I think we’ve all experienced some sort of trauma, judgement or name-calling that lingers on the back end of your early sexual encounters – whether that be from family members, friends, or foes – and sometimes it can be hard to escape the negativity of others’ opinions. LA-based writer/director Callie Carpinteri brings these feelings, insecurities and anxieties to bear in her latest short Dirty Towel, a fresh addition to her portfolio of films that aim to tell complex, female driven stories which empower women both in front of and behind the camera while inspiring conversations. Kicking off with a stark maternal warning about purity which clearly reflects a long brooded on pain between the lines of its puritanical edict, a teenage girl’s first exploration of sex is inevitably coloured by feelings of shame and guilt which exist on a generational and societal continuum that far predates her personal succumbing to the ‘evils of fornication’. Dirty Towel is a film that takes experiences and expectations of women from all over the world – with Callie, her co-writer and lead actor Emma Parks, and the entire female led crew acting as the catalysts – transforming them into a nuanced, contemporary tale that tackles recurring, out-dated stereotypes and pearl-clutching morals with a well-thought out blend of family relationships, comedic timing and self-empowerment. Callie joins DN to unpick Dirty Towel, where we discuss the true inspiration behind the titular metaphor, her brilliantly executed soundtrack, and the ensemble of emotions she brings to life in this thoughtful exploration of shame, expectations and self-worth.

Can you share the influences that went into creating this film? In what ways did you adapt stories – such as the ‘Dirty Towel’ metaphor – into a relatable situation for the screen? How is it different to your other projects that deal with similar themes?

After graduating college and moving from Florida to Los Angeles, I really wanted to make a film to help me find my voice. While I’ve always been drawn to telling very character-driven stories that empower people and spark conversation, I wanted to explore a topic that felt both deeply personal and widely relevant. Dirty Towel was born out of a conversation between my cousin (and eventual co-writer), Emma Parks, and I about the shame people often feel around sex. We started opening up about our own experiences and the shame that we had felt but never talked about before. As we began talking to more and more women in our lives, we quickly realised we weren’t alone. Unfortunately, whether from religion, society, or personal relationships, so many people have experienced this shame in one way or another. We decided to make Dirty Towel to help change this narrative. During one of our early brainstorming sessions, Emma shared a story about a friend whose mom used a white towel with dirty handprints to symbolise the ‘damage’ a girl carries after having sex. While we didn’t hear that exact speech we were told, our own iterations and the image of the dirty towel stuck with us, ultimately becoming the inspiration for the film’s metaphor.

Unfortunately, whether from religion, society, or personal relationships, so many people have experienced this shame in one way or another.

When developing Charlie’s story, we pulled directly from our own experiences to make it feel as authentic, relatable, and grounded as possible. This process forced me to be vulnerable in a way I hadn’t ever done before. The spiral Charlie goes through, the weight of the guilt and shame she carries, are all very real feelings and experiences I’ve lived through. It was very tough at times, but cathartic to make this film and in fact, it actually led to some tough, but healing conversations with my own mom. Though I had made a few other shorts before, some of which explored similar themes of identity and self-worth, Dirty Towel was by far the most challenging and meaningful. Sharing something that’s so personal and vulnerable to the world is scary, but if it helps even one person feel less alone, then it was absolutely worth it.

What choices did you make to ensure a healthy dichotomy between drama and comedy, and in what ways did you adjust to relieve or add tension throughout the film?

We always knew we wanted the tone to live in that space between drama and comedy so the decisions on how to strike that balance began in the writing process. We let Charlie’s emotional journey guide the tone of each scene, allowing humour or tension to flow naturally depending on where she was internally. During production, we made sure to capture a range of performances, especially for key moments that could swing either way. But honestly, it wasn’t until post-production that things really clicked.

My editor, Jesi Rojas, and I spent a long time shaping the rhythm of the film, adjusting each moment as needed to best serve the story. A great example is the mirror scene after Charlie’s shower. In the script, it is written to start with a hint of humor as Charlie shifts into different poses in front of the mirror, trying to feel confident with herself before the weight of her discomfort sinks in. However, in Jesi’s first edit, the scene was cut almost identical to how you see it in the film. It moved me instantly. We tried a version adding in some humor, but ultimately found that staying in that vulnerable, intimate discomfort was far more powerful for Charlie’s arc. We found ourselves doing that in a few other scenes too, adjusting timing, frame length, and performances until we found the right balance.

So what’s the story behind the choice of soundtrack? The drums and flute motif is a brilliant addition.

Thank you! I love this question because it gives me a chance to talk about our wonderful composer, Rosalind Wong. I’m not a musically inclined person so when Ros came on board with such amazing insight and ideas, it was a huge gift. From our first conversations about the score, she was very drawn to using flutes and drums, especially for the scenes where Charlie’s anxiety is most heightened. Since sex is often treated as a primal, natural act, we loved the idea of those moments sounding almost primal but turning it on its head, emphasising the pressure and shame Charlie feels around something that ‘should’ be natural.

Ros also had the brilliant idea to score Charlie’s sexual experience with a soft, sweet flute before reintroducing the flute later in a much more anxious, tense way. The contrast really mirrors the way Charlie’s feelings about her sexual experience shift and become distorted as the shame starts to overwhelm her. She also used guitar as a motif for Elizabeth, Charlie’s mom, which added a grounded, emotional texture to her character, especially during the flashback scene. Ros was so intentional with every instrument and choice, and I truly believe the score elevated the film in ways I didn’t even realise were possible.

Since sex is often treated as a primal, natural act, we loved the idea of those moments sounding almost primal but turning it on its head.

You worked with a predominantly female crew of collaborators for Dirty Towel. What was the journey like from start to finish in terms of gathering stories, emotions and thoughts on the subject? How did this impact the final cut?

Early in our development process, Emma and I spoke with many women in our lives about their experiences with shame and sexuality. Hearing the range of stories, whether shaped by religion, culture, or family, reaffirmed for us that this was a story worth telling. While Dirty Towel focuses primarily on generational shame, we pulled from both the stories we heard and our own experiences to craft something we hoped would feel universally relatable. As a female filmmaker, I’ve always been passionate about increasing the representation of women not just in front of the camera, but behind it as well.

As Dirty Towel is told through such a female lens, I knew from the start I wanted an all female key crew. As each member joined the film, we had deep conversations about what the story meant to them and how they connected to it. Having a team of women who had lived through similar experiences created a space of empathy and understanding throughout the process. Honestly, making this film together became a very healing experience for all of us. I truly believe the care and intention from every single person on the team impacted the film in a beautiful way, from the visual style to the editing, to the production design, score, and more. You can feel it in every frame.

Having a team of women who had lived through similar experiences created a space of empathy and understanding throughout the process.

The supermarket scene plays like concentrated exposure of what a lot of people have suffered after their first time – shame, judgement, embarrassment. What was the thinking behind the way you shot that scene?

It’s funny you ask because this was actually the scene I was most nervous about before production for many reasons. Logistically, it was one of the most challenging days. We had a very limited time to shoot this scene after hours at a small grocery store so as soon as we arrived, it was an all-hands on deck effort to get everything done within our tight timeframe. We also had the most amount of extras of any scene, so I worked closely with our second AD, Olivia Cerio, to coordinate everything with them. The extras were all so lovely and supportive, and although the night was chaotic, I wouldn’t have done it any other way.

On a story level, it really is the peak of the shame that Charlie suffers from throughout the film. I didn’t want it to feel too over-the-top but I did want it to feel intense and overwhelming. When you’re dealing with internalised shame so deeply like Charlie is, it really does feel like everyone is judging you, even if they aren’t, and I wanted to capture that. My DP, Emilee Ford, and I talked a lot about how to visually represent that feeling. The tightness of the aisle helped a lot with the blocking and we moved the camera in a way that made it feel like we were right there with Charlie, traveling down the aisle. For the POV shots, we wanted them to feel very haunting and surreal, mirroring her perception. The sound design and music also played a huge part in building that tension. Even though no one actually says anything to her, the shame is loud in Charlie’s head, and that’s what I wanted the audience to feel.

The ending of the film is a full circle moment where Charlie comes back to the symbolism of the ‘dirty towel’ with a fresh, progressive take.

We always knew that we wanted Charlie to eventually reclaim and redefine the ‘dirty towel’ metaphor. However, we went back and forth on what that would look like and if she would have that final speech, our biggest concern was that it might feel cliché or too on-the-nose. But as we continued to develop the film, we realised that hearing her actually say the words made the most sense for her character. We knew it would be cathartic for her, and hopefully, for the audience as well. She’s not repeating a speech she’s memorised, she’s realising everything as she’s saying it, which felt like the most honest choice for the film. So much of sex and shame is internalised and left unsaid, so we hoped by giving Charlie a voice to call out the metaphor, it would spark conversations beyond the screen.

While we wrote out the basis of the speech in the script, during production I encouraged Emma to improvise whatever felt most natural to her. We tried different takes, one more emotional, one more defiant, until we found the right balance. I truly think the moment comes together in a full circle way, not just because of what Charlie says, but also Emma’s beautiful performance. You can really feel Charlie stepping into her voice for the first time and beginning to let go of the shame that’s been passed down to her.

So much of sex and shame is internalised and left unsaid, so we hoped by giving Charlie a voice to call out the metaphor, it would spark conversations beyond the screen.

Dirty Towel feels like a project that could evolve into a larger narrative feature. Do you and Emma have any plans for that, and what else are you working on at the moment?

Yes! Emma and I always envisioned Dirty Towel as a proof-of-concept for a feature length version. Since finishing the short, we’ve written the full-length script and are currently taking active steps to get it made. The feature film is a dual coming-of-age story for both Charlie and her mother, Elizabeth. We dive deeper into their relationship, while also exploring Elizabeth’s backstory and how her own internalized shame has shaped who she is. We also introduce Charlie’s grandmother, allowing us to explore the generational impact of shame across the three generations of women and how it affects their identities, relationships, and choices.

Outside of Dirty Towel, I’m in post-production on my newest short, Stuffed, an anxiety-inducing family drama. I’m also continuing to develop and write new projects that explore identity, sexuality, family dynamics, and the pressures women face.

Abigail Wilson’s Overdrive doesn’t just depict the turmoil of Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), it becomes it. A white-knuckled, high-octane short film that weaponises the visual language of action cinema to articulate something rarely seen on screen: the visceral, often violent internal war waged by hormonal fluctuations. This isn’t a polite period metaphor. It’s a car chase, a fistfight, a scream into the void that echoes back twice as loud. The film thrives on duality. The Driver’s crisp racing suit versus The Passenger’s duct-taped, bloodied grit. The sleek, controlled interior of the car versus the messy, sprawling fight outside. Even the sound design oscillates between eerie silence and deafening noise, with a soundtrack that slams from Fischerspooner’s frenetic pulse to Radiohead’s haunting melancholy. Wilson’s direction is unflinching, throwing the audience into the passenger seat and locking the doors. Wilson refuses to soften the subject matter. There’s no twee empowerment here, just raw, unfiltered feeling. Strap in as Overdrive roars onto DN for its premiere and we speak to Wilson about her frustration with sanitised portrayals of menstruation in the media, a central mantra dictating every frame and the extensive training she underwent to perform every sequence.

I am always on the hunt for more honest and authentic representations of periods and the hell that can come with them so was hooked by Overdrive.

I feel deeply, I always have. About seven years ago I went on a journey of self-discovery to understand my relationship to my hormones better. My premenstrual symptoms felt significantly more acute compared to most of my friends, and were oftentimes so mentally debilitating. So I did what I do best – I researched, my God did I research. I patched together pieces from medical papers, books, scrappy internet forums – the lot. What was out there back then was worryingly thin.

When I first learned about PMDD, it was a lightbulb moment. A lot of the symptoms aligned with my experience more than regular PMS. I felt that I swung between both of these conditions and felt so angry at the lack of awareness, and research surrounding them both, not to mention the stigma – my GOD the stigma! The fact that some women are out there suffering so deeply fueled me to make something about it. I followed my gut and the more I leaned into the emotional turmoil I was experiencing, this visual metaphor came out. Fast forward to 2022 after I had begun to establish myself as a director, I wrote Overdrive.

I hadn’t connected with how menstruation had been portrayed in pop-culture. It didn’t resonate with me.

It began with a simple vision I had of myself getting into my car whilst an antagonistic version got into the passenger seat. The scene was set. Next came a mantra, ‘calm to chaos’. Because that’s how these fluctuations can feel every single month. Then we were off. I hadn’t connected with how menstruation had been portrayed in pop culture. It didn’t resonate with me. I wanted to see something intense, messy, visceral and something that packed a punch (or two). I wanted to try and make something that might connect with other women through a highly intense and adrenaline-fuelled story.

Was there an intention to subvert typically masculine genre conventions with this narrative?

Honestly? There was no intentional subverting of anything to begin with. The story came first. Emotions led the way. It didn’t feel right to me making light of this topic, I wanted to write something that felt close to how it can actually feel for some women, whilst simultaneously placing it in a cinematic landscape. It had to feel intense, visceral, messy and chaotic. So, action made total sense for it. Even more so, yeah, action is a typically masculine genre convention. If I could capture the attention of as many men as possible too – fucking excellent. It felt right attacking this topic from that angle. To me action movies can sometimes be a mind-numbing form of escapism, but when they’re done right and when something is at stake, it can be unbelievably exhilarating and impactful. That’s the note I wanted to hit.

I hadn’t personally connected with anything else period-related I’d seen up until that point, so I thought fuck-it. I felt compelled to put my own spin on it to see if anyone else felt a connection to it. I’m a contrarian by nature so it felt like the most impactful way to flip the notion of what a film like this should look like.

How did you use film language to physically manifest ‘calm to chaos’?

‘Calm to chaos’ was my mantra from the very beginning, because those words perfectly encapsulated the emotional arc of a debilitating menstrual cycle. Any time I needed to figure something out in production I’d revisit it. It was an anchor that grounded and informed every single department. The edit was crucial for helping craft this emotional journey, not only were we designing an edit that had to build in intensity but we had to ensure it really looked like the same person was at war with herself. That had to work, it had to be believable. If there was a gorgeous camera move but we could see a body double’s face in it – we had no choice, we had to kill it.

If you strip the film back its elements are pretty simple, there’s not a hundred extras, there’s not a million locations – it really is just two characters, a car and a racetrack, which was limiting but also liberating. It meant I had to look closer at every single element in the script, for instance, how using a car’s radio could contribute to the story, and how we could craft that same arc whilst maintaining pace and momentum in a short amount of time. Even the progressive build up of action inside the car is calm, until the characters erupt into the chaos outside during the fight sequence.

It really is just two characters, a car and a racetrack, which was limiting but also liberating.

How did you distinguish the two selves visually and in their characteristics and mannerisms, then act and direct those?

At the beginning I really saw them as the same person, with only performance-based character quirks to distinguish them. But the more I developed it I saw more subtle ideas that could come out visually through costume and hair & makeup. I was so excited at the idea of dirtying up the antagonist’s Passenger racing suit to convey the relentless repetition of a cycle – this happens every-single-month, she’s here every-single-month. We ripped her knees, duct taped the elbows to hold fabric together – makeup and hair became more unruly, bruising and cuts on her face started to appear – all subtle, but all relevant and needed to build out the world of the story even further. Compared to the clean cut, crisp suited protagonist The Driver, who enters the race with a sense of dread-filled denial each month, hopeful, a fake air of calm until she has no choice but to retaliate.

Performance wise minimal dialogue meant I could really lean into physical displays of antagonism and what that looked like for The Passenger, and in reverse, something more of a quiet frustration and denial bubbling away underneath for The Driver who just wanted and needed to get across that line as quickly as possible. She had clear direction, ‘don’t give in until you’ve reached your absolute limit’, whereas the Passenger’s was to ‘keep going until you get a rise’. Getting to those clear intentions took a bit of R&D – but I think it worked.

I was so excited at the idea of dirtying up the antagonist’s Passenger racing suit to convey the relentless repetition of a cycle – this happens every-single-month, she’s here every-single-month.

Directing myself meant having to completely trust myself, my ability and those around me. I had a strong team of people I have huge respect for and who all knew exactly what I was trying to get across every step of the way. Everyone was thankfully on the exact same page. Having done a ton of self-tapes over the years made it a bit easier too. You become so in tune with what works, what doesn’t – you start seeing yourself as the character(s) – it’s not you anymore.

The song choices are so brilliantly matched; this must have been a needle in a haystack search. Tell us about sound design.

I always build a playlist when I’m writing, so I had a back catalogue of tracks that I’d kill for for about a year. I also really wanted that Grand Theft Auto feel where you step into a new car after stealing it and suddenly there’s like an amazing Latin track blasting out – then a classical piece – then the radio changes and it’s muffled and completely chaotic. Again everything going back to the mantra from calm to chaos.

Managing to get Fisherspooner and Radiohead tracks featured for this project was just next level – the fact they agreed to it is, I have no words – I’m still beaming ear-to-ear about that as I write this and I think I always will. Sound design was next, building the car audio – it’s a very specific 68 Pontiac that had a totally unique, utterly gorgeous deep roar to its engine. Next was matching the fight sounds, which had me freaking out in the sound booth for an hour or so to get those punch reactions sounding right.

I love the fight scene, and you are doing it twice! I want to know how this was choreographed and then filmed to keep it punchy yet also give us the emotional twist.

I had 3 full days of conditioning and learning the moves with a stunt team who were amazing. They drafted the initial choreography from some key references I sent over – the main one being the best female fight scene of all time – it is 100% the best – Daryl Hannah and Uma Thurman in Kill Bill Vol 2 the trailer park scene. Then myself and my stunt double got to work, each learning both characters’ parts – rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat until we felt it in our bodies.

You had to match it up – otherwise the whole thing would be well and truly fucked.

We then launched into a stunt previs, which is where you block it out and shoot each corresponding move linked together on camera, so you know how it flows and needs to look for the moves to look legit. Our second and final shoot day was hectic. We were midway through the fight scene and somewhere between losing-the-light and our previs we all got stuck. Try having a hair and makeup change whilst figuring out what you need to get, what you couldn’t get, what you have to kill, who was doing what punch next, and in which order… Because you had to match it up – otherwise the whole thing would be well and truly fucked. But we got there, it’s because of that time pressure creative solutions come out of nowhere, everyone just bands together and you pull through.

You took fighting and drifting lessons to prepare. How does your physical preparation as actor inform your direction of performance? What does it mean to direct from within the body of experience?

The biggest emotional moment I needed to generate was at the very end of shooting. And due to the lack of dialogue through the majority of the film that meant it was possible for me to jump in and out of an actor/director role on set during the days with ease. I also didn’t have to issue myself any notes, firstly because I knew the story inside and out and secondly because we honestly were running out of time – luckily I prepped like a beast and just inherently knew exactly how I needed it to be. Plus, that time pressure is a good thing – it means there’s no room for anything but total and utter commitment. During the fight sequence I had to mostly rely on my EPs and producer to give their eyes to the monitor. Only replaying key moments. We shot this in two packed days – being pedantic just wasn’t possible – and as someone who’s inherently detail oriented, that was a big lesson in letting go.

What will we see next from you?

I’m slowly approaching another period of writing, I can feel it. I have another short I’ve been dying to make – so I’m excited to flex my narrative muscle more with that guy. Some exciting features, maybe a TV series I put down a while ago – but hey – let’s see – one thing at a time. I have a tendency to bite off more than I can chew.

There’s a peculiar tragedy in how the smallest, most ridiculous conflicts can unravel even the strongest of relationships—a truth that filmmakers Dexter Demme and Jack Depp exploit with dark humour in their short film Tug of War. The duo craft a razor-sharp comedy that disguises a piercing emotional core beneath its absurd premise. Two married couples, locked in a tense standoff over an awkward relic of a wild night. What begins as a farcical dispute morphs into something far more revealing—a battle of wounded pride, fragile masculinity, and the unspoken cracks in each marriage. Demme and Depp’s filmmaking lies in the collision of the ridiculous and the profound, their approach being less about traditional script mechanics than it is about tone and the simmering tension of human pettiness. The directors’ intuitive, actor-driven process lends the film its authenticity; the humour never veers into mockery because the performances treat the stakes as devastatingly real. So much of Tug of War comes through the subtext: The item in question is a symbol of control, of sexual inadequacy, of the things couples cling to when they’ve run out of ways to communicate. Demme and Depp understand that the most telling marital conflicts aren’t about grand betrayals but about the absurd, unspoken skirmishes that accumulate over time. As Tug of War makes its premiere, we speak with the filmmakers about their love for human absurdity, the challenge of balancing comedy with emotional weight, and how a single, ridiculous object can expose the fragile foundations of love.

Dare I ask where this particular battle of wills came from?

The development of the initial concept, in terms of a script/story that we wanted to tell, is more so the mood and style of the world/theme we wanted to explore. We have always been very interested in the intimacy of people and the problems/obstacles that only they could understand, problems that to others seem small and meaningless. Most times, an intimate subject between a couple or close friends or even somebody alone, seems, to the outside world, unimportant and even ridiculous at times, but to those who are involved, it’s very serious and nothing else in the world matters. And that’s the world we have always been interested in exploring; the ridiculousness of mankind, taking itself so seriously no matter how absurd the situation is.

