A Transparent Autopsy of “Karanlik Dunya” / Evrim Altuğ

In the heart of Karakoy, Istanbul, on Bankalar Caddesi, Salt Galata – founded by Garanti BBVA – is hosting an intriguing new exhibition.

“Karanlik Dunya,” located in the venue’s -1 floor MasterCard exhibition area, is open to the public free of charge until December 14.  As Salt explains, the exhibition investigates the complex and layered story of “Karanlik Dunya”, a movie directed by Metin Erksan and written by Bedri Rahmi Eyuboglu, within the cultural landscape of Türkiye in the 1950s. The movie’s complications began even during its production phase.

The exhibition explores the layered narratives surrounding the film, which are marked by altered versions, controversies, rumors, conflicting testimonies, and archival materials.

Based on an extensive research project by artist Mike Bode and screenwriter Caner Yalcin, “The exhibition does not aim to reconstruct ‘Karanlik Dunya’ as a whole. Instead, it dissects the movie into its many layers – formed by additions, removals and ruptures. The visuals are accompanied by a script that traces the interventions, transformations, and differences between copies of the movie. The exhibition, which embraces the fragmented form of the film, establishes lines of inquiry into the ideologies guiding the film’s circulation, the mechanisms of censorship, and the conditions of its production.”

The exhibition has been made possible with the contributions of Turk Tuborg A.S., Eureko Sigorta, Jotun, the Kingdom of the Netherlands, Institut Français, and the Embassy of Mexico in Türkiye. Additionally, a public program curated by Gulce Ozkara is scheduled to accompany the exhibition in the near future. The curatorial framework of the exhibition is shaped by the research of Dilek Kaya and Seher Uysal, while Emirhan Altuner signs off on the exhibition, communication, and production design.

While the exhibition deepens the viewer’s curiosity about the backstage of the silver screen, it is also a product of remarkable teamwork and solidarity. The event is further enriched by contributions from names prominent in Turkish art history and cinematic memory, including Yilmaz Atadeniz, Metin Duru, Senol Er, Rahmi Eyuboglu, Ertem Gorec, Zeynep Ozlem Havuzlu, and Deniz Kurtulus Ozgunay, as well as the Prof. Sami Sekeroglu Cinema-TV Research and Practice Center at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University.

The production period of “Karanlik Dunya” coincided with a time when Celal Bayar was serving as President and Adnan Menderes held the office of Prime Minister. It is worth noting that Türkiye had no Ministry of Culture (or Tourism) during this period. While the ruling Democrat Party held a parliamentary majority with 346 seats, the opposition was led by CHP Chairman Ismet Inonu.

According to the information we received from the exhibition team, the film at the center of the exhibition—shot in Sivrialan (Sivas) and Urgup (Nevsehir), both portrayed in current, postcard-like color images—narrates the life of Asik Veysel, from his childhood to his recognition as a prominent folk poet, through the lens of a melodramatic love story.

However, in line with the agricultural development and rural modernization policies of the era, the film’s narrative unexpectedly shifts direction. As stated by Erksan, footage obtained from the United States Information Service—depicting combine harvesters working the fields in Hudson—as well as later-shot scenes of schools and dispensaries reportedly filmed on the outskirts of Istanbul, were added to present an idealized image of village life. These additions overshadow Veysel’s biographical story and transform the film into a propaganda tool aligned with the official ideology of the period.

Among the factors behind these changes are censorship decisions documented in three reports issued by the Central Film Control Commission in Ankara between December 1952 and November 1953. While the reports do not specify which scenes were deemed problematic, they highlight a concern for presenting a flawless image of society. Following the edits made by the production company Atlas Film, the movie was released on December 31, 1953, under the new title Âşık Veysel’in Hayatı. With this title change came a complete shift in tone, and the creative process—driven by both commercial considerations and ideological tensions—rendered the film an eclectic cultural product.

