I’m curious. What kind of relationship did you have with the book when it first came out fifteen years ago?
You know, there are two ways of connecting with The Museum of Innocence. Or rather, with Kemal. Personally, I couldn’t put the book down. I was completely immersed in it, and I understood Kemal. I found a lot of myself in him, and in Füsun too. After finishing the book, I met up with the group of friends I had been reading it with, and we started talking about it. I remember being genuinely surprised. I thought, “Did I read a different book?” The other eight friends all felt differently. There was no shared opinion at all. Everyone had their own interpretation, and I remember that very clearly. Reading the novel again, fifteen years later, through this project, turned into a very interesting journey for me. Back then, she was a 32-year-old single person at the beginning of her life, reading the book. Now, it is a 50-year-old woman.
There’s the moment when you first read the book, and then there’s now. Let me ask about both. What feeling did it leave you with? What stayed with you?
They’re actually quite different. The first time I read it, I remember viewing the story mostly through Füsun. Back then, it stayed in my mind almost as if it were a story about her. When I reread it fifteen years later, I realized that Füsun almost disappears, and that it is, in fact, Kemal’s story. I think the first time I read it, I empathized with Füsun and filled in many gaps with my own thoughts. I also connected with Kemal through Füsun at that time. So I remember reading it with this feeling about Füsun: “Oh no, how instinctive and brave this girl is. Despite all social conditioning, she throws herself into love with no expectations. She offers something so profound, and yet she is never truly seen.”
But fifteen years later, while working on the screenplay and telling Kemal’s story from such a grounded perspective, portraying love without romanticizing it—showing it as something that holds beauty but also has the power to reveal our darker sides—affected me deeply. At the same time, I noticed something I hadn’t realized before. When it comes to love, we tend to focus heavily on ourselves—the choices we make and our partners. Yet, The Museum of Innocence also explores forces larger than us, like coincidences. The Jenny Colon handbag is a perfect example of this. The book is filled with chance encounters, moments that seem like the universe’s timing. That brought me a sense of relief; not everything has to be deeply meaningful. Sometimes, it’s just coincidences, the places they lead us, and moments of randomness or chance that can shape our greater destiny. I saw this more clearly on my second read, and I wanted to include that idea too.
And you’ve carried that into the series as well. At one point, Kemal says, “We slept together, that’s all.” It sounds simple.
Yes. He is asking, Can it really be that simple? There’s also a line from his mother, which I love. She says to Kemal, “Can there be love in a country where men and women cannot even speak to one another?” I think both lines say something very powerful, not only about love in general, but also about how love is perceived in our society. And yet, even when you break it down to something this simple, it remains a story with extraordinary depth, one that leaves all of us with many unanswered questions.
Yes, both scenes are very powerful. And both mothers are superbly performed. Their roles aren’t very long, but Füsun’s mother says, “He will forget you, so you forget him too, my son.”… How did you approach that? How did you develop the characters and those relationships with actors like Tilbe Saran and Gülçin Kültür Şahin?
First of all, they are both extraordinary actors. When they take on a character, they can smoothly transition between its light and dark sides. They approach their roles without judgment, genuinely trying to understand the character. I believe the biggest advantage was trusting them with these roles. With Tilbe, of course, we have a long history, which was very reassuring for me. I feel that mothers carry an essential weight in the depths of The Museum of Innocence. There was something I hadn’t noticed the first time I read the novel, and even on my second read, when I was examining it very carefully, it still didn’t fully click. It became clear during our pre-production work. I realized that Kemal’s decision to build the museum is rooted in his mother’s compulsive collecting. In the Merhamet Apartments, we see a woman trying to fill the emptiness of an unhappy marriage by buying objects from various places that are never used. That house is, in fact, a museum of unused belongings and an unhappy marriage. So, when we first see it, I wanted the curtain over the wedding photographs to be pulled back. None of the objects in that house has ever been used. To me, there’s something deeply pathological about that. The apartment isn’t rented out or lived in, yet it becomes the place where Kemal finds the love of his life. It’s almost like his subconscious. Later, he also builds a museum out of objects. This was one of the many reasons I found myself admiring Orhan Bey all over again. Because the more you read The Museum of Innocence, the more it reveals itself in layers.
I agree with what you’re saying; it’s a deeply layered novel. The series has also turned out that way. Even though I’ve finished watching it, I still haven’t been able to fully process my thoughts about it.