In regards to Tug of War, we are not delving into the life story/relationship of a long-standing couple and their quick decline into what we assume will be a divorce. We are talking about a moment in life, a blip of ten minutes in their years and years of marriage to understand who they are when a situation occurs, we are talking about an intimate subject between them, something that represents their relationship and how thin it is holding together. Not showing the decline through big problems but showing that the little moments are what sometimes go over our heads and drive us crazy, and in the end, add up to what drives us toward a decision. The film is not about ‘I’m going to divorce you’, it’s about ‘If we don’t get this item back, what else do we have left to stand on?’

It’s more so a battle of honor between these two desperate couples and this object is something that represents their desperation.

So, looking at the small moments and the absurdity of human nature, how did you settle on a post-swinging fight for a double-ended dildo?

For one, a double-ended dildo fight is funny. But more than that, it never really mattered what they were fighting over, it’s more so a battle of honor between these two desperate couples, and this object is something that represents their desperation. And as time goes by more meaning gets brought into it, for example, the dildo represents a specific problem in their relationship, and these two men fighting over it represents a battle over their manhood almost literally.

How does prioritising the mood of the world and theme affect your shot listing process? Do you work more intuitively during production?

In all of our projects we tend to talk about the mood and style to form the script around it properly. What are we trying to say, what do we want to see, how to get the message across, etc. Once we answer these questions we develop the script and begin breaking it down into a shot list. During production we tend to stick to the script pretty tightly, even though we keep room for improv and last minute ideas. We’re not very strict on anything, we’re more intuitive on set and use the shot list and script more as a guide.

Everything relies on us believing these four characters and I DO! How did you find your cast and how much backstory did you give them?

We tend to work more with friends and friends of friends, obviously prioritizing who is best for the role, but it allows us to have fun while also telling the story the way we imagined it. A lot of times were surprised. Sometimes something on paper is just funny, and then when you shoot it there’s another level of heart and emotion that the actors bring and that’s always great to be surprised by. In terms of backstory, we mainly focused on what happened the night before this stand-off, in vague terms obviously to let the actor bring their view as well, we like to hear their perspective before we tell them ours, but we’ll give them an idea of who they are, what they are like, how they react, in terms of what happened the night before.

Yes, this is a real problem, yes it’s funny, but there is a lot at stake.

When exploring the ridiculousness of mankind, how do you direct actors to find the balance between genuine emotional investment and inherent absurdity without falling into mockery?

When you take a ridiculous subject, it’s all about how those involved deal with it. So with a subject like this, we wanted the actors and ourselves to take the subject seriously. Yes, this is a real problem, yes it’s funny, but there is a lot at stake. The answer is sort of in the question, the absurdity is there but if you never mention it and deal with the circumstances around it that’s how you evade mockery. At least we think so.

It’s a simple set up but you cover a lot. How did you block and organise your shoot knowing what you wanted to capture?

This is a Mexican stand-off, so we wanted to stick to this typical western/handoff where both parties stand their ground and speak their mind. Within the three days, we had a lot of time to properly block the movements/intentions of the characters and stay pretty minimal because the story is simple. When scheduling out each day we decided to break the script into three segments due to lighting continuity but also so we could spend a few hours at the top of the day to properly figure out the flow and movements of the characters.

It was really during the shoot that we realized it was more than just fighting over a dildo which came through the actors’ performances.

Looking back, what moments during production surprised you about how the themes were manifesting through the performance and visual storytelling?

In all of our projects, we’re always surprised by the layers of meaning and subtext that emerge. As we mentioned earlier, this story is funny on the surface, but there’s a lot of emotional depth underneath. It was really during the shoot that we realized it was more than just fighting over a dildo, which came through the actors’ performances. That’s the amazing thing about filmmaking: you come in seeing it one way, and someone else brings a totally different perspective. Whether or not that deeper meaning was intentional, it’s amazing how something so simple can grow into something so much more.

What’s next for you both?

Since this is our third short film, currently we are writing our first feature and hope to start prep/shooting in the near future.

Foreign Root is a tale of hope, a glimpse into what’s possible when we come together in love, companionship and togetherness in defiance of the agonising, destructive events that are taking place across the world. Created by award-winning multi-DN alum director Andzej Gavriss in collaboration with acclaimed Ukrainian pop star Ivan Dorn – a potent partnership which previously brought us creative crisis short Eleusis – and produced by Shelter, Foreign Root is a thought-provoking short that explores the refugee experience through a positive lens without deminishing the dire life threatening circumstances those caught up in forced migration have to contend with every day. The story throws us into the heart of a Georgian family torn apart when two brothers flee towards France, leaving their mother behind who entrusts them with a small bag of seeds – a powerful totem which does dual service as a reminder of what has been lost and hope for the future. With Foreign Root arriving online recently, we invited Gavriss to join us once again to discuss his profoundly personal connection to the film’s subject matter, his effortless collaborative process with Dorn and why we need to collectively recognise that home is our planet.

I know that your own experiences of migration influenced Foreign Root. What drove you to tell this story now?

I started making films at the age of 13, so by the time I turned 16, I had already done a few music videos and even managed to make some money from it. That’s when I seriously started considering becoming a filmmaker. When I graduated from school, a massive crisis hit Latvia—thousands of people moved to the UK, and I was one of them, in pursuit of making some money to buy an HD camera. Obviously, I had no money for a plane ticket, so I took a bus to London, and that’s when my wild journey began. I did many, many jobs and met absolutely beautiful people, all from different corners of the world. I remember how we used to talk about our countries, our cultures—it was so inspiring for me.

So with that experience, and with everything that’s happening in the world right now – the madness, the genocides, the wars being streamed online – I felt like doing something different. A naive story. Something that looks like a child’s drawing: mama, papa, and a child holding hands. The kind of picture you see stuck on fridges in young families. I felt like bringing a bit of love and hope. A small reminder that maybe, just maybe, one day we could all get along.

With everything that’s happening in the world right now – the madness, the genocides, the wars being streamed online – I felt like doing something different. A naive story.

You reunited with Ukrainian singer and actor Ivan Dorn for this film, someone who has also been subject to migration. How did the synergy between visuals and soundtrack evolve?

Ivan and I met many years ago in Kyiv. I think we share a connection on a spiritual level—there’s something about collaborating together that makes the process feel very pure. There’s no ego involved, just the simple joy of being in the act of play. At first, we thought we were shooting a 4-minute music video, but during rehearsals we realized there was potential to let go completely and just shoot as much as we could, with the idea of turning it into a music film later. In the editing process, we used reference tracks to shape the rhythm and feel of the film, and later Ivan recomposed everything. As expected, his take was completely his own—the final music sounded nothing like the placeholders we had, and we loved it. It became his.

You’ve stated that you “wanted to make a film as naive and honest as a child’s drawing”. What informed that guiding desire for this project, especially given the life and death stakes of refugee migration?

It’s very painful to see how much suffering and pain there is in the world right now. The war in Ukraine hit me on an existential level. I come from a country where the conflict between Russian occupation and Latvian culture is very pronounced—especially now. So when the whole madness began, it was really hard for me. I felt a lot of guilt for being in a safe space while people were getting killed every day. I started questioning everything—reflecting on whether my work even matters. I was losing myself. So I wrote a story about a runway model going through an existential crisis in her apartment. It was dark, and I put it in a drawer for quite some time.

I felt a lot of guilt for being in a safe space while people were getting killed every day. I started questioning everything—reflecting on whether my work even matters. I was losing myself.

I slowly started healing and stepped away from social media for a while—I just couldn’t take in all the horror content anymore. Then, at a Christmas party, I stumbled across a painting by my friend’s son. It was so pure and beautiful that it made me emotional. And when I started shaping this new concept, I thought—why don’t I follow that feeling? Why not create a story where people come together and work side by side for a better future?

I found the seeds as a symbol of hope and renewal to be a beautiful metaphor, while you also present moments of laughter and companionship interwoven within the intense and haunting scenes.

We all carry our DNA, and what makes us human are our traditions, our culture—it’s our heritage, and it shapes who we are. I love travelling and immersing myself in other nations’ cultures—to learn, to get inspired. For me, seeds and the act of mixing them together has always been a symbol of respect and love towards each other’s traditions and ways of living. It’s also a metaphor for coexisting as a whole and learning from one another.

I wanted the film to feel like a rollercoaster of emotions—you jump on a ride, and the feelings shift along the way. I think to build a real friendship, you need to go on a journey together. The more challenges you face side by side, the stronger the bond becomes. That’s exactly what happens with the characters in our film—they go through things, they overcome obstacles, and that’s what makes them open up to one another.

I wanted the film to feel like a rollercoaster of emotions—you jump on a ride, and the feelings shift along the way.

That final line, “I am going home”, is a powerfully potent and hopeful close to the film. Do you feel hopeful?

What the Earth creature says at the end, home is our planet, and I’m happy to see so many people waking up and starting to realize that. I think we, as a society, need to elevate ourselves to the next level of existence. Maybe we’re already doing it with AI—creating something with a higher level of consciousness, one that doesn’t need to dominate or keep all the resources to itself. We’ll see.

And finally, what new projects do you have in the works?

I wrote a feature film and now I’m working on developing a visual bible—doing some test shoots with actors to show my vision, looking for producers, and hustling a lot. I’ll be starting to write another one soon, and really hope I get lucky sometime soon. In the end, I just want to thank everyone who worked on Foreign Root—thank you so much for all the hard work and effort you put into the film. I hope you had fun and enjoyed the final result. And a massive thanks to DN for taking the time to have this lovely chat with me.

Wednesday Studio directing duo Iria López and Daniela Negrín Ochoa present Yin & Yang – a symbiotic ode to the two artists’ friendship and creative collaboration. The morphing minute and a half animated short is a rich visual poem that highlights their unique synergy – forged over an 11 year partnership – across a journey of dreamy, harmonic movements and visuals emulated through the relationship between a bird and a fish. Underpinning the encapsulating connection López and Negrín have found in their work together is the fittingly titled song Lush, composed by their long-term friend and music artist Northern Telekom. Beautifully put by the directors, “The film is a reminder that balance doesn’t mean sameness, it means being different in ways that make each other stronger.” DN invited López and Negrín to take us behind the scenes of their joyful project, sharing the fruitful journey the pair of artists have taken together over the years.

Yin & Yang is 92 seconds of captivating, high energy visuals. How did this stunning journey of images come into fruition?

We created this film to celebrate 11 years of working side by side, it is a joyful and abstract “visual love letter” to our creative partnership. Inspired by the theme of yin and yang, we set out to explore the idea that one cannot exist without the other; that in working together, we create something neither of us could make alone. The short we developed, plays with the balance of opposites: light and dark, movement and stillness, strength and softness. It’s a celebration of collaboration, duality, and creative connection.

Symbolized by the bird (yang) and the fish (yin), the film reflects how our differences complement each other to form a whole. The film is a reminder that balance doesn’t mean sameness, it means being different in ways that make each other stronger. Once we established the fish and bird characters, we chose imagery to complement these opposites – water/sky, sun/moon, circles/squares. We storyboarded every movement around the song Lush by Northern Telekom, letting the music guide the pacing, tone, and transitions.

It must be a pretty nice feeling to recognise the synergy that you both have. How do your individual styles become unified and in what ways has your work developed alongside one another?

We’ve been working together for quite a while now, and even before officially teaming up, our creative styles were already compatible. So the transition from two independent creatives to a collaborative duo felt natural and easy. Over time, we’ve grown together—each of us influencing the other in meaningful ways. Our individual work has evolved, not just because of the collaboration, but also as a result of growing older and being shaped by the same inspirations and interests. Projects like this are where we really thrive. They’re fun, give us space to experiment, and let us create things we genuinely care about. In this sort of project we tend to work in a fluid, intuitive way—choosing the tasks we’re drawn to and following where the process takes us. Most of the time, we don’t even remember whose idea was what or who did what—and that’s exactly what we love about it. It feels like creating as one, with the strength of two.

In this sort of project we tend to work in a fluid, intuitive way—choosing the tasks we’re drawn to and following where the process takes us.

What tools and techniques did you employ for the film and how long was the creation process?

Everything has been done with Adobe on our computers using our tablets. We wanted to experiment with a look that we never tried before, whilst blending techniques we love; hand drawn animation, vectors for clean up and After Effects motion graphics. We’ve always loved using transitions to flow from scene to scene in a seamless way, and this technique felt ideal to enhance the feeling of flow and harmony. The entire piece was made by only the two of us. This meant that to make it achievable, the film needed to be a balance of shots that we put more time and love into, and shots that we were happy to be quicker with. It’s difficult to know how long it took because we’ve been on and off on it for a little while.

With Yin & Yang having evolved progressively over time, working to a self-imposed deadline, was it hard to stop and call the film complete?

It wasn’t hard to stop and call it complete—but actually getting it done was a different story! We had to keep putting it on hold to prioritise paid work and important life events, which meant there were long stretches where the project just sat untouched. Every time we came back to it, it took a while to get back into the flow—revisiting files, reconnecting with ideas, and rebuilding momentum. That stop-and-start rhythm definitely made the whole process take longer than we’d originally planned.

We had to keep putting it on hold to prioritise paid work and important life events, which meant there were long stretches where the project just sat untouched.

Traditionally Yin & Yang exist within a monochrome palette but here you deviated from strict black and white by including flashes of colour. What prompted that divergence?

The film was initially created in stark black and white to reflect the traditional Yin & Yang aesthetic but something was missing. Our work is often vibrant, playful, and full of colour. So we went back in and painted bold textured brush strokes onto many of the frames. These moments became a perfect representation of how we bring energy and joy into our work and into each other’s creative lives. It felt true to the concept of Yin & Yang opposites; rough animation over polished animation, colour over black and white, organic vs graphic.

The film is bookended with an eye – we’re welcomed with it and left with it at the end. What world are you inviting viewers to venture into?

It invites you into Wednesday’s dual mind—a journey of contrasts that unfolds from beginning to end, carried by music. It’s like seeing through both of Wednesday’s eyes at once.

For this project, the music came first—and it really shaped everything that followed.

I’m also curious if there are explicit call back Easter eggs nestled within this celebration of your creative partnership which those familiar with your past work might spot.

There’s nothing in this piece that specifically comes from work we’ve done before, except for more broadly speaking, our general love of bold colour, rough texture and graphic shapes. We haven’t previously done straight ahead abstract animation either – the point was to make something different and new, but that still feels like us. All about finding that balance.

Northern Telekom’s Lush accompanies the visuals so well! It’s vibrant and individualistic. How do you feel it influenced your visuals outside of just the timing and motion?

For this project, the music came first—and it really shaped everything that followed. We’ve known Northern Telekom for a while, he’s a friend and someone whose work we really admire. When we heard his track Lush, its dreamy, flowing rhythm immediately stood out as the perfect match for what we had in mind. So we reached out to ask if we could use it, and he kindly gave us the green light.

What’s the crack with any new projects or anything Wednesday Studio has coming up?

We’ve been working on a pilot for a children’s series, also on and off, hopefully one day not too far from now we will be able to release it.

An ode to acting, to performing, to tuning in with your inner emotions and healing yourself as an individual, Finegan Sampson’s grad short Teach Me How To Cry mines the existential fear of a middle-aged struggling actor who can no longer tap into the raw emotionality critical for his craft. What started as an anxiety experienced by Sampson as a young actor, sparked the idea and with it, a curiosity regarding the process an actor takes in showing pain on stage. Teach Me How To Cry is the embodiment of this, and working closely alongside actor Lachy Hulme, Finnegan channels his own experiences in order to create a film which examines themes of grief, masculinity, love and individual growth, both on and off the stage. Sampson and his crew also work wonders to create a world within a theatre stage that interlinks the audience and the characters’ emotions. Join us below for Teach Me How To Cry’s online premiere and our conversation with Sampson in which we discuss his collaboration with some of Australia’s top actors, the tight-knit shooting schedule and the true emotions that have been forged into his short film debut.

You’ve mentioned that you were an actor in your younger years. In what ways did this help shape the themes and areas you wanted to explore? How did the initial idea develop into the script?

I think I was exposed to having to be vulnerable in front of a lot of people. It was incredibly grounding – confronting, even. I had to force myself to be brave enough to enter a space I wasn’t entirely comfortable in. That experience sparked the initial idea for the film. I became fascinated by how some actors draw from personal trauma or push themselves into intense psychological spaces to deliver a performance that feels raw and truthful. In a way, they willingly hurt themselves, surrendering to the character—and then the audience applauds. That contradiction really struck me. The tension between self-sacrifice and celebration became the cornerstone of the film. From there I almost worked backwards, asking why someone might struggle to access that emotional space, and what they’d do if they simply couldn’t get there.

I wanted to explore the darker side of performance, the version where getting to that emotional place means reliving something deeply painful or confronting unresolved internal conflict.

I feel like there’s a common belief that actors can cry on cue as if it’s just a reflex or a trick. That emotional threshold is such a vulnerable place for a performer, and I remember experiencing it myself during a high school play. The character I was playing had to cry, and I found it incredibly difficult. Standing in front of an audience, trying to access something real. In researching for the film, I dove into various acting methodologies and found a recurring theme: many actors tap into real, often unresolved trauma to bring authenticity to their performances. I wanted to explore the darker side of performance, the version where getting to that emotional place means reliving something deeply painful or confronting unresolved internal conflict. That idea felt rich and unsettling, and from that came broader themes of vulnerability, grief, and masculinity.

The starting point was the monologue that bookends the film. It flowed out of me naturally and quickly became the emotional spine of the story. I wanted the film to open and close on that same monologue, but performed in two completely different ways—before and after Graeme’s internal journey. That gave the story a frame, and from there I built out the arc of a character who, by the end, realises he’s won—but in the wrong race. Framing it through the lens of a stoic, arrogant, middle-aged theatre actor who never quite made it, felt like the perfect starting point. From there, the rest of the story unfolded naturally.

The film evolved over six months. As it’s a character study at its core, I collaborated closely with my co-writer Tadji Ulrich to really dig into who Graeme is. We were interested in making him initially unlikeable, an arrogant actor who never made it but carries himself like he’s God’s gift to the craft. It was important that his bravado and ego read as a mask, one that conceals real pain. Our hope was that by the end of the film, the audience sees through the act and meets the person underneath, not with pity, but with understanding.

For a film which centres on the power of performance casting was always going to be key, how did you find your actors and work with them to build their characters?

Casting was the most crucial element. I knew that if we didn’t get Graeme right, the film wouldn’t work. Despite being a student production, I went straight to the top—approaching some of Australia’s most celebrated talent. I figured I had nothing to lose. Lachy Hulme was always in my mind for Graeme. He has a presence and intensity that felt perfect for the role. Opposite him, Michala Banas brought a grounded strength and emotional intelligence that made their dynamic electric. Lachy was preparing to shoot Furiosa at the time, so it took some persistence, but when both he and Michala signed on, it was a huge moment for me and for the team.

Teach Me How To Cry is clearly a personal project for you, it’s almost a mixture of your own emotions and the emotions of the character, Graeme. Were there any conversations between you and Lachy to find a common ground and develop this further? How did the relationship with the ex-girlfriend come around?

Lachy and I had a lot of conversations during pre-production. He’d never played a character quite like Graeme before, so I knew that for the performance to resonate, he needed to find some sort of truth in the character and Lachy himself needed to believe him. The version of Graeme that ended up on screen was the result of our shared investigation into how deeply Graeme had buried his pain, how desperately he was trying to outrun it and the tools he would use to do so. I also never wanted the audience to like Graeme right away. He’s arrogant, somewhat delusional, and a bit of an asshole. But underneath it, it was paramount that we still felt sorry for him, even if we didn’t know why yet.

The version of Graeme that ended up on screen was the result of our shared investigation into how deeply Graeme had buried his pain, how desperately he was trying to outrun it and the tools he would use to do so.

I won’t lie, it was a tug of war at times between Lachy and I. But I think that creative tension is part of what gave the character his complexity. I’m really grateful we pushed each other there. I always saw Maddy (Justina Noble), Graeme’s ex-girlfriend, as the embodiment of comfort—something familiar, grounding. Whether he admitted it or not, she was the most important thing in his life. And as we follow his journey, it becomes clear that without her, none of it matters, especially not the applause and validation. Even after delivering a monologue that’s painfully raw and beautiful, for him, the standing ovation isn’t worth the emotional cost. So Maddy really became the catalyst to Graeme’s journey of the entire story.

How was the journey for you and the crew, working alongside actors like Hulme and Michala Banas? Can you tell us some of the ways they added an extra layer of ‘oomph’ to the film?

We had the best time on set. We were all students at the time, so we were super green and excited. We definitely learnt so much from working with them. I think a time that all the crew remembers the most was shooting the two-hand scene between Michala and Lachy. We shot the wide first, and the moment the camera rolled, the entire set fell into silence. Because it was predominantly dialogue, we all got to sit back and watch them work. They were in such control, and they bounced off each other, giving the scene air where it needed it. There was a certain magic between Lachy and Michala, the way they pushed and pulled each other apart as the scene went on. The power dynamics, the shifts in tone, the vulnerability, it felt like a chess match, and it was incredible to watch as a young, green crew. You could see from both of their incredible experiences that they intuitively knew how to keep the tension pulsing throughout such a long dialogue scene. Without them and their incredible ability, the film wouldn’t have worked at all.

On set you took a no more than two takes per scene approach, was that due to time limitations or a preference for how that impacts the freshness of your actors’ performances? As a director what did you do to ensure an efficient and strong filming process and how did your crew support that?

