Matteo Moretti ’21 used filmmaking to document and connect with his widowed grandfather one summer in the Greek village of Kriopigi. 

In December 2023, Moretti shared his story as part of the “Purpose and Place: Voices of Middlebury” event during the Boston launch of For Every Future: The Campaign for Middlebury.

Listen to Moretti’s talk above or read the transcript below. Watch the trailer for his film Τζιτζίκι (Cicada).

Transcript

Shade. I’m so grateful for this shade right now. The broad leaves from the centuries-old tree that sits in the plaza of my grandfather’s village offers me some kind of relief from this relentless heat, especially in a place that doesn’t have air conditioning or fundamentally believe in fans. 

I’m sitting in one of those tacky plastic white lawn chairs just listening to the clinking clatter of dice and chips as a group of older Greek men, my papoús being one of them, sit and play backgammon for hours. 

This is the village of Kriopigi, which means “cold spring” in Greek, and it sits in the mountains about eight hours north of Athens. This is a familiar setting for me. I grew up coming here as a child and it was foundational for creating my connection to my culture, my roots, people, place, and nature. And every time my family comes to stay there, we stay in the small house that my grandfather was born in.

This trip, however, was a little different. It was different for me because for the first time in my life I was coming to Greece alone without my family. And it was different for my papoús, because for the first time in 65 years, he was coming without his wife. He is 87 now, and I sit there thinking that this three-week trip that I’m taking at a transitional point in my own life is probably the first and last opportunity that I’ll ever have to spend time with him in a place like this.

On the third morning, I’m up insanely early because jet lag, but also because I couldn’t stop thinking about how difficult this trip was. A lot of feelings and emotions were coming up that I didn’t really expect or understand. And I’m a filmmaker; I was a film major at Midd, and film is how I make sense of the world. So, I grab my camera and I’m just so struck by the way this morning light is coming into this tiny kitchen that I love so much, where my yiayiá used to make phyllo dough from scratch for spanakopita, and then my papoús shuffles into the kitchen. 

“Kaliméra, Papoú.” 

“Kaliméra, Matteo. 

“Hey, Papoú, can I film you?” 

“Sure. Anything. Of course, anything for you, Matteo.”

So, I watch him take his coffee out to the balcony. For 65 years, my yiayiá and papoús would wake up early before everybody else, take their coffee, and sit on this balcony together, and share the silence. And now I’m setting up my camera to get a shot of him drinking his coffee alone. 

Then it hits me. Let me do the filmmaker thing; let me ask him some questions. So I ask, “Papoú, what’s your best piece of advice?” 

And he says, “Matteo, you have to think you before you speak.” 

I’m like, “Yeah, duh, that’s like the first thing you learn. Okay, how about this? How about what’s the one thing you want to be remembered for?” 

“Kindness.” 

So I switched to verité, no talking, purely observational, but I would set up the camera, and after 20 seconds he would turn around, look directly at me and say things like, “Oh, Matteo, what do you think about the new stained-glass windows in the church?” 

I quickly threw out all of my lofty filmmaker ideas and instead just focused on capturing my grandpa’s presence.

My papoús has Parkinson’s, which means there’s a lot he can’t do, but there’s a lot he can do, and I wanted to focus my filmmaking on that. So, one day I asked if I can film him shaving. 

We crowd into this small four-by-four bathroom, where somehow a toilet, sink, and shower are all clumped in there, and I set up my shot. I start focused on the razor that sits in his trembling right hand, and then I shift my focus to his left that supports his right at the wrist as he goes to make a stroke with the razor. Then I tilt up to my papoús’s face, and settle on his eyes, and I sit there in this bathroom. I’m completely still, looking up at him.

A year and a half later, I’m looking up at my papoús again, nervous. I’m surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles, and I’m screening this film that I made for the first time, but the only person in the room that I’m focusing on is my grandpa. 

Once the film is over, everyone’s really emotional, but I turn and look at my papoús, and he reaches his hand out and grabs mine, and says, “I’m so old.”

And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t say anything actually, because in that moment I thought that maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe I had made the film at a way too emotional and vulnerable point in his life, and all I wanted was for him to like it.

The next day we’re driving back home in the car and I finally muster up the courage to ask him, “What did you think about seeing yourself on film?” 

He stops and thinks for a moment, because you have to think before you speak. 

And he says, “If I can share one lesson with you, don’t lose yourself. Over these last few years, I’ve lost track of myself, and through your film, you gave me back to myself. Efcharistó, Matteo.” 

Efcharistó, Papoú.