Based on the extensive research of artist Mike Bode and screenwriter Caner Yalcin, the exhibition dissects Karanlik Dunya into layers, rather than attempting to reconstruct it. The fragmented nature of the film—shaped through additions, omissions, and ruptures—is accompanied by a script that traces the alterations, interventions, and differences among the various copies. Embracing the film in its disjointed state, the exhibition outlines frameworks for analyzing the ideologies, censorship mechanisms, and production conditions that have influenced the film’s circulation.

A series of public programs related to the exhibition—curated by Gulce Ozkara from Salt—will be announced on saltonline.org and Salt’s social media channels.

Mike Bode is an artist and researcher. His interdisciplinary practice focuses on spatial and visual investigations in relation to social, historical, and political transformations. His work has been exhibited at institutions such as Kunst-Werke (Berlin), Contemporary Art Centre (Vilnius), Nobel Prize Museum (Stockholm), Secession (Vienna), Institute of Contemporary Art (Miami), and the Yokohama Triennale.

Caner Yalcin is a screenwriter and director. He completed his undergraduate studies in Journalism at Marmara University and received his master’s degree in film and television from Istanbul Bilgi University. Yalcin has written scripts for various television channels and digital platforms and also works as a screenwriter and director of short films.

The “Karanlik Dunya” exhibition at Salt Galata has also received generous support from the Atadeniz and Eyuboglu families, as well as Ekrem Bugra Bute, Serkan Celikyilmaz, Korcan Derinsu, Jonatan Habib Engqvist, Sevcan Girgin, Ovgu Gokce, Emre Gonlugur, Asena Gunal, Riza Gunes, Hatun Hur, Ali Karadogan, Ibrahim Kocyigit, Isil Korkmaz, Aslı Ozgen-Havekotte, Semire Ruken Ozturk, Sean Snyder, Ilknur Uysal, Hasan Ulker, Oktay Ust, Audrey Wozniak, Cansu Yalcin, and Firat Yucel.

The exhibition draws its compelling power from the Kafkaesque doubt embedded in its display, and from the boundless fragility it injects into everyday realism—bringing into public witness a confrontation between a once-avant-garde artistic production and today’s delicate conditions of creativity and truth in Türkiye.

Two monitors, four screenplay notebooks, three black-and-white projections, two gray screens, and a few ephemeral exhibition objects. Among them are Bedri Rahmi’s original print depicting the artist—revealing his admiration for Asik Veysel—and a pre-censorship poster of the film.

This porous scene is completed by two rare interviews, reproduced and transformed into acoustic artifacts, forming the mental and archival ‘menu’ of “Fragile World”. These interviews extract memories of the film as recounted by its editor Ertem Gorec and rights-holder Yilmaz Atadeniz, both of whom were still alive in 2019.

With the questions it raises about life, art, truth, and fiction, the event already holds a unique place. The exhibition team responds to our inquiries with sincere openness amidst this magnetic atmosphere.

Why did you feel the need for this project now? Especially in reference to 2019, what was the ‘real story’ that triggered the exhibition for both of you?

Mike Bode and Caner Yalcin:

The project began several years ago when we met Metin Erksan’s former student and archivist, who introduced us to Karanlık Dünya. She explained that the film had largely faded into obscurity—not due to its subject matter, but because it had been extensively reworked to comply with the censorship rulings and prevailing ideological climate of the time, ultimately rendering it almost unwatchable. We found a copy and watched it several times and found it really difficult to follow the narrative due to its fragmented state; however, what did capture our interest was the potential of exploring the conditions of the film’s production. Artistically we wanted to approach the film as a material object—one shaped by cultural, political and historical forces. To conduct a kind of autopsy on the film. That was the driving force. The research has taken place at intervals over many years and in 2019 we were fortunate enough to interview Ertem Göreç and Yılmaz Atadeniz before they sadly both passed away.

Could it be said that the exhibition opens up a discussion, in the name of freedom of expression for art or mass communication, on the notion of “truth design” under any kind of totalitarian regime?