Originally, the condensed shoot schedule was out of necessity, we had just three days to film due to the actors’ availability, even though we’d initially planned for five. But in the end, I don’t think we needed more than two or three takes per setup. That’s a testament to how strong the actors were. Every actor has their own process, and as a director, for me it was about finding a unique shorthand with each of them and knowing what works for them. In this case, they all thrived on momentum. They liked to keep things moving and fed off the energy that came with that pace.

Every actor has their own process, and as a director, for me it was about finding a unique shorthand with each of them and knowing what works for them.

As a crew, we could only keep up because of how thoroughly prepared we were. We’d had detailed pre-production meetings with our camera and lighting departments, so everyone knew exactly what was needed and when. Our incredible co-producer and 1st AD, Angela Lopez, was instrumental in keeping us on schedule. She made sure the next setup was always ready to go, sets were dressed, lighting was prepped, and the camera team could roll in without delay. As a director, I had a clear vision of how the film would cut together, so I knew exactly what coverage I needed for each scene. If we nailed it on the first take, I didn’t feel the need to overwork it, we’d move on. By the end of the shoot, it felt like everyone was in sync. There was a rhythm to the way we worked, and the whole team really embraced it.

What did you shoot Teach Me How To Cry on and what guided that decision?

We shot on the Alexa Mini LF with a set of vintage Canon FD lenses. I wanted the film to feel intimate—at times, almost uncomfortably close—despite being set in these grand, open theatre spaces. I worked closely with cinematographer Cameron Mitchell to create a visual language that supported that tension. The softness of the FD lenses paired with the scale of the LF sensor gave us something that felt raw, grounded, and large.

The majority of the film takes place on that same theatre stage. Tell us about the choices you made in terms of the cinematography and lighting to aid in developing and adding depth to the set and the characters that inhabit it.

Lighting was its own challenge. We had limited resources and a massive theatre to work with, but our gaffer Nick Smith did an amazing job collaborating with Cam to light the space in a way that felt both natural and expressive. Their planning in pre-production meant we could move fast while still capturing something visually rich. I wanted to use colour not just to differentiate the stage environment, but to reflect Graeme’s emotional journey. Whenever he was guarded or hiding behind his stoic facade, we leaned into cool tones – washes of blue, like in the opening scene. In contrast, when he finally allowed himself to be vulnerable and emotionally exposed, I shifted to warmer hues – deep reds and warm oranges, which we used in the final scene. It became a visual language for his inner state.

Design-wise, it was important that the stage felt big and bare, like a kind of emotional void. I wanted the audience to feel Graeme’s isolation when he performs. There’s nothing for him to hide behind. That starkness helped amplify the intimacy and tension of those moments. I also chose to shoot the stage scenes handheld. I didn’t want the cinematography to feel polished or overly composed. It needed to mirror the rawness and imperfection of his performance. It was important to me that the audience felt almost uncomfortably close to him in those emotionally charged moments and that we were with him when he was going into that state.

I wanted the audience to feel Graeme’s isolation when he performs. There’s nothing for him to hide behind. That starkness helped amplify the intimacy and tension of those moments.

And when it came to the edit, how was that stage of the process?

We were lucky to have a lot of time to cut the film which is always a dream. Our editor, Sara Riippa, did an exceptional job shaping the rhythm of the film, creating space for both tension and emotionally charged moments to land. From the outset, we envisioned the dialogue playing out like a tennis match, with the audience’s attention bouncing back and forth between characters. Every cut was deliberate: how long we held on a character, when we’d come in and come out — all of it was designed to mirror the emotional intent of the scene and keep the viewer locked into the characters’ inner worlds.

Your film touches on more than just an actor’s failing career. It looks at masculinity, grief and acceptance. Why did you choose to focus on these components of life? In what ways did they transform and evolve? What did you do to ensure it peaked in the final scene of your film?

I think those themes/components are what make up Graeme’s ‘mask’. They’re the barriers that stop him from being honest in his performance, and ultimately, with himself. I feel as though grief and acceptance especially are such universal experiences, everyone goes through them in some form and they’re so often interwoven. Grief doesn’t exist without some form of denial, and acceptance doesn’t come without going through the pain. Throughout the story, Graeme is in constant resistance to acceptance. He refuses to admit that his monologue doesn’t work. He refuses to acknowledge how much Maddy’s absence affects him. He’s clinging to this outdated sense of masculinity – a stoic, proud, emotionally repressed facade, as a way to avoid facing what’s really bubbling underneath. So when he finally delivers that last monologue, it’s the moment acceptance breaks through. It’s not just about the monologue, it’s the moment he surrenders to his grief. And it hurts him. But in that pain, there’s truth.

To me, those three components, grief, masculinity, and acceptance are deeply intertwined. They build the scaffolding of who Graeme has become, and by the end, they also dismantle him. And Lex, his acting coach, becomes the instrument to do so. She doesn’t just challenge him as a performer, she forces him to confront himself. I think that confrontation is what allows the film to peak in the final scene because it’s the moment where performance and personal truth finally collide. From a writing perspective, I intentionally crafted the monologue Graeme performs to loosely mirror what he’s going through in his own life. I wanted to blur the line between himself and the character he is playing on stage, to show how he uses his personal experience as a bridge into the role, reaching for truth through performance. That overlap between real emotion and rehearsed dialogue was key to making the scene resonate. I think visually though, Graeme’s hallucination of Maddy in the front row is what elevates that entire last monologue. It’s the collision point, his personal grief, his unresolved feelings, and the performance all folding in on each other. That vision of her anchors him in the truth he’s been running from.

Are there any new projects from you that we should keep our eyes out for?

I have recently just finished a new short, co-directing with Michala Banas called Packed Away which will be entering the festival circuit soon. I’m also finishing writing my first feature that will hopefully be entering development soon.

The devastating reality of mental illness extends far beyond the individual, creating ripple effects that can consume entire families in cycles of crisis and recovery. Directing brothers tao/s (Aaron and Winston Tao), who first hit the DN’s pages with their grounded and considered depiction of the dark actuality of child sex trafficking The Rabbit Hole, understand this intimately, having lived through the relentless demands of caring for a mother with schizoaffective bipolar disorder. Their short film Very Still, Very Quiet emerges from this profoundly personal experience, offering an unflinching portrayal of how mental health struggles reverberate through family systems, particularly within Asian American communities where such topics remain heavily stigmatised. By executing the narrative as an unbroken single shot, the tao/s drop audiences directly into the overwhelming experience of living with severe mental illness. This technical restraint creates profound intimacy, forcing viewers to inhabit the same overwhelming, breathless space as the family members struggling to maintain stability while their world revolves around their loved one’s decompensation. As cultural barriers around mental health discourse slowly begin to dissolve, the Tao brothers’ short stands as both personal testimony and artistic achievement, challenging audiences to confront uncomfortable truths about how society responds to those living with severe mental illness. As Very Still, Very Quiet premieres with Directors Notes today, we speak to the duo about the therapy they found in translating a story so close to them into a film, needing an injection of dark humour and why and when they break the oner in the narrative.

I know you were both looking to address a long overdue cultural dialogue surrounding mental illness, specifically, in the Asian American community.

Very Still, Very Quiet originated from our feature script, Goodbye, Hurricane. It’s a very personal memoir based on a time when we were attempting to conserve our schizoaffective bipolar mother from her volatile, self-destructive behavior. So, this was a stitched-together pulled from various parts in the feature. The main feeling we wanted to capture in this pitch was the cyclical revolving door aspect of grave mental illness and its effect on caregiving families. Yes, it’s heavy, chaotic, painful to watch but it’s also deeply real and poignantly human. It’s a very taboo topic that people shy away from – especially Asian households. And understandably so. There’s a very fine line here – a balance of not wanting to put those with grave mental illness in a negative light, yet needing to simultaneously show the reality of the situation as it affects family units – because mental illness is as much about the family as it is about the individual.

It took us years to be able to communicate with our mom whenever she would decompensate into psychosis – the problem, we found, was in how we were writing her off. Not necessarily in what she was saying. So, the way we wanted to execute this was to show how nobody is listening to each other. Here is this Asian family – where mental illness is deeply taboo – all trying to control someone who is very much uncontrollable – and they’re all doing it in their own chaotic way. For example, Uncle Ping’s ultra-charismatic beliefs and prayers are – in many ways – just as tumultuous as Daisy’s schizophrenia. Which makes it darkly comedic. And Jacob and Vivian busy themselves with resettling their mom as she’s just come back from the hospital, yet refuse to hear her out – constantly combatting all her surface-level paranoia.

We need to listen to those struggling with mental illness more – rather than immediately discredit and marginalize them.

What were the main experiences of the condition that you wanted to hone in on?

A lot of our mother’s schizophrenia dealt with auditory hallucinations as well as thoughts of grandeur. Her, listening to the voices in her head – not listening to reality. It’s easy to point the finger and say those voices aren’t real. Don’t listen to them. But the irony is the fear and the pain and the anxiety – they’re very much real feelings. So how do you navigate that as caretakers? Where do families turn to for help when they begin experiencing burnout through secondary trauma? That’s what we’re wanting to dialogue about in this film.

The family’s response is the audience’s response – “Don’t listen to her, she’s crazy.” And yet – the irony – is the family is the one who isn’t listening at all. They’re not hearing her. They only hear the crazy things on the surface – and completely neglect her underlying pain and fear. They don’t have time for it. They’re exasperated by it. And this is something that, even though we don’t have enough time to address in the short, it’s a dominant theme in the feature. How we need to listen to those struggling with mental illness more – rather than immediately discredit and marginalize them. It’s what the main character, Jacob, eventually comes to realize in the feature. How to hear what his mom is really saying underneath all the chaotic confusion – and the moment he does that, he accepts that this is his new mother, and then – and only then – can he begin to build a new relationship with her.

This is such an open and exposing short. I can only imagine the challenges this posed but what advantages did you find telling a story so close and intimate to you?

Working through this short was deeply therapeutic for us because it allowed us to work through very complicated feelings. We’re mainly trying to work on honing our voice as filmmakers, so it made logical sense to develop something so close to us. This process has also allowed us to really hone in on the themes we’re wanting to explore for the feature as well. The biggest advantage we found during this process was realizing how much more time we need to be spending with our mom in the feature. So we’re currently in the process of doing a complete rewrite on it. The short, and the feature it was originally based off of, mainly follows Jacob, the son. But after going through this process we’ve realized that the real story is with our mom.

She truly is/was a fascinating woman – trying to raise three children as a single parent wrestling with schizoaffective bipolar disorder. We remember how she’d clean the gymnasium at 5 am every morning in exchange for free gymnastics lessons. How she’d trade chiropractic work for free basketball lessons with our basketball coach for NJB. And how she provided for us as much as she could – despite being on food stamps and welfare. She worked relentlessly and tirelessly for us. Even though we never had much growing up, now that we’re older, we know she loved and fought for us as much as she could – despite the paranoia, hallucinations, and delusion. In our society, someone like her wouldn’t even be given a second look – but to us, she’s a hero. So the more we dove into this project, the more we realized that we wanted to balance our POV with hers as much as we could – and those are the changes we’ve allowed ourselves to embrace and continue to work on in the future.

Very Still, Very Quiet explores how nobody is listening to each other. How did the writing and shaping of the story come together to hear each part and for us to sympathise with everyone individually in the run-time of a short?

The family dynamics shaped the story so writing our own dysfunction was quite easy to write, haha. Not listening to each other is a theme that runs through many families – throw in severe mental illness and that issue gets exacerbated. In our own journey with trying to caretake for our mom, we learned – through NAMI and other health professionals – that the best way to talk to someone with severe mental illness is to first listen to them. It seems counterintuitive since what they’re saying – many times – is not grounded in reality. It’s quite bizarre. But there’s an underlying fear they’re voicing and if you can really take the time to hear that fear then you can begin a discourse with them.

We don’t have the time to really have that full arc in the short where our protagonist begins to really hear his mom – on the contrary, he’s not listening at all. He’s actually the audience, who kind of doesn’t really know how to proceed in this situation and his story is more of a commentary on the revolving door of the mental health cycle. But listening is a larger theme we touch upon in the feature.

The busybody neighbour and Uncle Ping are such brilliant characters and give us permission to laugh.

We definitely felt like we needed moments of dark humor so the nosy neighbor and Uncle Ping were those characters to us. Many of the people in our mom’s mobile home complex and church were so quick to help in the beginning – but then completely abandoned us when the going got tough. It’s a common issue many family members experience – whether it’s local churches or friends or other family members. But severe mental illness is really a marathon for family members closest to those living with that illness. And many can’t handle it – which is totally understandable. It’s a lot. Which is why many family members and caretakers experience burnout through secondary trauma. The busybody neighbor represents this – where she’s existing primarily for local gossip – even though she comes across as trying to help. But at the end of the day she’s just a nosy busybody and we all know these types of people. We felt that we needed to put her in for both realism and levity.

We couldn’t rely on cuts to make the scene feel interesting. Sound design ended up playing a huge factor in immersing our audience into the scene.

Did you have an immediate idea for the visual representation of what you wanted to depict?

Visually, we wanted to film this in a one-take shot because for us it was all about dropping the audience into the single moment in time that feels like a hurricane. When our mom would cycle in and out of the hospital, we had this feeling of a whirlwind, a constant hurricane of emotions and how her struggle with mental illness really pulled the entire family in. It is not just the individual who is wrestling with this, it is the entire family. And the only way we felt we could really have the audience feel this feeling was if it was done in a one take so that was very important to us. We also knew we wanted to disrupt the oner in the end during the climax because this is the moment things take a turn for the worse – this is the moment that is no longer familiar to the family, and we had to find a way to accent that notion visually. Our good friend and incredibly talented filmmaker, Samm Hodges, had just done a one-take for his short, so he helped us achieve the same vision for this film as well.

The biggest challenge then came adding nuance to the pacing and finding ways to keep things interesting visually and audibly when everything is a one-er. Usually you have the luxury of building the edit through visuals and cuts, but because we filmed everything pretty much in one-shot takes that we stitched together in the end, we couldn’t rely on cuts to make the scene feel interesting. Sound design ended up playing a huge factor in immersing our audience into the scene.

The moment you disrupt the oner we get serious – how did you adapt the pace and tone so we, as an audience, register that without jarring us?

The entire time we’ve been addressing the fact that something’s not right but it’s more in a tertiary way – a bit indirectly. All we know is that all the family members are bumbling about trying to help Daisy. But the moment Jacob finishes throwing away the trash, it is where we do get serious and we say OK, this is where we’re now taking mental health seriously. We can’t be making a joke out of it the entire time. But it’s also the first time we experience this moment of ‘stillness’. Because up until now we’re literally like Daisy – bouncing from one scenario to the next – one family member to the next – she’s like a hurricane and just pulls you into her world – whether you want to be sucked in or not. She dictates the pace. And you can’t help but follow.

This little moment when Jacob looks up at the sky after this brief stillness – and sees two birds circling each other – it’s us saying that even though there’s this little break, it’s not going to end – he’ll keep going in circles until he somehow figures out how to change things – if he can change things. He’s the little bird chasing momma bird endlessly. It starts with him having just returned from the hospital and ends with him back in the hospital – all trying to take care of his mom – nothing’s changed. So, even though it feels a bit different in pacing, it’s very much still the same world and language – just that subtle shift which the audience feels with the birds but probably doesn’t know why.

The actual one-er gets disrupted though after Jacob comes back into the kitchen and has that final encounter with his mom, Daisy. We wanted the entire film up until that point to feel like we were just dropping the audience into a day in the life of Jacob and his family. We’re just following him as an audience member, bobbing and weaving our way through every interaction and encounter. Everything feels familiar, overwhelming, and overbearing at times – until it doesn’t. Once Daisy asks Jacob to save the blood, we wanted to break the one-er here to emphasize that this moment is foreign to Jacob – this moment doesn’t feel familiar at all. In fact, it feels disrupting – so it always made sense to us that we needed to disrupt the film at this point and immerse the audience into the moment as best as we could.

I’d love to know about shot planning and the focus you give to all of the characters individually, without it seeming obvious, and how long you knew the camera needed to be on them.

We knew we had to adopt a certain style of filmmaking that would allow the audience to be completely immersed in the short, but feel as if they were a part of it as well. It was important for us to establish this feeling of being in a real-time hurricane/whirlwind for the short, and we felt it was crucial for us to constantly be moving the camera since the camera represented Daisy – so the decision to do this as a one-er where we’re bouncing back and forth to different characters only felt right. She’s constantly on the move – looking for safety, trying to figure things out – very frenetic. Almost like you can’t catch your breath. So if we’re on a character or moment too long that means we’re not doing our jobs right.

At the same time we also wanted to give a slight sense of surrealism from the family’s perspective since it’s their story too – where what we’re seeing feels almost like a dream, not reality (hence the Steadicam rather than handheld). But knowing when to move from one character to another really came down to the blocking and getting the chance to really immerse ourselves in the scene through prep to find those moments when we felt like we needed to move the camera, and when we needed to hold it.

Page Leong delivers an incredible performance. What specific direction did you give her to find the humanity beneath the symptoms and how did you ensure her performance remained truthful to your mother’s experience without becoming imitative?

One of the challenges of doing shorts is that actors of Page’s calibre don’t necessarily audition – you either cast them or you don’t. But because of the sensitive and personal nature of the material, you can imagine how we would not cast if we did not audition them. We’re grateful that our casting director, Shyree Mezick, was willing to work with us on this and understood why we were needing people to audition specifically for Daisy. There are a lot of tropes and stereotypes in playing a character with this illness, so it was a very difficult process. But the moment we saw Page audition, we saw glimpses of our mother, and it completely broke us. She just got it. When she came in, she really captured the nuance and complexity of the role immediately. Without diving into too much detail, we discovered that she also has a familiarity with the illness due to proximity, so there was a level of honesty she was able to really bring out in her performance – and it became a really collaborative relationship from that moment forward.

There are a lot of tropes and stereotypes in playing a character with this illness, so it was a very difficult process.

We remember reading an article about how Mark Ruffalo had approached his twin brother characters in I Know This Much is True and how he was scared of playing the symptoms of schizophrenia and not the person. That is the most difficult part and what most actors struggle with – this notion that “I’m crazy so I need to act crazy.” The honesty Mark was describing was that this is a person, first and foremost – and that person has a personality that needs to be explored first. Once you understand that, then you introduce the illness – because now it’s a person with an illness, rather than a stereotype. We brought this up to Page and had an amazing chat with her about this – so that was our North Star and she truly did such an amazing job. At the end of one of the final takes in the kitchen it was so powerful that Winston and I just hugged Page and we all cried together. Definitely a special moment that we bonded over – something inherently understood between all of us.

How did you use sound to create the emotional peaks and valleys that would traditionally be achieved through editing rhythms?

We knew we couldn’t rely on editing since it was going to be a one-er so we had to plan for our sound design from the very beginning – what would the characters be hearing in each of the rooms and how would the natural sounds be moving the story forward? The sound really had to become another character completely. It had to do multiple things at once: push us from one character to another while pulling us from one room to the next – so we had to use it to really enhance the world because we also knew that there would be natural visual lulls in a one-er. So if we had one character moving from one room to the next, what we would be hearing as they left that room and walked into the next was crucial because the visuals of that might not be that interesting. It was a dance letting the characters and the sound drive the film.

You describe “stitching together” multiple one-shot takes in post. How did you ensure they didn’t disrupt the feeling of continuous time? What were the technical markers you used to match action and maintain the illusion?

A good buddy of ours, Samm Hodges, was able to help guide us through some of these moments since he had just done a one-take short, Tender. He had come to our set for the first day and we were talking through a lot of our shots together. We learned that it was easier to stitch together slow-moving shots rather than fast ones (counter-intuitive to what you’d think!) and had to plan certain moments when we’d ‘cut’ into a new scene. Because the house was so small, it gave us extra advantage to stitching shots together though which was great – like using the hallways and walls as cut-points.

We feel it’s important to be true and honest when you’re depicting these things – to not shy away from the heaviness.

I know this is a universal story but from an Asian-American perspective where there is a taboo around mental health. How has the reception been and I want to know why it is important to you both to put these stories onto screen and to an audience?

There’s a constant balancing act with this particular type of story – portraying things as they were, yet simultaneously giving the audience that much-needed emotional reprieve. With the current cultural climate, people are wanting something more fun or makes them feel good inside – escapist viewing, so this particular story isn’t suited for those situations – and that’s understandable. The feature allows for much more nuance and dives more deeply into our mom’s character and struggle – allowing the audience to empathize with her journey – something the short doesn’t have time for.

This short was accepted into Hollyshorts as well as the Los Angeles Asian American Film Festival. After it screened at Hollyshorts we did have some people reach out to us and tell them how powerful it was and how it made them think – and we were able to chat with them about mental health some more. We’ll be able to see more of how it sits with audiences once it’s released online. For this particular story, we both felt it was so important to us because it’s our story – it’s our way of processing our upbringing – working through the familial issues. And we feel it’s important to be true and honest when you’re depicting these things – to not shy away from the heaviness. In the end, we do believe that audiences will connect with the honest emotions that we’re wrestling with – and, at the very least, allow for thoughtful dialogue around mental health issues that affect both those afflicted with mental health as well as their caregivers.

How is the feature progressing and what else are you working on?

