Digital Cover Star: Lillith Stangenberg

Actress Lilith Stangenberg on inhabiting other psyches, the strange emptiness after a role dissolves, and why the void can become the most productive place to work from.

Kein Alt-Text hinterlegt. — Dress:

& Other Stories

Shoes:

& Other Stories

Necklace:

Monies

Tights:

Courrèges

Bodies stretch across carpets. Limbs fold into improbable angles. In the editorial Spotlight,
photographed at Fahrbereitschaft in Berlin-Lichtenberg, Lilith Stangenberg moves through
poses that hover somewhere between performance and withdrawal.

Over the past decade, Stangenberg has become one of the most singular presences in
contemporary German cinema and theatre. Her performances rarely resolve into stable
characters. Instead, they appear as shifting states of intensity that move between control and
collapse, clarity, and disappearance. Her path into acting did not follow a conventional trajectory. As a teenager in Berlin, she discovered theatre through the Volksbühne, returning again and again to watch performances that left a lasting impression. What began as a fascination gradually became her own practice. The uncompromising stage language surrounding the theatre shaped her early understanding of performance. Film soon followed. With her widely acclaimed role in Nicolette Krebitz’s Wild,
Stangenberg introduced audiences to a performer capable of carrying a narrative almost entirely
through presence. Since then, she has appeared across European cinema, often in roles that
gravitate toward psychological extremes.

The Spotlight editorial draws loosely on archetypes from the entertainment industry. Instead of reproducing recognizable icons, the styling translates these references into gestures and attitudes. Sculptural silhouettes, veiled gazes, and exaggerated accessories hint at roles without fully resolving them. The shoot was realised in collaboration with & Other Stories, whose garments serve as the visual framework for the series. The conversation took place shortly after Stangenberg returned from an intense six-week shoot spanning several countries. She speaks about inhabiting other psyches, the uneasy transition back into everyday life, and the strange productivity of emptiness.

“When you encounter emptiness, it can be frightening at first. But within that emptiness, everything is contained.”

What drives you most right now, or what occupies you most intensely in your life at the moment?

Right now, I’ve just come back from a six-week shoot that took place across five different countries. We had twelve to sixteen-hour shooting days, and I was in almost every scene. For weeks, I was constantly looking at the world through a character’s eyes. I have only been back for about a week, and what occupies me right now is the transition from that form of abstraction back into reality. It feels like a strange and challenging split. Sometimes I almost feel as if I understand the abstract world of the role better than everyday life.

What makes it so difficult to return to everyday life? What makes it so difficult to return to everyday life? What makes it so difficult to return to everyday life?

When you work with a script, everything already has a structure. You know what will happen
next. You know what the situation is and how a scene unfolds. Every day of life is different. There is a kind of emptiness and uncertainty. That can actually feel much more frightening because you do not know what the future holds.

What originally led you to acting?

That goes back quite a long time. I have been acting for more than twenty years now. I actually
grew up in an environment where culture was not a big part of everyday life. Through my
grandmother, I knew a few fairy tale films and some movies, but mostly I watched television and
mainstream culture. Until I was fifteen, I did not even know that theatre existed as something
you could attend, let alone as a profession. At the same time, I grew up in a very playful environment. I have two sisters, and we constantly dressed up and invented characters. I first encountered theatre through a friend and my sister when I was fifteen, and I became fascinated by it almost immediately. While I was still in school, I spent my pocket money going to the theatre three or four times a week. At the Volksbühne, student tickets cost 2.50 euros. I was sitting there constantly. For me, the actors felt like rock stars. Like the Beatles for other people. I found something there that felt like a place of longing or even a kind of home. The intensity that came from the stage fascinated me completely.

Through theatre, I eventually became an actor myself.

How do you approach a role when you start a new project?

That depends very much on the role. Last year, for example, I played Gudrun Ensslin, a historical figure who really existed. That is very different from interpreting a completely fictional character. In general, I watch many films before shooting begins. Films that deal with a similar atmosphere or genre. I draw a lot of inspiration from older cinema. I am a big admirer of silent films. I would say I learned more from Marlene Dietrich, Ernst Lubitsch, or Fritz Lang than from contemporary streaming series. I also spend time looking at art catalogues and paintings. The big themes recur throughout history. Violence, death, the soul, or eroticism can already be found in paintings that are thousands of years old. Because of that, I often look beyond the script and search for inspiration in other sources. I try to find a different melody for the character.

How did your time in theatre shape your relationship to film?

The theatre stage is brutal. For a long time, I experienced it almost as a fight for survival. Like
stepping into a boxing ring in front of hundreds of watching eyes. I felt that I had to arm myself internally before stepping onto the stage. Almost like entering a battle state, like a samurai warrior. I never wanted to beg for the audience’s affection. For me, it felt like a tightrope walk. As if something real was at stake. In film, I learned almost the opposite. In front of the camera, you have to lay down all your weapons. You have to allow yourself to become vulnerable. It is almost like a kind of soul striptease. For a long time, I believed theatre and film were completely different professions. But in reality, it is the same impulse expressed in
a different form.

“The older I become, the more aware I am of the fragility of existence. Of bodies, of the world, and of everything around us.”

How does it feel to stand in front of the camera in a situation like today’s shoot?

I have a kind of primal fear. My inner enemy is the poser. I hate the moment when I notice that I am posing. That is why I always search for a gesture that genuinely interests me. A camera image has an element of elevation. The frame does something to a person. At the same time, it is challenging because I am not playing a role here. There is no script between me and the camera. So it becomes a different kind of encounter. I am presenting fashion, but I never want to feel like a salesperson. I want to control the clothes rather than letting them control me.

Is there something like a vacuum in your life right now?

I feel that we live in a time of constant information and permanent stimulation. A kind of
continuous noise. Much of it has very little to do with real existence. When you encounter
emptiness, it can be frightening at first. But within that emptiness, everything is contained.
Recently, I filmed scenes in the desert, in Dubai, and in California. In both places, I noticed how
deeply this vast emptiness affected me. It brought out feelings of isolation and desolation.

But afterwards, I realised how productive that experience actually was. That is why I believe the vacuum contains everything.

How has your relationship to vulnerability changed over time?

Right now, there seems to be a cultural trend toward displaying vulnerability. People cry in front of a camera or publicly reveal very intimate aspects of themselves. At first, that might have been a sign of strength. But now it can easily become another kind of pose. I think the real challenge is leaving the pose behind entirely. Accepting that one can be beautiful and ugly, strong and weak at the same time. The older I become, the more aware I am of the fragility of existence. Of bodies, of the world, and of everything around us. When I was younger, I often felt almost invincible. Now I feel much more permeable.

Is that something you look for in the characters you choose?

In recent years, I have worked a lot with very dark characters. With very shadowy and
sometimes cruel figures. The last film I shot almost feels like a kind of conclusion to that phase. I
have a theory that certain things can be resolved through art, so they do not have to be lived in
reality. You can exorcise darker themes through fiction. At the same time, I realised that the
subconscious does not always distinguish between what is acted and what is real. The body still
absorbs those emotions. That is why I now feel a longing for other kinds of characters.
Characters that contain more than just darkness.
I am curious to see what comes next.

For Stangenberg, roles rarely appear as fixed identities. They emerge, intensify, and eventually dissolve again. What remains afterwards is often a short moment of quiet. In that pause between roles, when the script’s structure disappears, the next movement has not yet begun, she finds something unexpectedly productive. The vacuum she describes is not absence. It is a brief opening in which attention sharpens, and something new can begin.