This edition features an exclusive interview with Honored Artist of Mongolia D.Byambatsogt, which is his first in-depth conversation since receiving the prestigious title. In this candid and thoughtful exchange, he reflects on his artistic journey, creative philosophy and the meaning of national recognition.

First of all, congratulations on receiving the title of Honored Artist. How did it feel to be met with such gratitude and appreciation from the public when the award was announced?

During my time in art school, mentors often reminded us, “Do not be discouraged by the absence of awards” and “awards can diminish an artist”. I’ve come to understand that these sentiments likely stem from the idea that recognition can bring a sense of inner fulfillment - one that may, in some cases, lessen the relentless drive to create.

It’s quite common to hear comments from the public like, “Now is the time”, or “You’ve worked in this field for years, why shouldn’t you get an award?” You’ve clearly worked hard to meet a certain standard, and you’ve spoken openly before about your views on merit and recognition. In many cases, when others try to boast on someone else’s behalf, it can not only be uncomfortable for that person, but also incredibly stressful. How do you personally view these reactions, and what are your thoughts now on the relationship between hard work, recognition and public perception?

I’m not someone who gets shocked or overly excited by awards. I’ve never placed too much importance on them. Of course, I respect the recognition, but what matters more to me is the people, the Mongolian people are my people. I’m not surprised by how quickly they form opinions, whether they’re right or wrong. What disappoints me, though, is that our award system still follows the structure of the old social order. I think awards need to evolve with the times. In developed European countries or even in Hollywood, they don’t have titles like “People’s Artist” or “Honored Actor”. I’m not saying we should copy them, but those systems are more in tune with the present. Winning an award often just means that a person has become popular. For me, that kind of approval isn’t what drives me.

I do think Mongolians can be a bit too emotional, even gullible, when it comes to these things. Sometimes they believe something is good just because others say it is. I don’t believe there’s a fixed timeline for when someone should be awarded. For example, a journalist might become an Honored Worker of Culture after working for many years, but time alone shouldn’t be the reason for recognition. Today, anyone can build a presence online and express their thoughts, and that’s part of living in a democracy. Our society is still learning how to have open discussions. Mongolia actually has one of the highest numbers of Facebook users per capita in the world. People are incredibly active online, and I find that really exciting. I’ve written a screenplay about it and I’m hoping to turn it into a film next fall. To be honest, before I received the award, what I was most nervous about wasn’t the title itself, it was the wave of attention and reaction on social media. (Laughs.)

Why?

It felt almost like I had hired a team of trolls to flood the internet with praise for myself. The moment someone receives an award, people don’t just say, “Congratulations” and move on. Instead, it turns into, “This guy must be jealous,” or “Why haven’t you gotten one yet?” and suddenly, you’re expected to explain everything to justify your work, your worth, even your timing. But this isn’t the moment to panic or get swept up in all of that. I’m simply doing what I’ve always done.

The fact that I received this award is, to me, a recognition of the work I’ve put into my craft. I accepted it as a result of years of dedication to art. For the first time, I felt like I was truly becoming a master of my profession, as an actor, and yes, I was proud of myself. There was a time when I didn’t think I even had the right to receive an award like this. I’m not a civil servant. I used to believe that kind of recognition was reserved for people in government positions. But over time, I came to understand that being honored isn’t about your job title, it’s about the value and sincerity of your work.

Exactly. I remember you once said, a few years back, “I don’t have the right to receive the highest state award because I receive a salary from the state and don’t reflect its ideas in my work.” At the time, that statement felt quite biased, even a bit extreme. Has your perspective changed since then? And if so, what made you rethink your position on state recognition and your relationship with the system that supports the arts?

I came to a simple realization that the Mongolian government is an entirely different concept from the government organization that pays me a salary. I understand that the idea of “government” goes beyond institutions and salaries. It’s about the state recognizing the contribution of its people, regardless of where they work.

Earlier, you mentioned that it took a long time to understand what a democratic society and a market economy truly are. In your view, has the last 35 years been enough time for us, as a society, to fully grasp and adapt to these concepts?

I understand it now, in the most practical sense. If you move, you get paid; if you stop, you still get paid. That’s the system, nothing more. But life doesn’t always follow a clear plan. Just like how saying, “I love him, we’ll live happily ever after” doesn’t guarantee anything. Still, despite that unpredictability, we should continue to want more, to dream, to crave something greater. That desire, for growth, for meaning, for something beyond routine, is what keeps us alive.

You were working at the Baganuur District Theater around the time you acted in the film “Whispered Words to the Heart” (2001). It’s said that you joined that theater back in 1992, right after graduating from the State Theater School. Could you tell us more about that period in your life and how your early theater experience influenced your work in film?

In 1994, the center went bankrupt and was reclassified as a Cultural Center. It remained in that form until December 1999, when I became part of the National Institute of Education. I continued working there until 2007.

Since your time at the Baganuur District Theater, have you been affiliated with any artistic organization or institution? Or have you continued your journey as an independent artist since then?