Yes, we currently have a feature version of this story in the works but we’ve pushed it back on our slate. Right now we’re working on another feature we’re developing with a close friend and collaborator of ours, Preston Lee at Sanctuary Content. It’s a psychological drama/thriller tentatively called A Family about an upstanding couple, who, unable to start a family of their own, resort to kidnapping an at-risk baby from a pair of junkies. We’re really excited about it and are looking to shoot in the Fall of this year – more to come soon

James and Harrison Newman, last featured on DN for their infidelity art exhibition comedy Do Not Touch, return to our pages with another cringe-inducing short which this time takes shots at the exploitative world of the gig economy. Amigo, directed by the two brothers and written by James and fellow No Context Productions co-director Tom Waterhouse, puts forth a pointed examination of the commodification of human connection, but of course with lots of laughs. The film’s well-executed satire shines through perceptive character observation, astute storytelling and a brilliant performance from returning collaborator, comedian Seann Walsh. Their cinematographic approach eschews technical showboating in favour of a grounded realism that makes the absurd rent-a-friend premise feel uncomfortably plausible. This visual honesty serves the thematic content perfectly – technology’s promise of seamless human connection at our fingertips reduced to the mundane reality of a branded hi-vis wearing cyclist struggling through ultimately vacuous interactions in the hope of a 5-star rating. Amigo’s structural compression, distilling six planned series episodes into ten minutes, forces every moment to earn its place. The film operates in four distinct acts, each gear change deliberately jarring to mirror the protagonist’s fecklessness within his circumstances and results in a comedy that deftly interrogates the exploitation of the working class for the convenience of the upper classes and profiteering of big tech without ever losing its sense of humour. Welcoming the No Context trio back for Amigo’s premiere, we speak to them about navigating the challenge of lampooning the gig economy without becoming preachy, the process of distilling six web series episodes into a ten-minute short film and their philosophy of working with limited budgets while maintaining high production values.

Every good story has to start somewhere, where did this one begin?

James Newman: The project first began back in 2017, when I was working at Stolen Picture with my good friend Annabelle Robertson, who was the general manager at the time. We were chatting about ideas for TV shows and landed on the concept of a ‘rent-a-boyfriend’ service. I took the idea to my co-writer, Tom Waterhouse, and together we started developing it further. I wanted to explore the concept through the lens of the gig economy, and that twist eventually led us to the idea of a male escort who could be hired through an app. Tom and I wrote a pilot for a TV show around this, but it ended up sitting on our hard drives and didn’t gain much traction on the script competition circuit.

After a break from writing and following the premiere of Do Not Touch with DN, I started thinking about what to do next. That’s when we revisited this idea. What stood out to me – what made me laugh and feel something – wasn’t the sex work itself, but the ways people might not use the app for its intended purpose. They might hire the guy to hold their spot in a queue, or to bulk out a sparse funeral crowd. That kind of innocence and misguided naivety from the users was what gave the idea its charm.

We decided the best way to get it out into the world was to turn the pilot into a short film.

How did the story then evolve to where it is now?

JN: Instead of a rent-a-boyfriend or a prostitution app, we reimagined it as a rent-a-friend platform. From there, we wrote six 10-minute episodes for a web series. Everyone we pitched it to said, “You need to make this now before someone else does.” We tried to move forward with a producer, but the shopping agreement they sent included a clause that would have handed over the IP – without a release clause – so we walked away. If anything, that made us even more determined to make it ourselves. We decided the best way to get it out into the world was to turn the pilot into a short film. After parting ways with the previous producer, I showed the short to Guy Lindley, who came on board to produce. We submitted the project to the Talkies Short Film Commission, won, and suddenly had a deadline. So Tom and I dove back in, adapting the pilot into a short. We shot it over three days in January 2024, on a tight budget of just £4,000.

There is a darkness to the comedy entrenched in the shittyness of the gig economy and the extremes people have to go to. How did you approach satirising this world without becoming too preachy or obvious?

JN: What we wanted to explore was the human service element of technology. There’s the fancy tech platform, and then there’s the reality of the service, which is that of a bloke on a bike, who’s shattered and grumpy from having to cycle everywhere. I think with satire, you need to make your own mind up, and not just take the line of whatever political identity you identify with. I think it becomes boring and predictable when you don’t treat the world with the ability for multiple ideas to be true at the same time; you’re just ramming a Guardian article down the throat of the audience. Life is complicated and messy.

Tom Waterhouse: The gig economy is based on mutual judgment. Your Uber score is taken into consideration, just as the Uber driver relies on ratings for future work. It creates a situation where we both judge one another for the betterment of our experience. We thought that would be funny applied to friendship but at the cost of an inauthentic, paid relationship. But we didn’t want to judge – I would much rather my friends were funnier, not funnier than me, obviously, but a baby bear type situation. And I’m Goldilocks. I’ve forgotten the question.

Harrison Newman: We used this theme like a lens, we allowed it to distort the viewer’s perception of the way Dustin saw the world. While many thrive within the gig economy, others use it to slack more and this is where Dustin fits in. His selfish nature drew him to it, as he could choose when to work, he could control his life more. Then coming to the rude awakening when his girlfriend forces him out of the house on a job. I think it was more the progression of the technology we’re trying to interrogate. As in, where would these companies go if there were more relaxed restrictions? It’s looking at where Uber would be if you could rent people. Similar to the profession in Japan, where you can rent a person for a day. In the western world it would be at your fingertips and at the buyer’s convenience.

How did you identify which elements were essential to preserve the core story when compressing all the material you had for the web series?

JN: I think it was an amalgamation of its best ideas, which ideas were sticking with us that naturally fit the structure of the short film. The film does feel like a mini showcase of what the series could be. There’s a lot that never made it, but the ideas that did make it into the short really played with the rent-a-friend app.

HN: We tried to find a story that distilled the essence of what we were trying to create in the web series. At its heart, Amigo is about Dustin, and we took the underlying story of the protagonist and manipulated it into a short film. Quite a tough leap.

We used this theme like a lens, we allowed it to distort the viewer’s perception of the way Dustin saw the world.

The rent-a-friend concept could easily become a showcase for absurdity but Seann is so level in his performance. How did you ensure he remained relatable rather than slipping into a comedic caricature?

JN: We’ve worked with Seann a lot now and we’ve always played for truth and let him and the scene, or the situations do the heavy lifting. Seann is brilliant and he will naturally find the beats of the scene and know what’s funny to happen to the character without being overtly funny in the scene. I think as soon as someone tries to be funny, you lose the verisimilitude, and the comedy should come from characters acting and reacting to their situations.

TW: Seann definitely has to take a lot of the credit. He has an incredible knack of coming across as likeable despite being desperately pathetic. In the film.

HN: Seann brought a lot of that to the character. He knew that the situation is ridiculous in its nature and that the best way to play it is straight. Let the absurdity of the situation run itself. He was finding moments to play off, which especially in his last monologue he brought fantastic performances.

I know that this brilliant, polished version of the edit isn’t the first. How did you distinguish between scenes that were nice to have versus absolutely essential? What was your litmus test?

JN: Through the test screenings, anything that didn’t get a laugh was out. Everything unnecessary that didn’t push the characters the scene story forward was gone. I think with comedy, it should be as long as it needs to be and edited like you’re embarrassed for the length of it, especially with shorts.

TW: Test screenings really are a game-changer. We saw the film die on its arse early on and knew it needed major surgery. James and I had just seen the Gibbons’ Brothers discuss their work on Alpha Papa and how they’d had a terrible test screening and realised the piece had too much ‘air’ in it and they needed to suck that air out and make it as punchy as possible. That helped a lot. And, even more so moving forward.

HN: There were no scenes dropped, we just trimmed down all the air and pulled out what we deemed unnecessary dialogue. When the crunch is on like that it becomes purely what progresses the story.

We need to set up the concept in 30 seconds, see the reality of the concept play out in like a minute and then go into the story, so the short is essentially in four acts.

You’re now writing it as a spec TV pilot again. How has making the short film informed your approach to the series format?

JN: In writing, you’re guessing people’s reactions and that happens in a silo. And as a different format you have the luxury of time, where with this, it was like we need to set up the concept in 30 seconds, see the reality of the concept play out in like a minute and then go into the story, so the short is essentially in four acts, and I think you can feel the gear changes a bit more with the amount of stuff we have to get through in such a short time. But with the pilot now, everything has time to breathe, and you can explore parts with more depth with more time. So, everything in the short could be turned into themes of an episode or series, as this short is probably too dense.

Your budget and the ultimate quality level of the short are something to aim for!

JN: We have to credit Harrison, Guy Lindley, Ben Halford, and the cast and crew who gave up their time to get this made, and all the kind people who backed us, as well as the Talkies Film Commission and the locations. Ben did an excellent job as DOP. He made it look way more expensive. Guy was a great haggler and very determined in the way he approached things – he really stepped up our production in terms of what we accessed and accomplished.

TW: James won’t do it, but he deserves equal credit for this. Without his vision and headstrong determination, none of this would have happened, along with the other films we’ve made. He is the master of making magic happen out of nothing. This boy can really polish a turd.

HN: We are lucky to have an incredible network through our networks that we can pull an awful lot of favours and kind people we know.

The project spans from 2017 to 2024. Did your perspective on the gig economy and social apps evolve during that time? Have real-world developments changed your approach to the material?

JN: Great question. Yes, I was fearing an actual Amigo app would come out before we’d done anything with it, making this project no longer satire. I was on the tube platform and I saw an ad for “Amicable,” which is a divorce application – so the opposite of Amigo, I guess.

There’s a reason why it’s sticking around in the back of your mind, or there’s a reason why you’re drawn to it. It may just need slight tweaking to make it work where it feels like it’s the obvious form.

Looking back on those years of development, what advice would you give to other filmmakers sitting on scripts that “didn’t gain much traction”? When is it worth revisiting old material, and when should you move on?

JN: For this story, I’m going to say it was me, but it wasn’t me, it was someone I used to work with, but it sounds better, trust me… So I was in a lift with Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton, showing them to an edit suite, and I asked them for advice and they said, “Never throw anything away”. I think that’s valuable advice because there’s always value in anything, even if it doesn’t work in the instance you think, there’s a reason why it’s sticking around in the back of your mind, or there’s a reason why you’re drawn to it. It may just need slight tweaking to make it work where it feels like it’s the obvious form. I think the biggest change with the 2025 pilot is that we’ve now figured it out, the kinks of the short and what it should have been… You see much better, and I’ve filled out the word count.

HN: I don’t think either has a time-based expiration. I think it’s a feeling. If it’s no longer fun if it doesn’t spark something in you. Give it time to breathe, don’t get so caught up in making something now.

What is fresh and cracking right now on your roster?

JN: We’ve got the Ladder, which is a short that’s part-funded, and writing more pilots, features, and shorts.

TW: Alongside Amigo, No Context Productions has two other films currently on the circuit (Mum’s the Word & Imagine Me and You), while we develop Amigo into a 30-minute pilot (as mentioned).

Not all wars or wounds are loud, visible or shouted about. A tragic truth that inspired Azerbaijani filmmaker Suad Gara, haunted by the aftermath of the 2020 Nagorno-Karabakh war, to put on screen. Fascinated by the tales told by a local guide as she traversed a cemetery in the mountainous Ismaili region, Gara found her location and Qaragh (Wake Up) started to take shape. The fantastical drama is not only a profound examination of trauma, memory, and the ghosts that haunt returning soldiers but a powerfully authentic narrative where you find yourself surrendering to the unexpected. Once production was underway, Gara made the bold choice to abandon Azerbaijani dialogue in favour of the local Lezgin, one of the Caucasus region’s endangered languages, which redefined the film’s soul. The switch creates an intentional foreignness that mirrors the protagonist’s psychological displacement while simultaneously serving as an act of cultural preservation and resistance for the marginalised Lezgin community. Qaragh blurs the lines between documentary and fiction as the film’s visual language emerged organically from practical constraints, handheld camera work born from directing non-professionals becomes a stylistic strength, while the natural light and lack of sun they experienced in fact served as an advantage and the interplay with ancient cemetery settings created an otherworldly atmosphere perfectly suited to the protagonist’s hallucinatory state. Gara’s background as an artistic director translates beautifully to this film, treating each collaborator as an essential part of a cohesive whole throughout the entire process and as Qaragh premieres on DN, she speaks to us about working with a predominantly local cast and crew from the very village in which she was shooting, realising the language was wrong after 25 takes of her opening scene and making a film about PTSD from a female perspective.

Although it may seem obvious, considering the times we are living in, how did you find yourself making a film about war?

I had travelled to the mountainous region of Ismaili with some friends, and when we went on a hike, our guide was wearing a camouflage print suit. He was walking through this incredible scenery, and I asked if I could film him with my little Sony camera I brought along. Without knowing, as I was following him, we arrived at this ancient cemetery that emerged out of nowhere. He told us this was a 13th-century military cemetery, as soldiers were buried right there after the battle. In the 19th century, they had built a temple there where locals went during holidays and for spring rituals to pray and cleanse themselves. It was so fascinating to me, and the picture of him in that cemetery was imprinted in my mind, and I just had to make a film there. The subject revealed itself. There is a tendency to celebrate veterans when they come back victorious; however, little is said about the psychological repercussions and PTSD they continue to carry.

The film was then born in the aftermath of the Karabakh War of 2020. As we were gearing up to the shoot, the Ukraine war started in February 2022, and my DoP had to escape Moscow after protesting and almost getting arrested so we managed to bring her to Baku for the shoot and she ended up staying and living there for the next 2 years. War felt very close throughout the shoot for the entire team, so when we went into production, I asked for a no phone policy on set. As we were constantly checking phones for news and updates, I wanted us to have a safe creative space from the barrage of violence so we could really do the work and somehow hopefully heal in the process.

I went to the village multiple times, and during casting, my producers and I talked a lot about who we were, our process, and the story. It also helped hiring a local as production manager.

How did you face production in such a remote part of the world and also build out your cast of predominantly non-professional actors?

Ismaili is a town 3 hours away from the capital of Baku. And Qalaciq, the village where we shot the film, is a small village another 40 minutes up the mountain. The population is mostly Lezgin, which is one of the few ethnic minorities of Azerbaijan. I was set on working with local villagers, and out of the entire cast, only the lead actor is a professional. Suri, who plays the little girl, has never acted before. Rivka, who gives birth in the opening scene, was a brave, beautiful woman who agreed to be filmed nude whilst pregnant, a very big rarity for Azerbaijani realities. My producer found her through a callout on social media. The rest of the cast are local villagers.

I went to the village multiple times, and during casting, my producers and I talked a lot about who we were, our process, and the story. It also helped hiring a local as production manager, and we had the female village elder be our casting manager and some of the local women our caterers. They all felt like they could really get involved. It is a very remote village and a close-knit community with not much going on apart from their daily lives so we were a very welcome distraction. The best part was working with the ladies and getting them all dressed up. They loved their costumes, which were equal parts modest and therefore within their comfort zone, but also whimsical enough for them to have fun with them. They loved hanging out on set and did not mind waiting for long hours for the sun to be where it needed to be. They sang their traditional songs, and I even used one of them for the soundtrack. And of course, the fact that we switched to Lezgin language immediately made them appreciate us more, because they rarely ever get to hear or read it through official channels.

I want to know all about your use of that local dialect and the impact this had on your story.

The first scene we shot was of the veteran interrupting his mother during their preparations for the spring ritual. We were originally set to shoot it in the Azerbaijani language, and we had selected one of the ladies to play the role of the mother with a few lines. However, it just was not landing, and after take 25, I had to stop. It just was not working. And then it occurred to me that we are using the wrong language. Their own language that they still speak among themselves is predominantly Lezgin. It’s one of the almost extinct languages of the Caucasus. So I said let’s switch it, and with that we also had to switch the role of mother to Rahila. Our actor learnt the few lines in Lezgin on the spot, and in 5 takes we had our scene. It was a beautiful moment that defined the rest of the film, as Lezgin language sounds so mysterious and magical to all Azeri speakers that even the local crew was somehow invited into this world of the villagers that was otherwise closed to us. So even our title ended up being in Lezgin, like a foreign chant as a result. It became an important way for us to honour the villagers who welcomed us with open hearts. They waited for hours for the correct light, we lived in their homes, and we also hired them to cook our meals. So it was a beautiful symbiosis. We stayed there one week for prep and around a week for the shoot.

In what ways does using Lezgin as the primary language serve as both an artistic choice and a form of cultural resistance? How does this decision invite audiences into a world that might otherwise remain closed and unknown to them?

It became obvious to me on day one of the shoot that we had to switch to Lezgin right away. Not only to honour our cast but also to stay true to reality and to remain within their comfort zone. Once they started speaking it, I realised how foreign it sounded to me, and that invited an artistic aspect of language itself, adding to the mysticism of the film. For Azerbaijani public, to watch a film that switches to Lezgin is as enigmatic as watching a foreign language film. So you are watching a familiar village and scenery but in a language you don’t understand, which creates a necessary distance for the fantasy elements of the film. But also hopefully invites a social awareness of the lack of representation. Lezgin also has that audible quality of sounds that are different to the ones we are used to in Azerbaijani, like stronger Gh and Kh. When Suri said her line in Lezgin, “Qaragh,” I realised it sounds like a spell, so we immediately had our title.

For Azerbaijani public, to watch a film that switches to Lezgin is as enigmatic as watching a foreign language film.

You prioritise visual storytelling and poetic imagery, but the narrative remains true.

It is important to me to stay rooted in the reality of what we are shooting, but at the same time, allowing a sense of playfulness and perhaps exaggeration in service of the story, to create a sort of journey and an artistic experience for the viewer. In this film, we used a handheld camera most of the time to stay close to the main character and feel his psychological shifts, but also because all other cast were non-professionals, so it was a challenge to direct them and block a scene. So the handheld camera allowed us the flexibility to move around freely and be reactive to the surroundings. And yet some other scenes were cued perfectly, with when the girl should enter the frame and how she should move through an already moving crowd. Part of it was also coming to a point of synchronicity, of the procession moving in unison, for example, which we managed to achieve by doing many, many takes, until the villagers almost went into that introspective space and started to actually perform their pilgrimage. So in the end, we were there to document it.

The material ended up being very dark, and blurry at times, which also played into the dreaminess of it.

I also get the feeling of riding through a fever dream.

He is hallucinating the girl all along, but it escalates and becomes more obvious at the end, when he can no longer contain it, having been triggered by his home and that ancient cemetery. Apart from the extreme close-ups, and the natural light playing in our favour the sun was almost completely gone, so the material ended up being very dark, and blurry at times, which also played into the dreaminess of it. And the rest was done in the edit. The little girl, Suri Huseyn, performed so well at the fight, she had to wake up at 4 am for that scene, and she just had this innate resilience to keep going. We had choreographed and practiced the last fight, where she strangles him and he finally breaks down, extensively. So again, after multiple takes at this super early pre-dawn hour, Suri started embodying this viciousness. The main actor, Orkhan Iskandarli, had to really struggle with her at his throat at one point, which helped the emotional load of the scene. But the rest was achieved through editing. My editor Andrey and I adopted a slightly fragmented edit for that scene, with repetitions and switching perspectives, in order to create a fragmented perception in the viewer and achieve that hallucinatory quality.

I would love to know more about your focus on female and women-centric stories in the presentation of a predominantly male story.

It was important to me to make a PTSD film from a female perspective. And instead of focusing on the mother-son relationship, I wanted to play with the idea of gender and that we all contain multiplicities. A child is born innocent, so I wanted to juxtapose the masculine post-war crisis of a soldier with that innocence. It was important for the story for that child to be female, not someone who has been conditioned to play with guns and tanks. It also created room for interpretation, as some viewers think of her as his victim, someone he perhaps killed. But to me, she is his own childhood, the innocence he killed within himself, that is now coming back to haunt him.

As a mother myself, it is important to remember that it takes a village to raise a child and this is especially true for smaller communities.

The other important female element is his mother and the aunties around her, who also act as a collective mother figure. They are the same ones who open the film by guiding his younger mother through his own birth. And they are the same faces we later see when he comes to visit. If he died at war, they would all be burying him. As a mother myself, it is important to remember that it takes a village to raise a child and this is especially true for smaller communities. So the pride and the joy and the pain remain shared. Here, the child returns to the collective mother for comfort, forgiveness, and some sort of exoneration. I fell in love with the women of the village during our casting trips, so their roles and significance in the film also changed significantly in the process.

How does your background as an artistic director influence your approach to filmmaking, in particular this film?

I always think of the two as comparable, as a curator you need to seek out talent to tell a story, so each individual artwork becomes part of a whole. Similarly in film, you have to work with different talents, at different stages, from production design, to costumes, to DoP, to performers, to colour, music, etc. Film for me is the ultimate Gesamtkunstwerk that we learnt so much about in art school. There is also a big aspect of communication and people management, how to talk to people to create a good, healthy environment for creative work despite often stressful conditions and tight timeframes – that’s perhaps the most important skill I carried over.

What’s new and next for you?

I have a couple new shorts, one about a young actress trying to impersonate the revolutionary 11th-century poetess Mahsati Ganjavi, and one short doc on the disappearance of the Caspian Sea, they are both starting their festival rounds. But the next big thing is my feature debut for which I am currently completing development with the BFI. I am very grateful and excited to be closer to making it a reality.

