, a city near the Sahara called Tamanrasset. With just eight months on a return ticket and ten francs in his pocket, he chose to anonymize his name to Muhad Kasemi and integrated with the local community. After returning to France, a new invitation pulled him toward Russia, specifically Saratov, where he connected with Anton Kuznetsov, a pupil of Lev Dodin. The path was not simple, but it ultimately aligned with his broader ambitions in acting and life.
Are there plans to leave Russia?
No, he explains. He has agents across France, England, and Spain, yet Russia remains his base. Two passports make transitions easier, and while he sometimes travels for rest and broader horizons, his work story keeps him anchored there. He notes a desire to contribute to society beyond personal pursuits, having spent a year in Senegal on a humanitarian mission, distributing glasses to the visually impaired. He remembers touring villages with a professional ophthalmologist, helping the elderly choose the right lenses. A grandmother’s tears as she finally saw clearly, reading the Qur’an for the first time in ten years, stands out as a powerful moment. He acknowledges the temptation to view himself as a savior but believes actions that help others are valuable beyond the urge to impress.
Do dreams still color his days?
With age, ambitions have softened—his joy comes from performing Cyrano de Bergerac on stage. There were plans to open a school in the same era, but outcomes are uncertain. He imagines a future where his son might see him in a well-regarded European film on a streaming platform like Netflix and tell friends, “That’s my dad.” He smiles at that thought, still pursuing opportunities while cherishing the simple, enduring dreams that keep him motivated.