I’m really glad to hear you say that. I’ve shared my own first experience with The Museum of Innocence, where everyone interpreted it differently. I believe that each reading is deeply personal, and that is incredibly valuable. When I started this project, that was also my biggest challenge. We carefully avoided forcing a single perspective on a novel designed to leave each reader with their own narrative. From the start, that felt extremely difficult, and it was a new experience for me. It was the hardest part. In my other work, I usually work towards a clear motivation based on my understanding of the character. Here, because there are so many possible interpretations, I wanted to keep some space open. When the novel ends, each reader is left with a unique, intimate feeling. I didn’t want to reduce that to one shared emotion or lead everyone to it. Deciding to approach it in this way was a new path for me. The screenplay also allows for that openness because the characters rarely say exactly what they mean. They often say one thing, but internally, they feel something different. In that sense, both the preparation and the shooting process were very challenging for me and for the actors. There was also the difficulty of translating emotions that take three or four pages to describe in the novel into a single glance on screen, sometimes just a second long. That, too, was incredibly demanding.
The music choices are also very successful and well matched. I keep listening to Ajda Pekkan’s Sana Doğru on repeat. With this in mind, I want to ask you something more broadly. It seems that today there’s a certain nostalgia or even longing for the ’90s. At the same time, both the novel and the series are set during a very specific social period. Since you’re working with Netflix, were you completely independent in this aspect, or does Netflix offer some guidance?
There isn’t much guidance. Some areas where we discuss choices, but Netflix focuses on our creative vision. The Museum of Innocence is my second project with Netflix; after a positive experience on Kulüp, we built a relationship based mainly on trust. My approach was this: even though I directed other period dramas, I never wanted to treat this as a typical period piece. I didn’t approach it that way. We again worked with the creative team from Kulüp, including our director of photography, Ahmet Sesigürgil, and production designer, Murat Güney. From the start, we decided, “We are not making a period drama; we are making something timeless.” The main guide for designing the series was actually the objects in the museum. Orhan Pamuk first collected the objects, then shaped the novel around them, so the objects come first. As someone who has visited the museum and loves the book deeply, I embraced the space with affection from the start, even before thinking of it from my role as director.
As a viewer, I notice that any scene from the series doesn’t feel tied to a specific location, giving it a universal vibe. You can generally tell the era from the costumes, but if you pick a random scene, it might look like it could be set anywhere in the world. How did you achieve that?
We wanted it to feel somewhat timeless, so we built the series around that idea. At the same time, we considered Kemal’s world: he is a character trapped within the Nişantaşı society he grew up in. He studied there, his home is there, his work is there, and he attended college there. He hasn’t really stepped outside of that environment. The country and Turkiye he knows are limited to that world. That’s where we start. As Kemal changes, we gradually explore another Istanbul, another reality of Turkiye. In a way, following Kemal allows this expansion to happen naturally. That bourgeois world, the Nişantaşı society striving to Westernize… all of it is part of Kemal’s character. Through Kemal’s transformation and his encounter with the realities of the country, our perspective broadens along with his.
In the walking scene in Çukurcuma, it feels as if his gaze is saying, “So this is another world.” Congratulations to you as well, but Selahattin Paşalı also portrayed Kemal’s character extremely well. What kind of dialogue did you have with him, and how would you evaluate his performance as an actor?
This was the first time I had to shoot a novel and screenplay entirely from a male character’s perspective. Professionally, I tend to gravitate toward telling stories about female characters—perhaps because I know them better. What really challenged us was the short preparation period. On top of that, we had to shoot scenes out of sequence. This means that emotional states were not filmed in chronological order, but in a mixed sequence. I am extremely grateful to Selahattin Paşalı for handling this. Across the nine-episode series, there were only two scenes in which he didn’t appear, and even those were very brief. Selahattin had to portray the grief of the ninth episode, sometimes the jealousy of the fourth episode, all within fifteen-minute costume-change breaks, back to back. My expectation from him was always for something very authentic and subtle. I didn’t ask him to show a specific emotion; I asked him to enter the emotion, to experience it alongside Kemal, to feel it internally rather than display it externally. Because we weren’t shooting chronologically, it was truly a challenging process—for him and for me.
How did you collaborate with Selahattin Paşalı in portraying the character of Kemal?
We spent a lot of time creating the moments that happen before the story begins, both in the screenplay and the book. What might have happened in his childhood? For example, what’s the story behind that bicycle memory? We know Kemal at thirty, but how did he first ride that bike? What was his room like? What was his relationship with his brother? What did he do during summer vacations? Did his father take him to work? How was his relationship with his mother? Does he remember the holidays when Füsun visited?