This week we’re bringing you Nimi’s interview with writer/director Rohan Parashuram Kanawade, whose debut feature Cactus Pears – a tender, life-affirming portrait of grief and queer love unfolding in a rural Indian village – won Sundance’s World Cinema Grand Jury Prize: Dramatic back in January, the first indian film to ever do so, and a couple of days after this interview was recorded added the prize for Best Feature Film at the inaugural edition of SXSW London to its fast growing list of plaudits.
[Watch/Read the full interview]

Head to Directors Notes for more filmmaker interviews and to watch our daily selection of new short films. If you’d like your film featured on DN, submit it here. If you’re not already, you should definitely subscribe to the Directors Notes podcast.
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Petticoats, pistols and lavish hats are just the surface of the Georgian world of Satisfaction from multi-DN alum director Bailey Tom Bailey’s delightfully playful venture into period filmmaking, telling the tale of an aristocratic duel fought between a society lady and her mentor over a trivial insult in 18th Century England. Writer Christopher Buckley adopts a revisionist lens, inspired by the hidden history of ‘Petticoat Duels’ – real duels fought between Georgian women – shining light on a ludicrous ritual of class, honour and social status. With razor-sharp wit, meticulous composition, and a thorny Baroque score, Bailey brilliantly transforms the stately displays of aristocracy into a tense, theatrical and fiercely feminine showdown, without losing sight of the comic absurdity at hand. The tonal balance on display is delightful, elevated further by exaggerated costume design, heightening the contrast between characters’ distinct personalities. Bailey returns to Directors Notes to discuss his integral storyboarding process, the foundational influence of his fine art background and scheduling around every film crew’s worst enemy: unpredictable weather.

What drew you to Christopher Buckley’s brilliant script?

Christopher Buckley (who is also an actor seen in Stranger Things: The First Shadow) and myself connected through Centerframe’s Get It Made competition. Chris’s focused 5-page script caught my attention with its spin on the conventional duel with bold characters, funny conflict (the hat) and wonderfully textured Georgian slang that I kept having to look up, but gave the world a strange, specific energy. It was great fun, and I saw a chance to create not only a comedy-drama but a thriller as well.

Thematically, we became interested in the way a rigid society had warped a close friendship into a rivalry.

I am fascinated by Satisfaction’s revisionist lens. How did the historical truth of petticoat duels shape the narrative?

Chris read about petticoat duels; rare but real instances throughout history when women fought one another in formal combat. Some instances include topless (so as to save their dresses) sword fights, which would have been even more transgressive but probably wouldn’t have gotten shown anywhere! Chris even found a satirical cartoon of two Georgian-era women duelling with pistols and the story unfolded from there. Thematically, we became interested in the way rigid society had warped a close friendship into a rivalry, so the arc of the story became about two women realising this absurd inhumanity and reconnecting with their compassion. Putting humanism before social structures is as relevant now as then.

The duel has real psychological tension. How did you approach directing their showdown?

As the script evolved, I pushed for the duel itself to be expanded, adding an extra round with an injury to build the tension and make clear the absurdity of the manners of this ritual, where pride continued to overrule common sense even as the danger became more tangible. I wanted to lean into the duels’ comparability to a Western shootout and took cues from Budd Boetticher and Sergio Leone’s playful, near abstracted approach that stretched time, and moved the altercation into a psychological space, often with a surprising ending. Though I had to be careful not to tip over into parody, as often happens with this style.

Costume plays a large role in the drama. Could you tell us more about your collaboration with Molly Langford on that aspect of the film?

My main concern was to create bold, distinct characters, and create blocks of colour with each character that would set the colour palette for the film through the costumes, as there were few other means to control it. Molly Langford, our costume designer, who worked in the costume department for The King’s Man, The Nevers and Little Women, complemented and complicated my brief to keep things bold and simple in the best way possible, adding greater depth to the designs. She also latched onto hats as a central motif defining each character. Verity Elphinstone (Gwyneth Keyworth) became a big pink birthday cake. Belinda Allendale (Ellie Gallimore) was to be very grave and a little militant, all in black. Ann Scoley (Michele Moran) was earthy and almost a scullery maid. Olivia Kettwood (Mia Khan) was fragile, feminine and pastel blue, contrasting with Verity’s pink.

Your fantastic cast craft performances that balance heightened comedy with tense drama. What was your process for directing these performances like?

It started with casting, I was keen to have actors who could make big choices for bold characterisation without losing authenticity. I find actors who have done a lot of comedy great at this. Our casting director, Chloe Blake, who has worked extensively with the National Theatre, was a great collaborator with an overview of new and established British talent. She was very patient with me as we explored various options. We managed to land a great cast with BAFTA Cymru nominee Gwyneth Keyworth (Death Valley, Misfits, Alex Rider, Aaron Sorkin’s To Kill a Mockingbird) and Michelle Moran (The Witcher, Doctors) opposite new(er) comers Ellie Gallimore and Mia Khan.

I was keen to have actors who could make big choices for bold characterisation without losing authenticity, I find actors who have done a lot of comedy great at this.

In prep with the script, I tried to define the line of action and tonal shift from funny to brooding and perhaps even moving. When thinking about how to prevent the stylised language overriding the emotions of the story, I re-watched Sweet Smell of Success, a noir-drama that the director Alexander Mackendrick (a Scot making his first US film) said in his book On Filmmaking was a very ‘wordy’ script. But its writer, Clifford Odets (an influential New York playwright), told him, “Just do it fast”. I thought about that when dealing with the language of Satisfaction. They needed to just throw it away.

In calls, rehearsals and costume fittings, I briefed the cast on the kind of performance I wanted and discussed their characters’ objectives and any revealing business (minor actions, fidgets), so we had lots to play with. Then in rehearsals we got comfortable with the stylised text, tried to hone in on the emotions underneath and explore any questions. When working on her accent, I probably piled too much contextual history on Gwyneth, which she took patiently but eventually said, “Leave it to me”. On the day her accent was phenomenal. Everyone made bold choices on set. Michele was able to be funny just standing there, Ellie was more severe than she had been and Mia more hysterical than I had imagined. Moments between the rounds of the duel were fleshed out with moments of improvisation.

Your journey as an artist began in Fine Art. Do you feel your background in painting has shaped your approach as a director?

Definitely. Painting has, of course, taught me about colour and composition but it’s pretty hard to be a painter in the 21st century and not be influenced by 50 years of conceptually heavy art, so principally fine art affected the way that I think about things. It taught me to try to communicate and affect emotion by translating ideas into imagery, soaked with personal associations, filtered through a wide variety of reference points (yes, largely movies nowadays, but also painting, photography, music and culture) and a focus of theme.

One of the differences coming up through painting rather than through photography or theatre is that you’re creating the image from scratch and so every part of it is filtered through you and has your (sometimes literal) fingerprints on it. Everything in the artwork is a choice. I love that and I love to see the artist’s brushstrokes. This is why I’m always thrown when someone refers to anything camera or craft based as ‘technical’ or asks if I’m “more into style or content.” At their best, technique and effect are inseparable.

Everything in the artwork is a choice. I love that and I love to see the artists brushstrokes.

The cinematography is gorgeous and contributes so much to the film’s tension. How did you and Simon Stolland develop that visual language together?

We wanted the design and photography to be bright and colourful, contrasting with the violent actions being far too lightly undertaken. In terms of the overall look, I started with what I didn’t want. The original script described a beautiful park, but when I imagined bright period costume on green grass, for reasons I can’t completely articulate, it seemed too modern and clean. I felt it would look like we were playing dress up. So I thought about exterior images I did like: Andrew Wyeth’s paintings and Terence Malick’s Days of Heaven. Both looked wilder and had khaki fields whose colour receded more than green, creating a more balanced contrast with the pops of colour from the costumes.

Myself and regular DP Simon Stolland decided to shoot on the new Alexa 35, which was billed to have great colour rendition, and paired it with JDC Cooke Xtal Xpress anamorphic lenses, which are known to have a lot of odd aberrations and gave the image a bit of grounded texture, countering our stylised composition. The front half of the film was very wordy, but I’m always looking to convert words into action, so I focused on blocking to make the relationships felt not just talked about. I’m heavily influenced by the evocative but simple interaction of actors and space in films from the 1940s to the late 60s, when it went out of style. The duels were shot quite simply but the way we used them in the edit helped to move us into a psychological space. Borrowing heavily from Sergio Leone, we moved in closer and closer to the eyes, letting everything else disappear and held shots in the edit, while the music represented the unseen dimension of emotional and tension.

What does the storyboarding process look like for you, and how strictly do you stick to your storyboard on set?

The storyboarding process for me is like another rewrite; it forces you to define your edit and shot choices in detail so you really have a plan. I discover things when drawing and need to re-draw often, but it’s better than scratching your head on set. They’re super helpful when scheduling and having conversations with HODs about how we’re going to do things. I start from the script, nailing down what’s in my head into a shot list. But a shotlist can be very abstract. People can interpret them all different ways and I don’t want to be reading description on set. I want a picture, which is more concrete to me, so that I can show it to the DP and say, “Like that.”

It’s also very easy to swing the camera onto the actor and everyone says “looks decent”, and when you want another angle they say, “you covered it already,” ignoring the fact that those different shots and angles mean something different. So you are pushed to just shoot coverage. With storyboarding, it forces you to consider the function and composition of each shot in a less stressful environment, and shows everyone there is a plan and reason for your shots.

The storyboarding process for me is like another rewrite, it forces you to define your edit and shot choices in detail so you really have a plan.

We stick fairly close to the storyboard but things do change, they don’t look right when you put a lens on it, or someone gets an idea, or the actor does something that means you can convey more in a single shot rather than cutting. But most often, things change because we run out of time. Regardless, it’s a great basis for the shoot and helps you conceptually understand what you need for the edit. Though I have to admit to dropping this process on some recent music video projects where it’s very performer-led and they often want it shot within two weeks so I don’t have time to prep as well.

Did shooting in such a stunning and elaborate, yet very open, location bring any challenges to the production process?

Yes, shooting outside all day in the UK was my greatest anxiety. We thought a lot about how to schedule the day to work with the direction of the sun, but we could only pray the English weather held out. As we approached the shoot, rain was forecast for our second day, our location panicked about us traipsing mud inside, but shifting everything didn’t feel realistic. So we crossed our fingers – and the gods laughed. It poured. Most of our second morning was washed out. Luckily, I had the help of my 1st AD Ben Keswick to manage this potential disaster and we shot longer on day one to hedge our bets, and on the second day we pivoted to covered areas for close-ups before managing to grab the remaining key shots during a brief dry window at the end of the day. Our very dedicated colourist, Myles Bevan of Studio RM, did an incredible job balancing out sunsets and overcast skies to give the film a consistent feel.

You’re now developing The Petticoat Duellists series. What can you tell us about the project, and what is exciting you most about expanding these characters?

Myself and Chris are having exciting conversations with commissioners as we develop a limited series based on the short called The Petticoat Duellists, which follows Belinda as a fallen woman who teams up with Ann to become duellists for hire, traversing between high and low Georgian society and fighting for women’s honour.

There’s a timelessness to Beverly Heights, writer/director Alyssa Aldaz’s evocative exploration of queer repression in the entertainment industry. Following Marci, a TV superstar renowned for her All-American Cheerleader image, the haunting debut short is centrally interested in the growing disjunct between Marci’s public image and queer identity. What emerges is a meditation on heteronormative repression, nocturnal longing, and the performance of identity, lingering in the discomfort of a young woman caught between honesty and expectation. Gorgeous 16mm cinematography evokes 1970s cinema, lending the film a familiar, dreamlike texture, rendering LA with Lynchian eeriness – simultaneously glamorous, nostalgic and ominous. But most impressive is Aldaz’s atmospheric pacing, prioritising ominous long takes, showcasing unsettling, immersive sound design, and a strong lead performance from Milena Abilova. Aldaz joins Directors Notes to discuss how a surreal dream inspired the world of Beverly Heights, the emotional texture of shooting on 16mm, and how collaboration and constraint shaped the film.

How did the initial idea come to you, and did the narrative develop throughout production?

It came to me in a dream. I was going to a party at Romy’s house—yes, the Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion Romy—and she had a pool out back with red high heels just sitting at the bottom. I asked her what they were doing there, and she just laughed like it made perfect sense. I remember waking up thinking, “That’s either deeply meaningful or completely chaotic.” Either way, it stuck with me. The whole film kind of grew from that one strange, vivid image.

Sometimes limitations and surprises are what end up giving a film its soul.

The narrative definitely shifted throughout production. We ran out of time to shoot everything as scripted, so I had to rethink some scenes. An unexpected surprise was Milena, who played Marci. I originally imagined the film being much darker—more satirical than sincere—but Milena brought something raw and emotionally grounded to the role. Her take on Marci reshaped the tone. It started feeling like a true coming-of-age story, and I actually loved how it turned out—more heartfelt than I expected, and better for it. Sometimes limitations and surprises are what end up giving a film its soul.

What drew you to shoot on 16mm film and how do you think the grain of celluloid aided the story’s tone and emotional texture?

I’m drawn to film because nothing else feels like it. There’s something about 16mm. It has this texture that’s both raw and romantic. It sets the tone instantly and carries this built-in nostalgia that was key to the world we were creating. I wanted it to feel dreamy and a little off, like something you’d catch on late-night TV and not be totally sure when it was made—like it exists in its own little world.

There’s a meditative quality to the short, how did you approach the film’s pacing?

I tend to work pretty instinctively. I try to follow the rhythm that feels right in the moment, whether I’m writing, editing, or directing. With Beverly Heights, I wanted the pacing to feel a little stretched, like time was moving differently. That sense of lingering was important. I wanted the audience to sit in the unease and the heartbreak because that’s how it feels for Marci, like she’s stuck in a dream she can’t quite wake up from. Something people might miss is the title of the script Marci’s reading, The End Is the Beginning. That always felt like a key detail to me. I see the end of the film as the true beginning. It’s the moment she meets Emily and starts to dream about her. Everything else folds in from there. I’ve always liked the idea that you could play the whole film in reverse and it would still make emotional sense.

Late night drives, liminal spaces and ambient sounds… the dreamy influence of David Lynch flows through your work. Did his work inspire your vision, and did any other filmmakers inspire Beverly Heights?

Thank you! That’s really flattering. David Lynch is probably my favorite director. He influences everything I do. I’m drawn to that dream logic in his work—how scenes unfold in a way that doesn’t always make literal sense. I love the meditativeness, the ambient sounds, the way it all pulls you in. I remember watching Mulholland Drive and feeling totally hypnotized—like I had been lulled into some strange, beautiful trance. That’s the feeling I want my films to have, too. I want the audience to sit with ambiguity, to bring their own meaning. I don’t have all the answers and I think that’s fine. Other filmmakers that inspire me: definitely Sofia Coppola—the longing, the loneliness, the quiet ache of being a girl. Her films are all about vibe, and I connect to that deeply. And then I’ve always loved camp. I love Paul Verhoeven—his satire, the way he leans into excess. So Beverly Heights might be a little cheesy in places… but I love it for that.

I want the audience to sit with ambiguity, to bring their own meaning. I don’t have all the answers and I think that’s fine.

The production design is so evocative and transportive. Can you tell us more about how you worked alongside Production Designer Vera Jigalova to transport us back into such a nostalgic space?

Vera understood the vision right away. We had one conversation, and then she sent over this beautiful lookbook that perfectly captured the tone I wanted. She brought so much creativity, especially considering the budget and location constraints we were working with. Marci’s bedroom in particular was a standout. It needed to feel intimate, nostalgic, and a little haunted by her past, and Vera filled it with these subtle, emotional details—fan mail, old envelopes on the dresser, the one Marci touches quietly in that moment. They’re small things, but they add this quiet texture that makes the world feel real. What I love about Vera’s work is that it doesn’t hit you over the head—it lingers. That’s the kind of atmosphere I wanted, and she brought it to life beautifully.

The film features a standout monologue sequence. How did you direct Milena Abilova to achieve such a captivating long take?

This monologue was actually written after our original three days of shooting. Once I reviewed the footage—what we had and, more importantly, what we didn’t—I realized the film needed something more to ground it emotionally. So we added another day and a half of shooting. The truth is, the monologue comes from a really personal place. As a gay woman, I spent years brushing off certain kinds of longing, telling myself they were cheesy or not meant for me. But deep down, I’ve always wanted those things too. Writing it was a moment of honesty. It felt a little scary to admit, but also freeing. And ultimately, it’s not about being gay or straight, it’s about being human. We all want to be happy and loved.

Milena and I rehearsed the scene a few days before shooting, and she immediately got it. The first time she delivered it, the rhythm, the tone—it was all there. We just saw the moment the same way. There’s this raw sincerity she brings that made it all land. And shoutout to Candice Rose, our cinematographer that day, and her team. That long pullback shot was done by hand. It wasn’t easy, but she nailed it. It’s one of my favorite shots in the film. Also, yes we ate a lot of cheeseburgers that day. It was a good one.

Do you think your experience as an editor has impacted your directorial style?

Definitely. I’ve been editing for about 15 years, mostly trailers, and that’s really shaped how I approach writing and directing. It’s made me pretty clear on what I need and what I don’t, so I try to work efficiently on set. If we’ve got it, we move on. That probably comes from spending so much time in the edit room, especially cutting from dailies and seeing how easily things can pile up. I’ve learned to recognize the moment when something clicks. That said, I know every director has their own rhythm. For me, keeping the takes limited helps the energy stay focused and alive. Editing trailers also gave me a deep appreciation for music and tone. Music drives so much of how I see a scene. It helps me figure out the emotional rhythm, even while I’m writing. I’ll often think, how would I cut the trailer for this? That mindset helps clarify what’s really necessary, what’s vivid, what lands, and what doesn’t. I’m always thinking in terms of rhythm and structure.

I’ve learned to recognize the moment when something clicks. That said, I know every director has their own rhythm. For me, keeping the takes limited helps the energy stay focused and alive.

Much of the film’s dazzling imagery comes from the dreamy pool sequence. Did this sequence bring any challenges to the production?

Oh god, yes, so many challenges. We had the location for one day, but could only shoot at night, so the time crunch was real. Blocking the whole sequence around a pool, in the dark, with very little time—it was one of the more stressful days of the shoot. And then there were the heels. I fully thought they’d just sink. They didn’t. We had a cheap pair and a vintage pair of Guccis, and after way too much time trying to keep the cheap ones down, we gave in and threw in the Guccis. They sank pretty well actually.

The entire pool scene was originally written as one long, continuous sequence. Emily was supposed to drown Marci at the end of it, right after the kiss. But it just didn’t look right on camera. And once Milena’s hair got wet, we couldn’t reset—there was no time to dry it and redo anything. So I scrapped the original plan and ended up cutting the scene into smaller pieces in the edit. It worked out for the better. The final version feels more hypnotic, fragmented, and dreamlike, which is what I was going for all along, I just didn’t know it yet. In case you’re wondering—the Guccis still look great.

What do you hope a queer audience takes away from the film?

I’m really just trying to make the kind of films I wish I’d seen when I was younger—ones that might’ve helped me realize it was okay to be who I was. It took me a long time to get there, and honestly, I’m still figuring it out. I hope queer audiences feel seen, but more than that, I hope they feel like they don’t have to perform or fit into anything. You don’t have to shrink yourself. You can be the lead. The head cheerleader. The mystery. Whatever feels true to you, and you don’t need anyone’s permission.

This is such an exciting vision, what can we expect to see from you next?

I’m directing a new short this summer called Camp Oleander. It’s got the same dreamy vibe as Beverly Heights, but it goes way darker—more psychological, a bit more unhinged. Definitely not your typical summer camp. It’s a slice of a feature I’ve been developing, and we’re shooting on 35mm, which is how I always imagined this world. We’ve got an incredible team on board, and I’m really excited about what we’re building.

Two days after I interview Rohan Parashuram Kanawade, the writer and director of Marathi language feature Cactus Pears (Sabar Bonda), it is announced that the film has won the prize for Best Feature Film at the inaugural SXSW London festival, continuing its streak after winning the World Cinema Grand Jury Prize: Dramatic at Sundance back in January. At Directors Notes (virtual) towers MarBelle (Editor-in-BIG-chief) summed up the team sentiment on a group thread: “A divine piece of filmmaking, Rohan is a bloody genius”. The Oxbridge characterises geniuses by having exceptional intellectual or creative abilities, often combined with traits like deep curiosity, intense focus and a strong drive to learn and explore – exhibiting originality, creativity and the ability to think and work in previously unexplored areas – risk takers and abstract thinkers. In the 30 minute conversation I had with Rohan, I can categorically confirm (not that there was any question) that he is, indeed, a genius – not least in deciding to take on one of the most emotionally complex moments one can ever live through – a ‘traditional’ mourning period. Much has been written about the story since it premiered at Sundance at the start of 2025, its semi-autobiographical nature, its subversion of queer tropes, its depiction of life in rural India and the craft in making it. Rohan’s generous insight into his creative process, his approach to idea development, screenwriting, storyboarding and shooting in this interview almost serves as a ‘how to be a genius’ guide (if only it were that simple). His unique approach to both the emotional and technical aspects of filmmaking and the interplay between the two creates a beautifully tender, innovative drama with emotional depth and gravity.