No. I gave myself a rather nice title, I called myself a freelance artist (laughs). But in reality, I’m just a freelancer. To put it bluntly, I’m out on the street.

It’s often said that male actors secretly dream of playing Romeo, and female actors aspire to be Juliet. But in your case, you’re most remembered for your portrayal of Paana in “Mr. Madman”. How do you feel about being so closely associated with that character? Did you ever long to play the classic romantic hero, or was Paana the role that truly defined your artistic identity?

Yes, “Mr. Madman” (2002) has been with me for 23 years now. I never imagined it would become so successful or resonate with audiences for so long. From the very beginning, the goal wasn’t fame, it was simply to create something meaningful and done right. Luckily, a sensitive and talented team came together for the project. Sh.Davaadorj from the “Zaya-Sh” studio was our chief cinematographer, R.Altansukh (known as Asi) served as the first director and O.Bat-Ulzii was the general director. The script went through two or three revisions before it was finalized. Interestingly, someone else could have played the role of Paana, but things didn’t work out, and I was assigned the role by order. I remember thinking, “Anything will happen, I’ll try”. That moment marked the beginning of my creative journey, which is a late start, really. I didn’t begin acting until I was 36. Looking back, I realize that the works I directed and performed in between 2002 and 2007 are what introduced me to the public. I’ve faced my share of difficult times, but it’s been the love for my profession that kept me going and brought me to where I am today.

In your view, what truly determines the value of an artist?

There is a noticeable lack of professionalism in the field of art, especially among actors. To truly be a professional, one must first have a profession. That means having a solid foundation of theoretical and methodological knowledge. Only then can practice and experience build upon it meaningfully. Without this foundation, performance becomes superficial. Art is a discipline that requires study, depth and understanding. Unfortunately, Mongolians have not yet fully discovered the true value of art, or the joy that comes from experiencing beauty. Until that appreciation grows, professionalism in the field will continue to be limited.

In recent years, we’ve seen a surge in newly established theaters in Ulaanbaatar. Many of them are focused on “reviving” the classic works of world literature and drama. What are your thoughts on this trend?

People are creating a private theater purely out of personal interest, not because it’s easy or profitable. In fact, it’s incredibly difficult to survive in these conditions. The surge in newly founded theaters isn’t necessarily driven by artistic need, but more so by a kind of social trend or pressure. I’ve been working toward building a private theater for 13 years now. During that time, I’ve launched six different theaters, “Flying Theater”, “Live”, “New”, “Red Face”, and others but none of them truly came to life. Sometimes, even just thinking about the logos I designed for them makes me wonder if my family is right to criticize my career choice as an actor. I believe that when theater becomes too focused on entertainment, it loses the emotional depth that gives it power. The stronger the focus on surface-level amusement, the weaker the impact it has on the audience’s heart.

If it’s so difficult for theater to survive financially, artistically and institutionally, then why do you think so many new theaters are being created? What drives this movement, despite the challenges?

I was holding on to hope that it wouldn’t fail, that it would somehow succeed. I’ve never expected the audience to fully understand me, and that’s okay. Maybe in time, things will fall into place. Alright then, let’s set all that aside for now. Let’s talk about something simple. Something nice.

What do you consider a “real” movie?

All films are real in their own way. As I’ve said before, each person experiences art differently, everyone has their own sense of artistic perception. If you write a play or make a film that truly moves people, that emotional impact is what elevates it to the level of a classic. But it’s not just about emotion. A classic work also requires logic and strong dramaturgy. The right sequence of events, the chain of causality, is what creates artistic unity. That structure is what makes a piece timeless. As for “Mr. Madman”, I sometimes question whether it qualifies as a classic. But when I think about how deeply it touched people, maybe it is. What I can say for certain is that it’s a very well-made film. There are many great works from the past that were overlooked. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them find success or recognition 30 years later. In truth, not many people have actually seen “Mr. Madman”. That’s the nature of art. It doesn’t always reach everyone right away, but that doesn’t diminish its value.

“Mr. Madman” was only shown in theaters for seven days. Looking back, how do you feel about its short theatrical run, especially considering the lasting impact the film has had over the years?

“Mr. Madman” was aired on television two years after its initial theatrical release. Looking back, one thing I deeply regret is that Sh.Davaadorj, who served as the chief cinematographer on the film, passed away too soon. He was a true professional, and his contribution to the film was immense. It’s painful to know he didn’t get to witness how the film continued to resonate with audiences over time.

Your teachers include some of the most respected names in Mongolian cinema and theater, G.Dorjsambuu and L.Lkhasuren. Yet, due to the ideological climate of the time and the envy of certain figures, their artistic potential and creative freedom were suppressed. Given the profound impact they had on your life and career, do you feel a responsibility to speak about them more openly? Why do you think their legacies are often left unacknowledged in public discussions today?