Does he remember?
Vaguely, yes. We wanted to create memories from those fragments. Before going on set, we actually held a workshop to explore moments not written in the screenplay, trying to experience those spaces and memories. We didn’t focus much on the individual scenes, but we did explore areas like family dynamics together. It was a challenging process for both of us, but looking back now, it was incredibly rewarding. It really felt like we were inside the book. It wasn’t the set—it was as if we were within the pages of the novel.
It’s a story that belongs to all of us. No matter where it unfolds around the world, the emotions feel human, personal, and timeless. Given the troubled times we live in today, I think that’s exactly why we experience this nostalgia, this longing.
Reflecting on what you just said, I relate through my own experience as a parent, observing my children’s viewing habits. Life moves so fast nowadays; our tolerance for anything lasts just a second or two. We rarely pause to reflect and often avoid lingering on our own thoughts, rushing past them. In such a context, staying with something and really examining it can be challenging—but I believe it’s ultimately worthwhile. Humans are, in fact, built for this. We exist fully only when we pause, observe, and move through pain if it is pain, or through joy if it is joy. Yet in today’s world, everything is so rapid, and we ourselves speed up to escape certain emotions. In this sense, the act of pausing and looking within, like reading a literary novel—as in this book—can be truly restorative.
I can’t help but ask about Orhan Bey. How involved was he? I imagine it would’ve been impossible to do without his participation.
I truly believe the greatest gift this project gave me was getting to know Orhan Bey. We had such wonderful conversations, and he placed a great deal of trust in me. The topics we discussed and debated really broadened my perspective. He made me feel valued and created many meaningful opportunities for me. I felt that, in many ways, we were on the same wavelength. Working with him was incredibly rewarding. As I mentioned, rereading a book I first encountered fifteen years ago, then again fifteen years later, and then a third time with the thought, “Wait, I’m going to shoot this—let me pay close attention,” revealed new layers each time. Orhan Bey is someone who observes humanity, even its darker sides, with such courage and curiosity, and for me, that is deeply inspiring. The process was beautiful in that sense. When we started filming, he couldn’t be on set because he was abroad. Toward the end of the shoot, when he finally arrived, I felt so comfortable with his presence. I wanted him to stay on set the whole time because it truly felt as if I were inside the book. Having him on set was an immense joy—it profoundly enriched me. Looking back, the work itself passes, but the human connections you build are invaluable. I will be grateful to him for the rest of my life.
Was there a scene that was especially challenging for you, or a moment where you were surprised and thought, “Wow, look what they brought to this scene”?
There are two scenes where I remember thinking, “Wow, look what they brought to this moment.” One is the scene after Kemal loses Füsun… when he starts reconnecting with Sibel. The other is the scene when he escapes the foyer and returns home. For that scene, I wanted it to start with rain. During pre-production with Selahattin Paşalı, we paired certain emotions with specific pieces of music because on set, we needed to evoke those feelings very quickly. Selahattin played one of those tracks, and as we set up the lights around him, I could feel him slowly immersing himself in that emotion, feeling trapped in the moment. Lights were being arranged, he was on the bed, getting into character… I remember that moment vividly: Selahattin moving into the bed, truly experiencing something. We quickly finished adjusting the lights, and I said, “Roll camera.” When he first yelled, he didn’t even realize we were recording. That shout wasn’t for the camera—it was him navigating the emotion, letting it out, ready to come back from it. It wasn’t a “3-2-1, action” kind of moment. It was entirely within him. Then, without speaking to Selahattin, I said, “Move the camera here,” and he yelled again. By then, he realized we were recording. Watching him enter that emotion so quietly, so authentically, was incredibly moving. Even now, thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. I remember feeling goosebumps and thinking, “Wow, let this man just carry on.” That scene had a profound impact on me.
There was one moment that really stood out. In the scene where he moves the candy toward his mouth on the bed, he almost sounded like a wounded, suffering animal. That wailing, mourning-like sound conveyed the pain we feel when we lose someone so effectively… I remember thinking how talented he is.
Here’s the thing: after my first reading fifteen years ago, I didn’t remember the sequence of events very clearly, but one feeling stayed with me. The only thing I remembered was him putting objects in his mouth. I recall being so curious about it. When the screenplay arrived, I thought, “Why isn’t this here?” Later, in discussions with Orhan Bey, I said, “I want to include this too,” because it was something I had been so curious about.
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