Cactus Pears is the story of Anand, a gay man trying to live life amongst the societal pressures that exist around his lifestyle. Pressure that he’d found a way to sidestep until he couldn’t. Framed in the ten day mourning period after his father’s death, Anand finds himself deep in the pressure cooker of all he’d been trying to avoid – the suffocating love of his extended family with their incredibly traditional views on how life should be lived. What unfolds is a heartwarming tale that would be easy to reduce to a queer love story, or a story of tradition versus modernity, but it is actually a depiction of the interconnected threads of life and the pivotal moments that can come from the darkest times. Through the lens of a moment of time that is ‘meant’ to feel sad, heavy and anguish laden, where one is ‘meant’ to act and feel a certain way, can come humour, surprise, love – because that is the reality of life and the complexity of human emotion.

The sound design and cinematography are central characters to the narrative, giving the film a juxtaposition of tragedy yet joy, the weight of grief yet lightness that begins to shine through. The wide angle shots and still frames invite the viewer to experience the emotional depth of the story without being rushed through or feeling like they’re on an emotional rollercoaster, culminating in an ending that feels like a profound release, opening the doors to hope, optimism and joy. Whilst this may be Kanawade’s debut feature, there is no doubt much more is to come from this incredible filmmaker and true to the form of any genius, I am sure he will continue to surprise and delight with his future projects.

[A heads up, the following interview contains spoilers. You can also watch it at the end of this article.]

The end of Cactus Pears felt like this incredible moment of freedom and release. I wanted to know how you captured that with such little dialogue from the moment they walked into the apartment to lying on the floor together.

You know, you won’t believe so many renowned filmmakers said, “The film ended for us in the village, for us, why did they go back to Mumbai?”. That would have been such a stereotypical way to end the film, and I know that many filmmakers would do that, but for me, that wasn’t the end. There were so many things that meant the film had to end with these two boys coming to Mumbai and being in the house. Anand couldn’t grieve his loss in the village. Even for me, even though I cried during the cremation during my father’s grieving period, the most important thing was when I came back to Mumbai, where I spent most time with my father, that’s where I felt his absence and I actually cried. So I felt the same for Anand, I needed to bring him back to Mumbai because once he is in the house, that’s when he’s going to feel the absence more. And then having Balya next to him, being there as a support, that was really important.

The other thing was the way Anand got his freedom in Mumbai, even though the apartment was cramped, he got his freedom to be who he is because of the people in that house, which are his father and his mother. Now, when Balya seeks the same, he will get to live with the person he loves and now experience that freedom and love. So them coming to the house and sleeping in that space was really important to me. That’s why the film ends there and comes back to Mumbai.

You’ve said in previous interviews that this is a quiet film, which it is, but it’s also a heavy film. You feel the weight of what Anand is carrying, and maybe the South Asian diaspora/people who understand what that grieving period is like will understand more; it’s such an intense period. The tradition feels like it imprisons you. Equally, you feel like you have to be there for all the other people who need you to be. You’ve brought the heaviness of the emotion, and a lot of that came through your sound design and cinematography so I’d love for you to talk about that a bit.

Both these things were part of the film before I even started writing. I had decided that the film will have static camera work and most of the shots will be wide shots, very rarely will I go close to the character. That’s because I like to see where these characters are. In some films it works that the camera is always close up right in the face of the actors but I think that’s become a bit clichè to show characters who are trapped/helpless. You can also make them look helpless and trapped with these wide shots, in the villages there’s vastness. By showing him as a small figure against all the vastness, you can also depict him as trapped. I didn’t want to use grading to do that, or people use seasons to depict sadness, like Monsoon/rain to show sadness and gloominess and I didn’t want to do that either. In the villages, people start building bungalows, then they run out of time and can’t finish the bungalows, so they just plaster and leave the house. That greyness on the wall also added to the feeling of gloominess. I wanted to use all of those things. I also wanted to show there is life around Anand. Anand isn’t the only one living life, there are so many other people living their lives and I wanted to show Anand within that. So in those wide shots you see people around him. I wanted to create that.

I had decided that the film will have static camera work and most of the shots will be wide shots, very rarely will I go close to the character.

With the sound design, I wanted to create a portrait of what I experience in the villages, most of the time me and my mother would be in the house. My Uncle and Aunt and my cousin, who is a vet, would go about their work, my cousin’s wife would sometimes be in the house, out of the house, doing her own thing. Me and my mother would be there all the time. Most of the time we were just sitting. I would be sitting on the verandah looking at the village and there was stillness. The sound of the village, the nature, at different times it sounds different. In the morning, people are doing their work, going to the farm, taking the animals to graze, so there are lots of those sounds. And during the afternoon it’s quiet, you just hear birds and stuff, and again in the evening it became noisy. I wanted to have all those things in the film, so that’s why I say the writing started with all of those things being incorporated into the script.

When I started the location scouting I was taking my own pictures to start creating a visual language. Then I would colour grade those images so when we did the test shoot with the camera and lenses, I shared all those images with my DoP (Vikas Urs) and colourist (Himanshu Kamble), so based on that, they also came up with their own look for the film. I told them this film cannot look like any other Indian film, or for that matter, any other Marathi film. I told them I needed to have a very specific, different looking film, but at the same time, it needed to look realistic. You know there’s this habit of filmmakers to beautify everything, showing the Indian villages like they’re this very exotic thing, but that’s not the case, the villages are not like that at all. I wanted to show them the way they are but at the same time have a nostalgic quality to it. So I had told my DoP, I just want the images to look like photographs, and the static camera work will give us enough room to compose the frames and choreograph the scenes, so I did all that with him. When I locked all the locations, I did my own storyboards. The film you see, 90% was drawn on paper, which I discussed with my DoP and it was him who took the images onto the screen that you see. His lighting, his lens choices – you know everything the DoP does, he translated those images onto the screen.

Then my sound designers, Anirban Borthakur and Naren Chandavarkar, when we started designing they said let’s go to the village again and let’s record live. All the sound design you hear is actually that we went to all the locations, spent from morning to evening there and we recorded live. Because you know all the sounds you hear, you can’t separate that one goat or one cow, or someone yelling at the other end of the village – you can’t take single things. So we went there and recorded everything in surround sound because now the technology allows you to create a 360-degree world which is even outside the frame and I wanted to use that. It took us a year to work on the sound design – my sound designers worked on it for 600+ hours. Even my colourist, it was their talent and the way they graded. The sound and colour, and images are all because of them (the team). I mean it was of course my vision, but it was their talent and commitment to it that made it possible.

This film cannot look like any other Indian film or for that matter any other Marathi film. I told them I needed to have a very specific, different looking film.

It’s a masterpiece. I couldn’t get over the use of those still shots. Was that visual approach always in your head?

Yes, if I could, I’d show you the storyboards and you’d see everything was drawn, even with the layout in the room: where are the characters so where is the camera positioned, if the camera is moving. Like the sequence in the ambulance when they take the dead body out, the camera moves in a certain way. It was all drawn with a layout plan and everything.

The sequence in the ambulance was actually really poignant because of the angle. I would never have expected to see that angle, it was incredible. Where did your inspiration come from?

I don’t know, whilst writing I didn’t really have these thoughts. I mean, you have general images in your head whilst writing, but most of it was developed when I had the location because now I can see the space where I want to shoot these scenes. When I have these spaces I spend time there and because I was always interested in images and I am an interior designer, when I design I have to imagine the space. And I can draw, so all these things really enable me to imagine and draw it out so people can see it. It was the space and the scenes which were written in the screenplay. So then you start thinking about it, the whole idea of making a storyboard is to create the visual language of the film, which didn’t exist before.

I hate the practice of going onto set and suddenly trying to figure things out and how to shoot. In pre-production, I spent three months creating the storyboards, so I had three months to really create that visual language, thinking about each frame and how it would look. So you know, then you’re sure, this is how it is, this is how you want to shoot. The pre-production time means I can really spend time thinking about each image and if I want to change it again. It’s like a screenplay, you write it, then you rewrite and rewrite – making the storyboards was like writing the screenplay again but with the images.

What an incredible creative process. What did you shoot Cactus Pears on?

We couldn’t use a high-end camera, but we needed to shoot so many scenes at dawn and dusk and I really wanted to capture that light. My DoP suggested we go for the Sony FX9, because it has dual ISO, it’s a full-frame camera and 4K, so it will help us a lot. There are so many long takes we needed to cover, like when the boys are swimming – it’s a long take, there are no cuts and we shot it for two days. One day on land and the next day when they get into the water, because I wanted to shoot in that light and if you don’t get the shot you have to do everything again. But then we’d have to wipe them dry, which takes time, and the light will go. The camera needed to have all this flexibility so that in post we could tweak a little more and get the desired look. So it was just that camera because our budget didn’t allow for us to use high-end cameras. This is a cinema camera at the end of the day, just not one of the top-end ones.

We also used vintage lenses because I hate the look of those ultra sharp modern lenses. I told my DoP I don’t want that at all. That’s when he said we could use vintage lenses and I was like, “I would love that”. He suggested we go for these Russian vintage lenses that are discontinued and India only has one set of those lenses in Hyderabad, so we had to fly those lenses to Mumbai, calibrate them, and test them. These are Russian vintage lenses called Lomo Illumina MKII and we used them to shoot the film.

So, ultimately, what is this film about?

Well, you have to tell me. I’ve made my film so what does the audience think/feel? You tell me.

I’ve seen a log line that focuses on the homosexual narrative, but it feels like it’s about so much more. That’s part of the story, it’s not ‘THE’ story. It’s a story about finding yourself through these pivotal moments that we live through. It’s about relationships, identity, and when I say relationships, of course the romantic ones, but his relationships with his mother, his extended family, and friends. It’s a story of a guy finding himself through the huge life changing moment of losing a parent.

I mean that’s what it is, it’s about so many things at the same time. But when you pitch, people want it to be about something specific so you know we had to write a logline to satisfy that and help us get funding but yes, the film is about so many things. Even during the editing process, people were saying I don’t understand if the film is about a relationship between these two boys, or the relationship between Anand and his mother or Anand and his father, it’s so confusing. And I said you know what, that’s what it is. It’s life, it’s all of that. I wanted to create life on screen and not this filmy idea about story, plot points and all these things. It’s not about that, I just want to create life on screen. So it’s about life and it’s about that phase of life when you lose someone. I just wanted to create a tender portrait of that phase.

I wanted to create life on screen and not this filmy idea about story, plot points and all these things. It’s not about that.

So you’ve summed it up best, “Life on screen”. I think that moment in time you’ve chosen, it’s one of the most intense moments anyone can go through. You can only really understand it if you’re of the religion or a religion that has a mourning period like that. You’ve chosen that period but there are such juxtapositions of what happens for Anand – finding a romance he didn’t expect, unlocking something with his mum in the most unexpected way, yet realising how to let her continue to live within the family. Even his relationship with his little niece that was just real life.

Yeah. Unfortunately, we had to cut two small moments between those two.

I thought that relationship really brought the reality to life, the bit where he’s shaved his head for the ten day ritual and she’s just sitting there looking at him and it’s exactly what we were doing as the audience, I wanted to say what she said, “Can I touch it?”

I mean that’s what I’m saying, I wanted to create life and these things were inspired by life. You know, kids do that. My nephew did it when my father passed away and even when I was a kid, I wanted to touch someone’s bald head and just see how it feels. So it’s all inspired by life. As a creator, you’re always absorbing life and when you’re creating, some of that is useful to create these moments.

Can I ask what you’re doing next?

I have an idea in my head, but my writing process is long. Even for this one, the idea came to me in 2016 when I was grieving my father and it took me four years to start writing. That’s what it’s like with me, if the idea sticks with me for that long, then I know I have to write it. You get so many ideas all the time right, but not every idea is worth exploring and spending time on. But during that time you get some visual notes, ideas for a sequence, you keep thinking about it. Then at some point, your head is saturated with all those things so you know you have to sit down and write. That’s happening right now with this other idea, which has been with me since 2018, so I’m just thinking about it and hopefully by the end of this year, I will have the screenplay for that. Right now I’m exploring it so I can’t really talk about it, but it’s completely different from this film. That’s what I like, I like to listen to the idea. The idea actually dictates how to tell the story in the best way. If you see my previous short film it looks completely different from this or the film before that is completely different. I want to do justice to the ideas and present stories in different and unique ways, so I have to spend time with the idea to figure it out and find a vision for that specific story.

I like to listen to the idea. The idea actually dictates how to tell the story in the best way.

And do you want to continue writing and directing together?

Yes! I like to write my own scripts even though it’s a painful process. I can’t work with other people’s scripts. I have my own way to tell stories. If I have to change other writers’ scripts to suit me it’s not fair. I have an actor friend who wants me to direct his script and he’s acted in one of my films so he knows what I’m like, and he’s still keen for me to read it and see if it interests me but I much prefer to write my own things.

Is there anyone out there who is your inspiration, who got you wanting to make films?

No, actually my first inspiration or my first love for the cinema was a film projector as a kid. I was just fascinated how this machine makes these images look so big and how it’s making images move. So my love for cinema actually started with a gadget, which is why I’m so interested in cameras, sound, etc. so I do all my own homework, then I share with my team. The projector was my first love. When I was 7 or 8 years old I made my own slide projector so it wasn’t a filmmaker or film or actor that was my inspiration. But of course later on as I started watching world cinema because I had access to a DVD library in Mumbai, around 2007, I started watching lots of films and that’s when I realised how differently you can tell stories. There’s not only one way – which is Bollywood or populist filmmaking – that’s not the only way, you can tell stories in so many different ways. That actually helped me understand and then challenge myself to think about how I can tell my stories in my own way and how it can be different. I mean think about that most queer films we see end with a tragedy. This film, yes there’s a tragedy, but it ends in an optimistic way with these two boys taking that step to come together and explore that bond, so all these things help you to create something that people have not seen before. Even for me, I’m like, “Yes, this is something new, I want to explore that.” That’s what excites me most of the time. But yes, of course, there are a few filmmakers that I’m always excited to see their work.

Finally, what do you want people to take away or feel when they watch Cactus Pears?

This is something I’ve said all along, even in my pitches, I just want people to feel like this film is giving them a ‘warm hug’. Usually, we associate this grieving period with sadness but I wanted to make a film that was warm and tender. I didn’t want to make a sad film. So the whole goal was very simple, that the audience should feel like it’s a warm hug and have a smile on their faces whilst watching.

Well, it made me feel like it was a big bear hug, but I also felt free because it’s this understanding of how tradition can make you feel but there’s always a way through.

Well, yeah, to be honest, I don’t like to say what the audience should feel or take away, because as we were talking about, I just wanted to create life on screen. Experiencing life can be different for different people, because people have their own perception about life, so you have to let them feel what they feel. For some people, the mother and son bond was most important, for some people it was different. So now I’m like, feel whatever you want but as long as you feel something.

Gas Station Sushi from writer/director Chad Corhan is a masterclass in controlled chaos, weaving together the filmmaker’s vision of ultimate discomfort into a tightly crafted comedic nightmare. Corhan took his contemplation of the most horrifically awkward scenario imaginable and transformed it into a surreal tapestry of anxiety and absurdism. Notably, Corhan’s meticulous pre-production planning stands in fascinating contrast to the film’s chaotic energy – every moment was line-scripted and shot-listed before cameras rolled, a necessity given the project’s ambitious scope of multiple characters, practical effects and 35mm film stock all demanding precise coordination. Gas Station Sushi is a film that rides the razor’s edge between overwhelming and entertaining, delivering laughs while maintaining a surprisingly effective, genuine emotional weight. As this quirky delight premieres with DN Corhan explains how the intensive same room writing sessions became the engine driving the film’s breakneck pacing, and his non-negotiable that they used practical effects over digital.

Gas Station Sushi is almost a tapestry of a myriad of worst nightmares.

The initial concept of the film came to me when I was imagining what the most horribly uncomfortable situation a character could go through at an intimate drug weekend with a bunch of people they barely know. It just hit me as a taboo subject that, surprisingly, many people I spoke to in their late 20s and early 30s had experienced, which made me want to make a movie about it. I felt that writing this wacky slapstick fish-out-of-water story centered on a woman having a pregnancy scare would really do this drug weekend concept justice.

I wanted the movie to move at a clip, almost making the audience have to catch up with it as it unfolded which is really attributed to our writing sessions.

I didn’t want to go through a traditional casting process to find an actress to fill that role. I needed to build this thing from the ground up with a collaborator who could see the humor in the story and could embody the character. Asking my co-writer and star of the film Sydney Adams to work on this project with me was really the impetus to make this movie a reality. I gave her my short, non-fleshed-out elevator pitch of the film and then we went to work on writing it in earnest. We only worked on the script together in the same room, which really made us get the flow and the dialogue right. I wanted the movie to move at a clip, almost making the audience have to catch up with it as it unfolded, which is really attributed to our writing sessions. Our north star while writing was that the movie had to ride the line of being completely overwhelming but entertaining the entire time in order to work.

How closely do you attribute the rapid-fire dialogue and pacing we experience to the proximity you and Sydney had during the writing?

When writing the script, Sydney and I really just spent the most time trying to get all these characters to talk to each other freely on the page. Having your writing partner in the room to bounce ideas off of and see what sticks and what doesn’t when you read back through your work was a huge part of the process. It all gave a lot of immediacy to the writing process for me personally.

It’s immediately delightfully absurd with that amazing montage in the toilet. Why was this the perfect way to bring us into your world?

It sounds stupid, but I think honestly the toilet thing really came from thinking, “How can we make sure you are paying attention in the first 30 seconds of this movie?” It came pretty late in the writing process I remember, I think I pitched it to Sydney passingly and she was like “wait…”. After we committed to that, we just went all in on that opening existential bathroom moment and then that dictated a lot more of the surreal elements you see in the rest of the film.

The film is built off of non-verbal reactions from Hannah and we see the entire film from her perspective.

Each person in this is simultaneously odious yet amazing. How did you hone in on how many extra characters to envelop around Hannah?

I always wanted to have Hannah surrounded by people in this movie and make it more than a single-layered relationship-centred film between two characters. Sydney and I wanted to fill up Mark’s house with people to see the different levels of this controlled crisis Hannah was going through in comparison to everyone around her. The film is built off of non-verbal reactions from Hannah and we see the entire film from her perspective, so having a decent-sized group of characters at the party surrounding her was important. All the characters were honestly just so fun to write and develop, it was easy to keep adding more moments with them throughout the time at Mark’s house.

I wanted to be surrounded by great comedic talent on set. I wanted every actor I cast to have a distinct voice and not just hit the mark and say the line (they could do that too of course, they’re pros). Before I began writing with Sydney, I serendipitously ran into Jacob Wysocki at a friend’s backyard BBQ. We remained friendly over the next year or so and then I coincidentally got asked to be a film loader on a film he was acting in. I was able to watch him work from the sidelines on that film, which really made me start visualizing him in the role of Mark in my movie.

Then I was introduced to Andrew Yackel by one of my producers and editor on the film, Andrew Gibson. After that meeting, I knew Yackel could play this f-boy boyfriend Sydney and I concocted. He also insisted on wearing the dinner plate-sized pupil contacts you see Thigh Tat wearing in the film, which were incredibly thick and uncomfortable, so I knew he was the right choice for the role. I rounded out the cast with Joseph Schwartz, [whose comedic acting was the joyful centre of Taylor Thompson’s People Person], Jamie Loftus, and Asha Michelle Wilson, who all really resonated with the script and understood the assignment. Truly, every person in this movie is an immense ball of talent that I was so lucky to work with.

There is a lot going on at any given moment.

In any film I make, but especially Gas Station Sushi, I try to be really cognizant of coverage. I categorically hate that word, but knew when making a comedy where every take can be a different performance, it was important to have an idea of how the film would be edited before the cameras rolled. I line-scripted and shot listed the entire film with DOP Arlene Muller before production and shared our work with my AD, Cutter White, and editor, Andrew Gibson. We were able to make a game plan of how to economically cover this thing and really visualize the edit in pre-production. So on set, I always had a good sense of when to move on from a set up and when to let the actors play with it a bit. I did not have the luxury of ‘finding the scene in the edit’. I had to make sure it worked on the day on set or we were destined for failure.

It was important to have an idea of how the film would be edited before the cameras rolled.

How did that organisation translate on set?

There were so many moving parts in our production that it was really critical to have a solid sense of the blocking and flow of the scenes before we got to set. Obviously, we were working with this incredibly funny cast that was going to give you some new piece of gold on almost every take, so you wanted to leave some breathing room in the scene work but then we had all these gags and physical comedy bits to account for as well. Then you throw in shooting on 35mm into this equation as well and the time it takes to light for film. Our movie essentially plays out in real time, so we have scenes that happen at every hour of the day going into night. It was a hard schedule to balance. My AD Cutter White really understood my shot list and line script and was able to shift things accordingly to make our days if we got behind. What’s that saying? Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. I think that might be applicable to our film.

I just wanted to make something based on a hyperspecific thing that I thought was funny but also play for a broad audience and have some weight to it.

Tell us all about your vision and how you captured cinematic widescreen comedy.

I think I’m preaching to the choir here, but I just think there are so few great modern cinematic comedies being made anymore. I think I just wanted to make something based on a hyperspecific thing that I thought was funny but also play for a broad audience and have some weight to it. I was thinking about films like Election, Punch Drunk Love and Albert Brooks’ Modern Romance a lot while making this film. I just wanted the film to be a visual ride while still making you laugh a lot.

The practical effects are brilliant. How did working with these tangible elements influence your visual storytelling compared to potential VFX alternatives?