I’ve continued working in the arts all these years largely to carry forward the legacy of my two teachers. At any time in history, repression exists in some form, but I truly believe my teachers experienced ideological repression. Creating art with a free and independent mind must have come at a cost, there was pressure, suppression and resistance. Yet they remained fiercely free-thinking and committed to developing art rooted in the Mongolian mindset.

I still remember how I left the 0119th unit of the Construction Military School to enroll in the Cinematography Faculty at the State Pedagogical University. It was a bold move, driven by something inside me. It was Teacher G.Dorjsambuu who first evaluated me and admitted me into the program. Looking back, I had scored only 15 or 14 points on the entrance exam, so I must have made an impression in some other way. I believe it was the teacher who really saw something in me. Thankfully, at that time, the Ministry of Education had introduced a new policy that allowed military school graduates to apply for university entrance. That decision changed my life completely in 1992.

Teacher G.Dorjsambuu had a way of teaching that still stays with me. He used to say, “There’s no such thing as acting based purely on theory. You don’t perform theory on stage. Acting is the art of living relationships.” He reminded us that actors are chosen almost like goods in a store, picked for the right moment and role. From our second year onward, Teacher L.Lkhasuren took over our practical lessons. I remember telling him, “Teacher, I can’t do it”, and he would simply reply, “Then act,” and push me onto the stage. It felt like being thrown off a cliff without knowing how to fly. I had never even hosted a public event in my life. But he insisted, “Go and lead.” I was nervous and confused. Everything felt overwhelming. But somehow, I found myself asking if there was a host or someone attractive to introduce. It was chaotic, but it was also the beginning of learning by doing. As a student, I understood everything my teachers taught. But what troubled me was that I couldn’t always apply it. I struggled with the gap between knowledge and performance. Teacher G.Dorjsambuu once told us, “An actor’s job is to be a surgeon of the mind. Just think about yourself deeply, constantly.” That stayed with me. His words weren’t just about acting, they were about becoming fully human through art.

Talent is something that absolutely needs to be polished by knowledge. Yet, I often hear some actors say that knowledge isn’t all that important, that acting is just about feelings. I’ve noticed that institutions like the State University of Arts and Culture receive a lot of criticism these days, from various directions. I don’t know exactly how fair or unfair all of it is, but what’s clear to me is that training, structure and critical thinking matter. Emotion alone isn’t enough to carry an artist or a performance. What’s your position on this?

To be honest, the training system is broken. And I can’t deny the reasons why it hasn’t been fixed. Every year, more than 200 students graduate in this field, yet most of them have no jobs waiting for them. Still, they pay their tuition, finish their degrees and then scatter, each going their own way with whatever talent they have. But I truly believe that if they take the time to read, to study, to observe, they can go far. Life itself is the artist’s greatest research ground. Everything we experience feeds our craft. Right now, we’re all in search of what Mongolia means to us. We’re carrying a heavy weight, not just our own, but that of both past and future generations. We carry it with the hope of building something better for this country. But we won’t get there by pulling in opposite directions, by fighting among ourselves. That won’t lead us forward.

The audience knows you not only as an actor but also as a director of many memorable plays, such as “Love is Like a Fairy Tale and Death” and “My Sex Lovers”. What is it about theater that draws you in so strongly? Why does this medium, in particular, inspire you to create and experiment?

The best part of what I do is feeling completely in sync with the audience as if we share the same heartbeat and breath. That connection is what I love most. I can sense the result of my work in real time, and that’s something truly special. It feels like a miracle when the audience “lives” the experience with me. What also excites me is that no scene is ever the same, each performance is unique, alive in its own way. That unpredictability is what makes theater so powerful.

I’ll soon be performing in a monologue, which is a deeply demanding form. It’s a genre that really calls for experience and professionalism. In truth, stage acting isn’t something you can ever fully “learn”.

What do you think about friendship?

Friendships often end just as naturally as they begin. Over time, people change and sometimes, those we once called friends can become unrecognizable. In the harshest cases, they turn on you, like a dog biting the hand that fed it.

Do you believe that the true quality of an actor is reflected in the films they choose? How do you feel when experienced and talented actors appear in commercial, low-quality, or superficial drama films?

Everyone needs money to live, that’s a given. It’s a personal choice how one earns it. But when it comes to working in the arts, I believe it’s pointless to focus on money. I get a lot of offers, but I don’t choose projects based on the paycheck. What matters to me is the script, the idea, the character, whether it truly speaks to me.

When people ask, “Why are you like this?” or say, “I want to play you”, I tend to just tell the truth, without hesitation. For me, drama and film are all about teamwork. I’ve always believed that. I remember even back in 10th grade, scolding my parents and saying, “You don’t understand this modern era.” It might sound rebellious, but that mindset made me value collaboration, no matter someone’s age or experience. Whether they’re new or young doesn’t matter, we should work together with mutual respect. I enjoy listening to young people. They bring fresh energy and ideas. Sure, there were people who criticized me for choosing this path, who thought I was wrong to go this way. But I don’t let that bother me. I’ve followed what felt right and I still do.