M.Bode and C.Yalcin:

We do not want the Karanlık Dünya exhibition to be viewed solely through the lens of censorship. Our aim has been to understand the complex process that this film—dating back to the 1950s—has undergone up to the present day. The issues we seek to raise go beyond freedom of expression, censorship, or state intervention.

The current state of the film cannot be explained by censorship or self-censorship alone. When we talk about interventions in the film, we are not only referring to official censorship practices. Some of the alterations found in existing copies have nothing to do with censorship at all. These are changes made without regard for the story, direction, or script—without any kind of consensus. They appear to result from personal choices made by some individuals whose names and roles in the production remain unknown.

While these choices may not have been made with ill intent, the outcome was a series of interventions that shattered the film. We also know that it was produced under difficult conditions, with a very small and inadequate crew. It is well documented that there were serious disagreements between Bedri Rahmi Eyüboğlu and Metin Erksan during the film’s development and production.

In short, if this exhibition is to open a discussion, we hope it will encompass not only censorship and self-censorship, but also broader questions concerning the conditions of artistic production in Turkey—film practices, copyright, authorship, archiving, and collective memory.

In the exhibition, could it be said that, through elements such as concern, curiosity, doubt and quest – handed over to the audience “by feel” in the context of the world and Türkiye in 2025 – you create an ironic empathy between Asik Veysel and the viewer?

M.Bode and C.Yalcin:

Curiously, although Âşık Veysel, Metin Erksan, and Bedri Rahmi Eyüboğlu are all key figures in the film, they are the least interesting for us—our protagonist is the film itself. So we wouldn’t say we have tried to create an ironic sense of empathy between Âşık Veysel and the viewer; rather, all of the elements included in the exhibition act as clues. We consider the collaborative research process, the development of the exhibition, and the upcoming e-publication as integral components of the overall artistic project. In this sense, the exhibition does not function as a conclusive statement, but rather as a point of departure.

That said, understanding the historical context and personal entanglements surrounding these figures remains crucial to situating the film. During our research and in preparation for the exhibition, we collaborated with film historian Dilek Kaya, whose extensive research on Karanlık Dünya has been invaluable. Her outstanding essay—featured in the forthcoming e-publication—examines the complex relationships between Veysel, Erksan, and Eyüboğlu, while also illuminating the broader historical context and dynamics of the Turkish film industry at the time.

What kind of responsibility might the exhibition’s heavy, raw minimalism and sense of fragmentation place on the viewer? And what can the viewer do from there?

M.Bode and C.Yalcin :

The perceived simplicity and fragmentation in the exhibition place a certain responsibility on the viewer—not to passively consume a linear story, but to engage with what is missing, altered, or obscured. Rather than offering a coherent narrative, the exhibition invites the viewer to piece together meaning from the fractured materials: the script, the objects, the films, and the wall texts. This act of reconstruction—left intentionally open to interpretation—demands an active, reflective position.

In this sense, the responsibility lies in acknowledging the instability of the material and the conditions that shaped it: censorship, ideology, and historical contingency. The exhibition does not aim to restore a “lost original,” but rather to open up a space for questioning how cultural memory is formed, manipulated, or forgotten.

It’s important to emphasize that this is not a film-historical exhibition, but rather an artistic enquiry into a film—one that explores the aesthetics of interventions shaped by the cultural, political, and historical forces of the 1950s, a period often overlooked, and yet one that holds unresolved tensions worth revisiting.

Could one of the exhibition’s other legacies be the mental and moral hunger it leaves in the viewer, caught between wanting to see the film’s “complete and authentic version”? If so, how did this experience foster a sense of camaraderie for you?

Bode and C. Yalcin:

There is no original film in the conventional sense; it no longer exists, and in truth, we cannot even be certain what was even screened in the cinema in 1953. What remains are disparate materials—censored fragments, contradictory accounts, interventions, and recovered footage—none of which can singularly claim authenticity to any complete original cut. What we do know we have tried to piece it together as best we can in our autopsy, but there are still too many pieces missing.