On the practical effects side, I asked my good friend Tayler Nicholson to design the film for me. Tayler is a wizard when it comes to DIY practical effects so when I said, “The movie opens with the lead actor’s belly expanding and exploding like a gender reveal cannon”, she already had like a million ideas of how to pull it off. Tayler also built multiple sets for the film and helped me fill the frame with a warm but stylized pallet. She really took every gag in the script as a challenge of how to achieve it practically. From the belly explosion to thigh Tat falling off the roof and then of course the possum finale, we did it all practically. There are obviously a lot of little VFX shots scattered throughout the film as well (created by great friend and VFX sup Mitchell Harris) but we wanted the film to feel as tangible as possible and lean into the practical effects.

I want to know more about the pallet and tapping into the bohochic vibe and what that does to the tone of the film?

I think anytime you pick a location with white walls, your DP immediately loves you (sorry Arlene!) But we really wanted to lean into this fake airiness that was Mark’s house. Mark is obviously a big form over function character and is incredibly performative, so having this pure and bohemian feel for both his home and his wardrobe was really important. It also contrasted his drug-fueled freakout that happens later in the film. Then for the rest of the party members we all wanted to have their own individual feel, most of them had small pops of color that were indicative of the party atmosphere. Our costume designer Lauren Teebor was so incredible at making sure everyone felt like they were in the same movie but also felt true to the character. We really just tried to make everything at Mark’s house feel clean with a fine grain and then everything outside of Mark’s house feel a little more dirty, grainy and sun soaked.

What’s next?

Sydney and I have written a feature version of Gas Station Sushi since completing the short and we would love to make that as our next project. I also have a couple other shorts and a coming-of-age road trip feature I’m developing as well. While making shorts is so fun, I’d love to focus my energy on directing a feature as my next project.

To highlight Refugee Week, Directors Notes is privileged to feature British Vietnamese filmmaker Chi Thai’s haunting meditation on trauma, memory, and the silenced histories of countless refugee experiences in her true story inspired short film Lullaby. Thai, previously featured on our pages in her role as producer of Paris Zarcilla’s acerbic debut feature Raging Grace, bravely felt the time was right to tell her own story and has transformed a deeply personal tragedy into a genre-defying exploration of survival and the ghosts that traumatic experiences leave behind. Thai adeptly frames her story within the realm of horror, which not only holds the weight of unspeakable truths but enables her to deftly externalise internal anguish, allowing grief and memory to literally haunt the present. By transforming personal memory into artistic expression, Thai contributes to a broader movement of marginalised voices reshaping historical discourse, ensuring that the stories of those on the traditionally losing side of history are preserved and honoured. DN spoke in detail to the filmmaker about horror not being a stylistic choice but rather a necessity that emotional truth demands, her strategic use of silence as a narrative device and an ambitious underwater set construction.

You are sharing not only a harrowing story, but one you know only too well with Lullaby.

The development of the initial concept had a very, very long incubation and that’s because the story is about something that actually happened on my own refugee crossing when I was a little girl. It’s been a story that lived with me for most of my life and it is something that’s bubbled up to the surface many times over the course of my life. When I became a filmmaker (a long time ago!) I knew it was going to be a story I had to tell. I didn’t put pen to paper until COVID / 2020, where, like so many other people, I had more time to reflect, develop and write my own things.

It was very cathartic for me to be able to record that history, albeit in the form of a fictionalised story. When I fled Vietnam, I was on one of three boats; one of those boats sank and all passengers were lost at sea. Since finishing Lullaby I learned that five babies died on board our boat alone. These lives are not even a footnote in history, and so making Lullaby was really about creating a historical record, leaving a footprint where there was none.

The process crystallised my relationship with the experience – something that once lived only in memory is now part of the human record. It can no longer be forgotten.

How did the process of transforming this deeply personal memory into a fictional narrative affect your relationship with the original experience?

There’s a powerful quote from Viet Thanh Nguyen, author of The Sympathizer, that I often return to: “All wars are fought twice, the first time on the battlefield, the second time in memory.” I couldn’t agree more. Adapting this deeply personal memory into fiction has only deepened my connection to it. The process crystallised my relationship with the experience – something that once lived only in memory is now part of the human record. It can no longer be forgotten. Whether through writing, painting, or filmmaking, artists contribute to a larger truth, a body of work and a community. Because the stories of the marginalized, especially those on the losing side of history, are so often silenced, this adaptation brought a bittersweet kind of catharsis. While the real-life events behind the story remain deeply painful for me, the act of creating and sharing this film has felt like a small measure of justice. And, in many ways, it’s also been a path toward healing.

Your dialogue-free approach is extremely impactful. Was this always in your mind?

Yes, it was always part of the design. From the very beginning, I wanted to create a character who was so haunted by her guilt and her grief that she could only walk in silence and darkness, existing in a self-imposed exile. That said, it wasn’t until Jan Le, my lead actor and I began preparing in earnest for the shoot that I really had to articulate why that silence mattered so much.

In the story, the last time the protagonist speaks is when she sings a lullaby to her baby, in the belly of the boat. Soon after, she loses him and blames herself for his death. From that moment on, she never utters another word. Speaking would mean confronting a pain so immense it might completely unravel her. Her silence becomes a form of survival. When she eventually encounters the ghost of her child, she’s offered a chance to forgive herself, to say goodbye and, finally, to begin letting go of her grief. Before she parts with him, she sings the lullaby one last time. It’s the very first time we hear her voice in the film and I wanted that moment to feel monumental for audiences.

Tell us about the evolution of that central lullaby?

One of the harder parts of the writing was conceiving the song itself. I wanted it to sound authentic but also reflect the themes of the film. It wasn’t until after a lot of bad lullaby writing that I figured out what I didn’t want it to be and once I had figured that out, I was able to clear the block and I then wrote the lullaby very very quickly, in English first. Then I worked with Jan Le to translate it into Vietnamese and we then worked with Vietnamese folk artist, Ian Bui and my composer Jon Clarke to create the very simple melody.

What Jon eventually did with the lullaby melody when he decided to integrate it into the score is nothing short of magical.

Because Vietnamese is a tonal language this to some extent informed the key musical decisions and by following those principles, it helped us deliver something that felt authentic, even though it was entirely fabricated for the film. Once the lullaby itself was set, the final piece of the script was put into place. Then what Jon eventually did with the lullaby melody when he decided to integrate it into the score is nothing short of magical, in the film it is very very powerful. A key musical reference for our lullaby in the film was Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro and The Tale of Princess Kaguya by Isao Takahata.

You wrote the character specifically with actor Jan Le in mind. How did her involvement shape the character development, particularly regarding the cultural authenticity of the story?

I’ve worked with Jan Le many times over the past decade. We first crossed paths when I produced a short film called Unseen, written and directed by Lotus Hannon. Jan was brilliant in that role, and we’ve maintained a strong creative relationship ever since. Although Jan didn’t come to the UK as a refugee herself, her parents and siblings did. She carries with her a lived experience, an emotional and cultural understanding that I deeply valued for Lullaby.

When I was writing the script, I only ever saw Jan in the role. No one else. As the daughter of Vietnamese refugees, she intuitively understood the emotional landscape I was trying to explore. I didn’t have to over-explain anything – she just got it. Jan was also instrumental in shaping the cultural authenticity of the film. As a fluent Vietnamese speaker, far more fluent than I am, she helped ensure the lullaby, the only spoken words in the film, was accurate in both meaning and dialect. I originally wrote the lullaby in English, and Jan worked closely with me on the translation, ultimately bringing in Vietnamese folk artist Ian Bui to collaborate with us and Jon Clarke, our composer. Together, we arrived at a version that felt emotionally resonant and culturally true. Jan’s contribution was far more than a performance, she helped shape the soul of the film.

As horror seemed an obvious choice, could you elaborate on how the ghost story/haunted house framework allowed you to explore the refugee experience in ways a straightforward drama might not have?

When I think about genre filmmaking, I don’t start with genre, I start with story. I begin with the emotional truth at its core, and from there, I let the story inform what genre best serves that truth. With Lullaby, I was grappling with themes like the trauma of forced migration, as I experienced myself, baby loss, and survivor’s guilt. These are deeply harrowing experiences. When I sat with them honestly, the emotional register they called for wasn’t just dramatic, it was horrific.

Horror, in this case, wasn’t a stylistic choice; it was the only framework that could hold the weight of that truth. A straightforward drama might convey these experiences respectfully, but it wouldn’t reach the same visceral, psychological depths. The ghost story and haunted house structure allowed me to externalize the internal grief, guilt, and memory literally haunting the present. For me, that’s what horror does best. It lets us confront the unspeakable in a way that feels both real and mythic.

The ghost story and haunted house structure allowed me to externalize the internal grief, guilt, and memory literally haunting the present.

I absolutely love all the injections of traditional horror at the start – the blood pouring into the water, the drilling telephone, slamming door – how did you know what elements to include to maintain the correct balance, as this is such a deeply important story?

I had so many good fights with my editor, Chris CF Chow, about this! I love those elements too. Those details are what keep us cinematically hooked, even when we’re telling a much deeper, more emotionally driven story. One of our biggest debates was over the dream sequence with ink dripping from the door handle. Chris felt strongly that we needed to go bigger. I felt equally strongly that we didn’t. That scene became a real line in the sand, we had to decide what was too much and what was too little. In the end, I stuck to my instincts. I knew that pushing it even slightly further would tip the tone in a direction that didn’t serve the emotional core of the story. But I was always mindful of that balance.

Having produced Raging Grace, I’d already learned that while genre can be incredibly powerful, it also comes with a set of audience expectations and in horror, you feel those expectations more sharply. I still stand by the choices we made and it’s been fascinating to watch how the film has been received, some festivals programmed it as horror, others as drama. That duality tells me we hit the tension just right.

I would love to know more about the building of the set for the underwater scenes.

When my production designer, Amy Addison, first read the script, she was both thrilled and horrified by the scale of the build, the budget constraints, and the tight schedule! She reached out to her network for advice, knowing this would be one of the most technically demanding projects we’d tackled together. From the outset, Amy created detailed 3D models and worked closely with our cinematographer, Mark Nutkins, to map out water depth, ceiling heights, and lighting rig positions, balancing visual ambition with what was feasible on our budget and timeline.

One of the biggest challenges was designing a set that could function as both the flooded basement and the boat interior. To complicate things further, the set needed to be fully redressed within an hour between scenes. No small feat. Once the 3D model was signed off, Amy and our set builder, Ed Thwaites, pre-built the set in a shared workshop space. We then reviewed it together with Mark and made refinements based on that process. This iterative loop, model, pre-build, review helped us anticipate and troubleshoot many of the problems that could have derailed us during the shoot.

Amy’s biggest concern? Whether the set would stay down. Despite all the calculations, there’s always a bit of crossed fingers involved. And sure enough, the set did start to float but only during the final hour of filming! Even with all the prep, Amy says nothing quite prepared her for the physical demands of the shoot day itself: trying to keep floating fish still, getting flying fish to fly, making sinking babies sink, and tossing an octopus to Jan at just the right moment. And that’s not even counting the toll of standing in a drysuit in three feet of water for hours on end. It was physically and mentally demanding for everyone in the tank, but somehow, we made it work and the result was spectacular.

The film carries significant historical weight as a document of underrepresented Vietnamese refugee experiences. How did this responsibility to create your own historical record influence your directorial decisions regarding authenticity versus dramatic impact?

I’ve never felt entirely comfortable calling myself a writer. Writers take on some of the hardest, most intricate work in filmmaking. They are rainmakers. I genuinely believe that crafting an original screenplay is an act of alchemy. But with Lullaby, I felt a deep responsibility rooted in lived experience, my own journey as a refugee gave me both the urgency and the authority to tell this story. Once the core idea took shape, I knew I had to write it, direct it, and produce it. It was a self-financed film, and taking on all those roles gave me full creative freedom but also a moral obligation to represent this story truthfully, both for myself and for my community. There was no one I could blame except for myself if I got it wrong.

For me, emotional honesty was the foundation, and dramatic power naturally followed.

That commitment to authenticity never came at the expense of dramatic impact. In fact, I found the opposite to be true: grounding the film in emotional truth, specifically the horror of the refugee journey and the ghosts that trauma leaves behind, made the story resonate more deeply. I didn’t approach the script with the intention of balancing authenticity against drama. For me, emotional honesty was the foundation, and dramatic power naturally followed. That clarity of purpose made the development process incredibly focused and rewarding. I emerged from the writing phase with real confidence in the story, which gave me the momentum I needed to bring it to life.

And finally, what’s next for you?

I’m currently promoting my debut picture book, The Endless Sea, published in the UK by Walker Books and in the US by Candlewick Press. I’m also wrapping up post-production on my second live action short, The Emancipation of Megan or How to Eat a Chocolate Bon Bon, which I made with the same incredible team behind Lullaby. On top of that, I’m in the financing stage for Paris Zarcilla’s follow-up to Raging Grace, which I’m producing. Producing very much remains my first love.

I also run a community cinema called MilkTea, which takes up a good wedge of my time, and is always bubbling with exciting projects and collaborations. I think I’ll always be drawn to doing a bit of everything. I’d love to return to animation, this time with more resources! I’ve written a sequel to The Endless Sea, and I’m developing something that might become a graphic novel. I’ve also just completed a feature script, a spiritual prequel to Lullaby. I love being prolific and multi-hyphenated. It’s the only real antidote to working in an industry that constantly says no.

It is a truth as old as storytelling itself: as women age, the spotlight grows smaller, and the stories told about them become fewer. But Still Life, directed by Nick Richardson, goes against the grain by centring on Eloise, a middle-aged woman navigating the messy transition of redefining herself. Told almost entirely through a single-sided phone conversation, the quietly powerful drama captures a pivotal moment – the feeling of losing a part of yourself when the life you built starts to unravel – without ever reducing its protagonist to an outdated stereotype. Still Life is a rare gem in the short-form landscape, where narratives about women over 35 are scarce, and even rarer are those that treat their subjects with such unsentimental empathy. To accompany today’s premiere, I caught up with Richardson to explore his personal connection to his lead character Eloise, the creative choices that shaped Still Life’s minimalist yet deeply moving framework, and how the film honours the real women who inspired its story.

What inspired you to tell this particular story from the perspective of a woman like Eloise?

Eloise is a composite of a handful of women, mostly friends of my mother, who I grew up with. They were women who would come over for Friday drinks with Mum. I would listen to them chat, gossip, tell meandering anecdotes about their kids (often filled with pride) and their husbands (often filled with disappointment). They were all women born in the 1960s, perhaps the last generation to be brought up to believe that the definition of a successful life for them was a house in the suburbs with kids and a mortgage.

As I got older, I started to see couples I never imagined would separate break apart, and the women – it’s the women who seemed to stay in my parents’ lives – try to figure out how to live when the only way they knew how to be was taken away from them. When your entire identity is bundled up with this suburban ideal of marriage and children, who are you when that’s taken away? That question is something I really wanted to interrogate and it’s not something I’ve seen many films try to grapple with, especially short films. I’m also a sucker for a character study where the protagonist is thorny and difficult and not inherently likable. That, combined with the love I have for the women I grew up with, is where Eloise was born.

When your entire identity is bundled up with this suburban ideal of marriage and children, who are you when that’s taken away?

Eloise originated from a longer script. What was it about that character that made you want to give her a standalone piece?

I think the Eloise of that film, A Success Story (which is still unmade), is a very different character from the Eloise of Still Life. A Success Story was this 25-page ensemble film about an outsider going to an anniversary party and being the only person who can really see the lingering sadness in all the performed celebration. Eloise was one of the guests at the party. She was this brassy, high camp, chain-smoking divorcee who had come out the other side of her divorce living her best life, going on Tinder dates, and living freely in a way she couldn’t when she was married.

When it became clear that procuring the budget we would need for A Success Story was highly, highly unlikely (although I would still love to make it one day!), I decided to pivot to something smaller scale. I just really loved this character and I wanted to spend more time with her. Who was she when she was married? What was the process of divorce like for her? How long did it take for this transformation to happen? As I started to get deeper and deeper into Still Life, it became clear that this Eloise was different. I’m not necessarily sure that the Eloise was Still Life would turn into the brassy, high-camp Eloise of A Success Story. Draft after draft, I stripped a lot of the camp out. It didn’t feel right. And when Di Adams came on board, she made Eloise her own and grounded her in a way that I think made the film and the character infinitely stronger.

Why did you cast Di Adams in the role of Eloise, and what did she bring to the character that made her performance stand out?

We were pursuing a few different actors for this – it’s such an actor’s piece, there’s really no room to move if you don’t get the performance right, and I think a lot of the people we approached were intimidated by that a bit. It’s such a difficult thing to carry what is essentially a monologue and Di really relished the challenge and embraced it. She does a lot of theatre and I think the longer takes suited her acting style. When we approached her agent, they pretty much got back to us straight away and she was very keen to be involved, which I think is a good sign she was the right person.

When Di Adams came on board, she made Eloise her own and grounded her in a way that I think made the film and the character infinitely stronger.

She came with a lot of insight into menopause and the experience of being a woman in her 50s – something I haven’t and won’t ever experience – and I think that was a big part of why she wanted to do it. Menopause is this major life change nobody talks about, and I can’t speak on her behalf, but I think she was keen to bring something of her own experience to that conversation. We adapted some of the dialogue around her so it fit her natural speech patterns. In other hands, Eloise could have become a caricature, but Di really grounded her in something real. She was a delight to work with, so down to earth and experienced, and I can’t speak highly enough of her.

With such a minimalist setup, what were the biggest creative or technical challenges you faced?

Making this film was basically like going to blocking school. I hadn’t worked with a Steadicam before as a director and it was something Boris Vymenets, our cinematographer, really pushed. I knew when the cuts would be – I wanted to use edits like punctuation marks that take us from one part of the story to the next – and I knew when I wanted Eloise moving and when I wanted her stationary. But getting the pacing right, moving her around, and moving the camera around her on the day was a really interesting challenge. There was a bit of a dance between me, Di, Boris and Julius Koivistoinen, our Steadicam operator. There were lines here or there that we cut out on the day for pacing and moments where it was like, “Oh, we’ve trapped her into a corner. How do we get from the door for this line to sitting over here for this line?” It was a real team effort and it’s a credit to the amazing team we had on this film that we were able to work it out and it came together so well.

Getting the pacing right, moving her around, and moving the camera around her on the day was a really interesting challenge.

Still Life uses, to great effect, a constantly shifting aspect ratio which progressively widens as we learn more of Eloise’s story. What underpinned that decision?

This sounds incredibly lame and trite when you have to put it into words, but the thinking was we start the film only seeing a small slice of this woman, and by the end of it, we see her more fully. As the screen expands, we get a more complete view of who she is. I also wanted to play with the idea of the still life as this static thing. You can’t distil a life into an image. If the frame is constantly moving, it challenges this idea. Life may change, but you have to keep on moving.

How did you work with your cinematographer and production designer to reflect the emotional state of Eloise and the symbolism of the home being packed up around her?

I knew fairly early on I wanted an autumnal colour palette and I think we were all on the same page about using that to create this sense of melancholy, of seasonal decay, of transition from one stage of life to another. Once we found the location, everything really fell into place from there. The house had this natural orange in the floorboards, which did a lot of heavy lifting. We were able to push that in the lighting and, eventually, the grade. And on set, Laura James (our production designer) brought these little accents of red and beige in throws and cushions that made the place feel like Eloise would live there but also made the world feel complete and self-contained.

What do you think audiences from different generations, especially younger viewers, might take away from it?

I don’t know what younger viewers might take away from Still Life. It’s always a surprise the films that have struck an emotional chord with me and sometimes it’s never entirely clear why they do. When I first saw the film Summertime, it hit me in this deep place emotionally, like this film was made just for me. I totally understood everything that Katharine Hepburn felt in that movie. Which, on the surface, makes no sense. I am not a single woman in her 40s living in the 1950s. In fact, I was 22 at the time and yet I totally ‘got’ it.

I hope that younger viewers can find some empathy with Eloise and recognise something of themselves in her. Maybe they will feel for her what I felt for Katharine Hepburn when I first saw Summertime? This film came from a place of love. I just hope it can be received in the same spirit.

Do you see Still Life as a part of a wider conversation about underrepresented life stages and transitions in film, television and media?

Absolutely. There is a real lack of stories about women between the ages of 35 and 60, especially in the short film world. There are countless ‘coming of age’ shorts about teenagers or people in their early 20s, which makes sense. Short films are mostly made by younger people who want to make films that reflect their experiences, as they should. But the result of that is a real lack of shorts about people over the age of 30. And that is when people are at their most interesting! That’s when all the living happens! You don’t stop coming of age when you turn 30.

You don’t stop coming of age when you turn 30.

What stories are you excited to tell next, and will they continue to explore similar emotional landscapes or move in a new direction?

I love a melodrama – films like All That Heaven Allows, Brief Encounter. It’s a mode of storytelling I really enjoy and I don’t think it has reached its fullest potential. I am currently writing a feature that lives in that world a bit and it does feel like it occupies a similar emotional space to this film. It’s a story I’m very excited about and I can’t wait to share it with the world. I’m not sure where to from there. It could be something similar or something entirely different. I can’t wait to find out.

