Drakar is not a story about remembering trauma—it’s about surviving it through transformation. Irina’s dragons are not metaphors; they are survival tactics, visual weapons, emotional mutations. As a filmmaker, I am drawn to characters who rebuild their worlds from the debris of silence. This is a story about a woman who refuses to be defined by what was done to her—but instead by what she creates.
I want this film to exist in the spaces between graffiti and gallery, hallucination and clarity. It’s visual, raw, poetic—and ultimately a document of survival through image.
Irina, a 25-year-old intern at a high-powered law firm, is raped during a company party. They find her battered in a bathroom and nobody knows the perpetrator. She remembers nothing—just fragments, just fear. In an attempt to recover her memory, she undergoes hypnosis. But what resurfaces is not clarity, but compulsion: she begins obsessively drawing dragons. Their eyes, claws, wings start to appear across the city—on metro poles, paper scraps, napkins. A mythical language begins to take shape from her inner chaos.
Drifting into homelessness, she continues to draw. As these dragon fragments multiply, people begin to notice. Online, as a collaborative mystery, the fragments are collected are stitched together into a single, searing creature—a digital patchwork that goes viral. Irina becomes an anonymous legend, a street artist no one can find. Like some kind of a Banksy. When she finally walks into a gallery and sees her drawings assembled as one entity, the transformation is immediate: the full memory of the assault floods back, and for the first time, she can draw the face of her rapist.
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