 

We made a curatorial decision not to screen the censored film within the exhibition itself. Instead, the various versions of the film currently in circulation are represented in the script, copies of which are placed on a dedicated table in the exhibition for visitors to read. The script includes not only all the original scenes but also references to materials uncovered during our research, as well as the differences between the versions. In this way, we intentionally created a kind of absence—one that invites viewers to engage more actively with the material. The censored version of the film—or the “monster,” as we’ve come to call it—will be screened on select occasions as part of the public film program.

In the archives, it is noted that the film was censored three times, partly due to the combination of intimacy in Aşık Veysel’s love and life story—something that also inspired director Erksan—with the discomfort poverty provoked “in the eyes of the State.” Do you think Erksan might have been trying to use Veysel to materialize the tension between “society” and “truth” in this project?

Dilek Kaya: First of all, reducing the film solely to Erksan’s vision or to the interventions of censorship would overlook the collective and multilayered nature of its production process.

The idea of making a film about Asik Veysel originated with Nedim Otyam, who was initially set to direct it. Otyam had composed music for several local films, including for Atlas Film, and had also directed one film for them. He had known Veysel since their conservatory years and, out of respect, had long wanted to make a film about him. It was also Otyam who brought Bedri Rahmi Eyuboglu into the project to work on the script. From the start, the main motivation was to tell the bard’s life story and to provide him with financial support. From the very beginning, there was also the idea of filming in Sivrialan, Veysel’s village, using real locations and involving local villagers.

At the time, the term “social realism” had not yet taken root in Turkish cinema. Instead, under the influence of Italian Neorealism and in parallel with developments in village literature, there was a broader discussion around “reality” (realité), particularly in the context of village films. In this light, Eyuboglu and Otyam planned to visit the village for research. However, Otyam soon left Atlas Film, started his own company, and, together with his brother Fikret Otyam, embarked on another village film project (Toprak, 1953), also to be shot on location. This led to the directorship of Asik Veysel’in Hayati / Karanlik Dunya being handed to Metin Erksan, then in his early twenties and already known for writing local film scripts.

An interview Erksan gave around 1952, when the film was nearing completion, offers some insight into his stance on the project. He found Eyuboglu’s perspective on the village and its people exotic and orientalist, and considered him lacking in both scriptwriting and cinematographic skills. Erksan advocated for an “advanced, populist, and realistic” art, which he felt Eyuboglu did not share. In the same interview, he also criticized Asik Veysel, admitting that he had imagined him to be like Pir Sultan Abdal or Dadaloglu, reflecting “the truth and struggle of the people,” but upon meeting him, found him “backward and simple.”

The film was completed amid disagreements and disputes between Eyuboglu, Erksan, and Atlas Film, as well as under production constraints. The addition of censorship interventions further complicated matters, delaying its release by a year.

At the 1973 National Cinema Panel, Erksan also addressed the censorship issue, stating that in his first directorial attempt he had “no ulterior motive” and simply wanted to make “a simple film about the life of a simple folk poet.” Regarding the oft-repeated matter of short wheat stalks, he explained that he filmed the field scenes in Sivrialan because he was saddened to see the short crops there and believed “better agricultural policies” could yield more produce. However, once the film faced censorship and new scenes were added, it ceased to be the simple work he had envisioned, evolving into something entirely different and beyond his control.

Although today the film is remembered as a milestone in terms of social realism in Türkiye’s cinema, this evaluation overlooks other similar efforts of the era and the multi-layered dynamics that shaped the work. The Social Realist Movement in Türkiye’s cinema became distinctly visible mainly in the 1960s. Nevertheless, the film undeniably contains the early seeds of the cinematic language and realist approach Erksan would later develop more fully in such significant examples as Yilanlarin Ocu (1962) and Susuz Yaz (1963).

In conclusion, the film can be seen as a work from the early years of Yesilcam that sits at the intersection of realism pursuits in literature and cinema of the time, personal and institutional tensions, production limitations, the political climate of the Democrat Party era, and censorship. Rather than directly embodying the tension between society and reality through Veysel, it reveals how this tension could not be fully resolved—standing out with its searches and contradictions.

Looking at Salt’s sharing, preservation, and collection policy—particularly between public and private archives—could this exhibition be considered, like Resad Ekrem Kocu: Istanbul Encyclopedia, more of an open-ended public research project than a conventional exhibition?

Gulce Ozkara: In the exhibition No Further Records: Reşad Ekrem Koçu and Istanbul Encyclopedia, we examined how an unfinished encyclopedia—and perhaps for that very reason, one that could never truly be completed—along with its archive, failed to become “acceptable.” In other words, both the archive itself and the encyclopedia are open-ended, a project that will always continue.

While Karanlik Dunya is also based on archival material and research, the approach here is different. Behind the Karanlik Dunya exhibition lies an archive of similar disarray—similar “unruliness”—but this time we have a collaboration with an artist, a screenwriter, and a film researcher. Their approaches differ in how they engage with the archive, transform it, and present the research.

Although their methods diverge, I agree that both are open-ended; in both, the “product” remains unfinished. The Karanlik Dunya exhibition is not the outcome of a completed research process, but rather a pretext for discussing the issues the film brings to the fore. At the same time, this state of incompletion sheds light on the challenges of historiography and research practices in Türkiye’s cultural sphere.

Of course, the most significant element of the comparative script “ghost” presented in the exhibition is the copy held at the MSGSU Cinema-TV Sami Sekeroglu Application and Research Center. This copy inevitably raises the question of whether there might be other “original copies” within the same institution. From this point, what are your positive and negative critiques and expectations today regarding the writing of “knowledge” and “history”?

Gulce Ozkara: One of the issues we highlight in the exhibition is the absence of an “original” version of the film—neither its pre-censorship nor post-censorship state is clear. To continue from my previous answer: one reason the story surrounding the film remains open-ended is precisely this uncertainty. Similarly, the possibility that a new copy could be discovered at any moment is a sign of how history resists being fully grasped—how it is something that can always be constructed, dismantled, and reconstructed. I believe the ghost of Karanlik Dunya will continue to haunt us—perhaps in the form of a yet-unfound copy, script, or document. Indeed, I also believe the ghost of Resad Ekrem Kocu still lingers among us.

What does the public’s interest in the exhibition’s public program mean to you, and what do you expect from the audience?

Gulce Ozkara: As in Salt’s other programs, we do not see public programs as mere companions to the exhibition, but rather as an integral part of the Karanlik Dunya program. The exhibition, the talks, and the e-publication to be released in November are all parts of Karanlik Dunya. Together, they form a whole. We designed programs to explore topics that the exhibition touched on but could not elaborate, or issues we chose not to include but that the film nonetheless brings into discussion. For example, academic Emre Gonlugur will write and speak on Asik Veysel’s close relationship with Bedri Rahmi Eyuboglu and his place within the “Mavi Anadoluculuk” movement. Ovgu Gokce will consider Karanlik Dunya within the context of 1950s Turkish cinema. Firat Yucel and Dilek Kaya’s talk will examine the layered nature of censorship. In addition, inspired by the film’s eclectic structure—which incorporates propaganda, social realism, and melodrama—we will present a screening program focusing on similar films from different geographies, particularly from the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Bode and C. Yalcin:

Alongside the public program we are also preparing an e-publication together with Salt and the editor Ekrem Buğra Büte that will include texts by Dilek Kaya’ and Fırat Yücel’s,  a copy of our script, contextual materials not featured in the exhibition, and detailed documentation of the installation. Together, these components will form an archive and make our research accessible to others. The project, which is the culmination of several years of work, can also be seen as a reflection on the difficulties and challenges of working with contested cultural heritage—particularly in light of the conflicting recollections and contradictory details encountered in interviews, articles, and institutional records related to the film.

This project, the result of years of work, can also be seen as a way of reflecting on the challenges of working with contested cultural heritage—especially in light of the conflicting memories and inconsistent details found in interviews, articles, and institutional records about the film.

Information: saltonline.org