Last Monday saw the British TV Broadcaster Channel 4 release Beth – a project billed as its first ever digital original drama, which was not only broadcast traditionally on linear TV as well as on Channel 4 Streaming, but also arrived for audiences first on Channel 4’s YouTube. Ahead of that, DN friend Nimi Raja sat down with Beth writer/director Uzo Oleh and producer Yaw Basoah for a chat about formats and the rich subtext peppered throughout their sci-fi mystery meets IVF relationship drama.
[Note: This conversation contains spoilers but you can watch Beth at this link]

Head to Directors Notes for more filmmaker interviews and to watch our daily selection of new short films. If you’d like your film featured on DN, submit it here. If you’re not already, you should definitely subscribe to the Directors Notes podcast.
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There is a sad truth in the fact that we can we can spend a lifetime loving someone without truly knowing them, a realisation that hit filmmaker Max Kane upon the discovery of his grandmother’s diaries when clearing out her house. Marking his third appearance on DN’s pages following premieres for Duck and House of Brotherly Love, Kane’s deeply personal exploration of memory and hidden truths, Ah-Ma Burns, blurs boundaries between the tangible and ethereal, reflecting a complexity of human understanding. Kane’s approach to filmmaking here is remarkably tactile and intuitive and the film’s visual language evolves as a direct mirror to his protagonist’s emotional journey. This progression isn’t merely a stylistic flourish but serves as the film’s emotional architecture. Kane’s directorial approach centres on creating authentic emotional spaces rather than manufactured moments. Trusting his cast’s work in pivotal scenes demonstrates a filmmaking practice which knows when to guide and when to surrender control. Ah-Ma Burns serves as an enthralling meditation on grief and as the short makes its online premiere today, Kane returns to talk about emergency recasting leading to a change in tone for the film, his love for editing chaotic scenes and why he ended the short with a surprising twist.

From your notes, it’s clear you were inspired by your own grandmother to write this film.

I adored my Ah-Ma growing up and always remembered her as the happiest person in my life. Over a decade after her passing, while my family was cleaning out her house, we found one of her old diaries buried in a pile of books. As I spent weeks reading through it, she transformed before me into a woman of strong convictions, deep desires, and an ingrained sadness. I made this film to honor her complex humanity – something I only came to understand after she was gone.

At the time, I was feeling disconnected from some important people in my life and that emotional state probably bled into the writing.

How did writing the film help you process your grief and reflect where you were in life at that point?

I wrote the script over a few weeks in Mexico City in February 2022. It was a time of transition for me – I was moving apartments in LA, changing jobs, and repairing some fractured friendships. I knew I wanted to write something that captured the feeling of change, while also weaving in this new discovery about my grandma. Most of the characters were written around close friends I really wanted to see in front of the camera. At the time, I was feeling disconnected from some important people in my life and that emotional state probably bled into the writing, as each character in the film grapples with their own version of loneliness.

It can’t have been easy to find the right actor for Ah-Ma?

I spent months trying to street-cast our grandma, spending afternoons in public parks, malls, and restaurants. Eventually, I met an 86-year-old woman named Winnie at a laundromat, and she loved the idea of being in a movie. Unfortunately, Winnie had a health scare two weeks before production. We decided it was best to recast quickly with a seasoned actor, which changed the tone of the project and forced me to rethink how I approached directing it.

I met Alice Lin through her manager and at the time she was in a deep state of despair. Weeks prior, Alice had been scammed out of her life savings in a devastating pig-butchering internet scam. In Alice’s words: “Given that I was already in extreme anguish and stress from being deceived, I believed that portraying this character might help me release my inner emotions.” The more we worked together, the more it felt like Alice’s story had become the heart of the film.

I’d love to know more about the re-framing of the project towards Alice herself after that last-minute changeover for the lead role.

When Winnie was cast, our prep focused on fundamentals: how to read a script, how to memorize lines, and how to make sense of the story. Once Alice stepped in, our limited rehearsal time focused on questions such as: why are we making this film, how do we relate to the characters, and what are their intentions? I believe this resulted in a deeper understanding of one another and allowed me to tailor my direction to her own personal experiences.

You play with angles in such a dynamic way, expressing Ah-Ma’s shifting inner state through the cinematography.

Kudos to Jay Swuen and Mike Overton, our DP and 1st AC, for working so well together. During prep, I made the storyboard and shot list, then Jay and I spent a day refining. The intention was to mirror Alice’s emotional arc throughout the film – we began static and claustrophobic, shifted into handheld anxiety, and ended in a kind of controlled chaos.

The intention was to mirror Alice’s emotional arc throughout the film.

The ceremony is intense. How did you capture the raw emotional authenticity of the moment, which feels so intensely close to tipping over into horror?

The ceremony scene was particularly fun to shoot. We took 30 minutes to get Alice’s coverage in two takes, then flipped to the friends’ horrified reactions. While we held a few rehearsals before the shoot, we never touched this scene, knowing Alice would only have one chance to bring the intensity. It’s always fun seeing people squirm in their seats while watching it. Someone even passed out at a recent festival!

The only direction I gave Alice was, “This is your chance to let it all out.” I think her visceral emotions on screen are pretty real. And, I made sure David’s friends were in the room during her coverage so that, when it came time to shoot their reactions, they didn’t need much direction – they had already lived through it.

After such an intense shoot I want to know how the edit was for that particular scene?

Cutting chaos is so fun. For this scene, I pulled my favorite moments from the dailies, dropped them into a timeline, and pieced them together like a puzzle. The sound design added another layer of complexity, as we needed to make sure each of Alice’s scream tracks flowed naturally into the next. I feel bad for my roommate who heard it on repeat for weeks! Once picture locked, we heightened the horror with Lane’s score and a ton of ADR.

The sound design added another layer of complexity, as we needed to make sure each of Alice’s scream tracks flowed naturally into the next.

Upon first viewing I had no inkling that the film was going down a fantastical route. Did you want to surprise viewers?

Yes, I’m a sucker for stories that have a magical realist twist. There was also a storyline involving a gun-wielding prison escapee and his girlfriend crashing the Friendsgiving that got cut in the edit. That probably would have been surprising too, for better or worse!

What was it in Lane Shi’s music that drew you to it as right for the tapestry of Ah-Ma Burns?

Lane Shi (aka Otay:onii) is an artist from Haining, China. I stumbled across her song Overlap on Bandcamp and immediately fell in love with her sound. Lane wrote the music in just two days, right between her European and U.S. tours. She’s one of the most awe-inspiring artists I’ve met, and if you ever see her perform live, it just might change your life. Her music has this slow-building intensity and otherworldly sound that is so cinematic. Her lyrics are impossible to decipher, which allows you to surrender to the emotion rather than focus on meaning. I had no idea if it would work, but I trusted Lane completely, and she delivered a score I fell in love with.

How has making this reframed the memories of your grandmother and how did you find the process of working on something that was so personal with such a meaningful group of collaborators?

I somehow feel like I know my grandma even less now. Journal pages can only tell you so much, and every new thing I learned about her uncovered more questions. I have a laundry list for her in the next life! There are so many people I want to thank for making this movie happen, but here are six: Jay and Jeff – to many more collaborations; Alyssa and Kenzo – for being the best producers I’ve ever worked with; Joey and Brooke – for sticking with me through everything.

I enjoyed going back to your previous films featured on DN, Duck and House of Brotherly Love, and would love to know about your progression through these projects to where you are today as a filmmaker.

I’m learning how much harder it gets to make a film with every year that goes by. Life happens, priorities change, friends move on. So I’m trying to cherish every moment of the process moving forward, something I wasn’t as attuned to during the last few films.

If there’s one film festival that’s crushing it in the short film game in 2025, it’s Tribeca. This year, they’ve programmed 93 short films, more than any other major festival has dared to, declaring that our beloved shorts deserve the royal treatment. With curated thematic strands, including an animation programme by Whoopi Goldberg, the films explore bold stories of passion, joy, friendship and trauma. Tribeca is throwing short films the party they’ve always deserved, complete with their own fancy new Shorts Cinema screening room at Spring Studios. We were delighted to see a great number of DN alums showing their work, some of whom are featured below as they impress us once again. With a heavy focus on contemporary questions of identity, family dynamics and belonging being lauded by the festival, Tribeca audiences have been confronted by intimate examinations of cultural exchange, displacement, and the complex dynamics between human beings seeking acceptance and understanding.

Ovary-Acting – Ida Melum

According to medical science, pregnancy after 35 is called geriatric (appealing), and with those around me freezing eggs at an alarming rate, it is safe to say Ida Melum’s Tribeca world premiering Ovary-Acting struck a chord in me. Melum was last featured on DN for her BAFTA-nominated Night of the Living Dread, and her newest short is a brilliant, overtly mad and absurdist look at the real pressures women face every day in their decision whether or not to pursue motherhood. The stop-motion characters are beautifully crafted, and while it might normally be a bit sweet for my tastes, this hit the proverbial spot.

ATTAGIRL – Klimovski

ATTAGRIL is in your face, unapologetic and sincerely fabulous. Very quickly switching our expectations of what is to come, director Klimovski suddenly adopts a contemporary use of silent movie text cards in neon pink after the first scene and then throughout, eschewing our typical presumptions of where this queer film will take us. Siren is a ruthless bookie whose designer Birkin handbag and meticulous makeup belies the threat she poses as she struts her way through New York. ATTAGIRL is truly unlike anything I have seen and that delights me.

Cherry-Colored Funk – Chelsie Pennello

A collection of a grifter’s shady deals and disastrous business and personal relationships all come to a head in Chelsie Pennello’s exploration of human hopes, dreams and flaws in Cherry-Colored Funk. In the fast-paced and brilliantly edited short, we experience, in what feels like real time, his house of cards collapse around him. Pennello doesn’t shy from putting the cameras right in the face of the action, and as the mayhem continues to snowball, every moment plays out on our confidence man’s face.

African Family Dinner – Ibrahim Mursal

Meeting your partner’s family can often be an intimidating affair but Ibrahim Mursal takes this to the extreme in his comedy short African Family Dinner. Good intentions soon descend into a cringeworthy nightmare as a young woman’s attempt to impress her boyfriend’s Ghanaian family keeps getting worse and worse. Deftly highlighting the danger of stereotypical assumptions on both sides of the cultural divide, Mursal delivers a nuanced exploration of how we perform identity for others.

Ask Me Anything – Wyneke van Nieuwenhuyzen

These are the types of conversations we need more of. Wyneke van Nieuwenhuyzen’s documentary short Ask Me Anything follows a Sudanese refugee as he opens up the floor to local residents to ask him anything and initiates a much-needed dialogue and opportunity for understanding. Filmed over four unfiltered sessions in Rotary clubs, van Nieuwenhuyzen shows how easily we can break barriers between communities with open, honest conversation.

Zodiac – Hans Buyse & Titus De Voogdt

A friendship is put to the test when two men, out on a fishing trip, come across a boat of struggling refugees. Tensions immediately arise between the two, but it is what is left unsaid that speaks volumes. The stunning scenery and vivid cinematography in Zodiac sharply juxtapose questions of moral and human responsibility we all face, but all too often choose to ignore.

Neil Armstrong and the Langholmites – Duncan Cowles

Here at DN we’re big fans of Duncan Cowle’s dour tones and entirely captivating films. His ability to draw out a story from the most obscure starting points, here an American’s visit to a small town in Scotland, is unparalleled and made all the better as he doesn’t shy away from including himself. Forget talking heads, Cowles manages to make every interviewee feel like they are the star of the show, telling the most unique story, which I could happily listen to, whatever the subject matter.

Baby Blues – Helen Komini Knudsen

The voices in our head and the commentary we feel the need to make on every aspect of our lives (something I am no stranger to) are brilliantly framed in Helen Komini Knudsen’s comedy short Baby Blues. Told entirely from the POV of a baby in a pram, I felt every inch of this mother’s pain, meandering mind and daily struggles. It is raw and honest, something which I’m sure all mothers need more of.

Fire at Will – Morgan Gruer

A family gathered around a table with more disastrous results. Morgan Gruer, whose lovelorn short Ghosted we featured on DN in 2020, directs a frenzied comedy which sees both parents and children turn on each other as the subject of inheritance rears its ugly head. Generational conflict, long-hidden grievances and a battle of wills play out loud and fierce, with no one involved coming out of it looking good.

Almost Graduated – Florencia Peña & Samantha Copano

By far the quietest and most contemplative selection in this list, Florencia Peña and Samantha Copano’s Almost Graduated (Futura Licenciada) is an evocative coming-of-age story told from an older point of view where a university student struggles with the vast future ahead of her. As the near graduate struggles with the transition, her focus on the seemingly simple task of passing her driver’s test becomes all-encompassing and is a perfect example of the symbolic power of small achievements.

You can find more DN film festival favourites in our Best of Fest collections.

In her sprawling and personal 275 minute epic, Castration Movie i: Traps, writer/director Louise Weard explores powerlessness and gender struggle through two chapters, telling the distinct tales of Turner, a production assistant in a failing relationship and Michaela, a trans woman navigating sex work alongside her trans friend group. Shot on her parents’ Hi8 Camcorder, the film occupies a space nostalgic yet painfully cutting. Acerbic, vulnerable conversations about detransitioning, sex work and 4chan will be painfully familiar to many trans audiences, yet are filmed with the DIY charm of underground, mumblecore cinema. It would be easy to associate extended sequences of unsimulated sex, venomous behaviour and excessive drug use with cynicism, but what makes Castration Movie i: Traps so profound is the presence of a tender heart beneath its delightfully anarchic surface.

The cast, led by Weard herself alongside musician Aoife Josie Clements and fellow filmmakers Vera Drew and Alice Maio Mackay, depict deeply troubled characters, delving into the ugly depths of trans identity and community rarely seen in mainstream media. The film has been celebrated by trans communities and wider audiences alike. Despite its specificity – loosely drawn from personal experience – there is a frank universality present: our identities may be unique, but deep down we are all flawed, messed-up people. There’s a lasting sense of community to the film, no matter how acidic or toxic friendship may be, queer communities will pack into grungy DJ sets and care for each other in the aftermath of surgery and trauma. Castration Movie i: Traps is quintessential proof that the daring spirit of independent cinema is far from dead. Ahead of screening as part of the Prince Charles Cinema’s Bleak Week, Weard joins DN to discuss independent distribution, collaborating with friends and what we can expect from part two.

Castration Movie i: Traps wasn’t always a four and a half hour epic, it began as a 90 minute feature. Could you tell us about the origins of this project and its evolution?

It was coming up on ten years since the last short film I directed and I realized it was time to finally make my feature length debut. I conceived Castration Movie as a straightforward narrative with a brisk running time as a means of ensuring I would get the project finished in a reasonable period of time, but after the first few weekends of shooting I realized my directing process was going to result in a much longer film than I anticipated. Once I had that epiphany, I went back into my notes to add more layers to the story and the narrative has stayed pretty consistent since that point. It was always destined to be an epic and I never write anything short, so I genuinely think I was just fooling myself when I set out to make a more standard 90 minute debut.

What drew you to the Hi8 camcorder format?

I hate how modern cinema looks so I decided I wanted to take the most ascetic approach to aesthetic form possible. Having in my possession the family Hi-8 camcorder from my childhood unlocked this idea of trying to take a juvenile sensibility to the camerawork. If I’m not excited by what’s going on in modern cinema, then why not try to put myself back in my childhood state of picking up a camera for the first time and see what new form comes out of that? I think Castration Movie feels timeless despite being shot on a format so linked to a specific decade in a way that even a movie shot on a modern iPhone already feels too linked to its time and place. The Hi-8 is also just so easy to shoot on, since it’s a consumer camcorder.

If I’m not excited by what’s going on in modern cinema, then why not try to put myself back in my childhood state of picking up a camera for the first time and see what new form comes out of that?

I heard that on set you often passed the camcorder to the least experienced camera operator in the room. Can you tell us more about that decision and what kind of atmosphere it created on set?

Yeah, in any scene I’m acting in I would pick my camera operator by seeing who was the most uncomfortable to hold the camera, like see who had this worry of screwing it up since they didn’t trust their abilities or had never filmed anything with a camcorder before. I would put the camera in that person’s hands and say that there was no wrong way to shoot it, to just follow their instincts. We ended up with some really cool shots thanks to that, where certain operators would lose focus on the action in the scene and look out the window or zoom in on some small detail, or walk across the room away from the dialogue. It really adds this level of realism to the movie because it feels like a home movie sometimes, whereas most filmmakers are trying so hard to ensure their films look nothing like a home movie.

I would pick my camera operator by seeing who was the most uncomfortable to hold the camera, like see who had this worry of screwing it up since they didn’t trust their abilities or had never filmed anything with a camcorder before.

Your work often features long takes. Why do you think you are drawn to this stylistic approach, and how did you navigate directing and performing in such sequences?

I love actors and I feel that the long take allows for performances to grow and live so much better than you get by killing the momentum and spontaneity of a scene with too much coverage. With this movie I wanted to take a more collaborative approach to the performances, where I only focus on directing and don’t share a script with the actors. Instead, I attune my working with each performer based on their needs, which can sometimes include pages of detailed backstories or even something as minimal as finding the character through nothing but a costume fitting where the character comes to life by just choosing which pants they wear. Then on set we spend some time where I aurally dictate the scene to the actors and we use that as an opportunity to add any other ideas that collectively excite us before we settle on a fully formed scene to shoot. We only do one take of every scene so that we can bottle that spontaneity and I think that’s really what makes Castration Movie so effortless to watch.

The soundtrack is absolutely brilliant, much of it made by co-star and co-producer Aoife Josie Clements (Ravine Angel). Could you tell us a little more about the importance of music to Castration Movie, and what it was like working with Aoife?

I do all of the sound design on my work so the soundscape and music is always at the forefront of what I’m thinking about as a director. I wanted to be as minimal with music as possible on this project so what I did was give Aoife and the other musical artists free rein to send me whatever they were working on, with the idea being that I could pick out the track that fit best in a scene. Other times I commissioned artists with just a loose set of notes on what happened in the scene and the tone I was looking for. It’s all very curated, like I seek out who I want to collaborate with musically and then trust them to do their thing.

In the case of Aoife’s album Castration Songs it was me giving her a vibe and sense of the story and her watching dailies and then responding to what was going on in our real lives and putting that all into the music to create something beautiful. She made so much music for the movie so I really was just spoiled for choice on what I could use, it all being so good. Working with Aoife as an actress who has that musical talent is the best part because I could turn Castration Movie into a musical once the emotions got too strong to communicate any other way. This project just wouldn’t be what it is without her contribution.

One of the film’s most dazzling feats is its remarkable tonal control. Michaela and Adeline’s story, in particular, ventures into dark terrain, touching on topics I never thought I’d see on screen whilst also being one of the funniest films I’ve seen in years. Was it challenging to balance such tones or did they develop organically?

I think I’m the most talented director of my generation, so no it wasn’t difficult at all. It’s all about strong communication. I knew in my head exactly what I wanted this movie to be and then I communicated that with the actors and they pulled it off to a remarkable degree. I’m really lucky to have found such talented collaborators, as without all of these actors being so good it just wouldn’t have worked. It’s all them and I’m a hack, to be honest.

We only do one take of every scene so that we can bottle that spontaneity and I think that’s really what makes Castration Movie so effortless to watch.

There is such a communal feeling developing in the landscape of trans filmmaking right now. Castration Movie sees you collaborating with Vera Drew and Alice Maio Mackay, both outstanding trans filmmakers in their own right. How did this sense of artistic community influence the film’s development?

I really wanted to make sure that there was a community of all of the cool emerging filmmakers working today and it just so happens that many of them are also trans. I wasn’t specifically thinking of Castration Movie as a trans cultural object but wanted to do with the modern indie film landscape the same thing we saw with the 90s Sundance alumni and in 2010s mumblecore where all of these filmmakers were collaborating and sometimes lifting each other up. I just like making movies with my friends and so it was important to me that I made sure everyone I knew had a part in Castration Movie.

I understand much of Castration Movie draws from personal experiences. How has such a vulnerable approach felt throughout production, and how do you feel now this story is out in the world?

I like to obfuscate how much of the movie is real. It’s all real but also none of it is. I think it’s important to be vulnerable and sincere while making the art but talking about it after it’s done it’s fun not to be too serious about it. It’s nice that audiences find my traumas so funny.

The film has had wonderfully DIY distribution, playing in film festivals, club basements and being featured in the Prince Charles Cinema’s upcoming Bleak Week, but also being available for digital download. Could you talk about your unconventional and inspiring approach to distributing the film?

I felt it was important to just get the movie out there and make sure that anyone who might want to see it was able to do so easily. I have long felt that by the time a new release comes out I’ve already lost interest in it from when I initially heard of it, so I thought it would be cool to experiment with letting people see a movie with ease immediately after they hear about it the first time. The in-person screenings started months after the digital release because suddenly there was a demand for them, with people showing up to these screenings regardless of venue. It’s definitely a successful experiment in how a modern cult film comes into existence, but I doubt it could be repeated to this degree.

Given the film’s unflinching portrayal of trans experiences, simultaneously specific and yet so universal, how have audiences both within and outside of the trans community responded to the film? Have any reactions particularly resonated with you?

I think what’s most exciting to me is that I get messages from viewers in Ukraine or Hong Kong saying that the trans friends group in this is just like theirs. It’s also good when people from outside of the community see it and have that same feeling of empathy, like the movie is really at its core about these universal feelings and I wanted to use all of these disparate characters to drive that message across. I think that having made a work that has trans people being messy and oh so remarkably human has really lifted the ceiling on what trans filmmakers can feel comfortable doing going forward. I like negative attention so I wasn’t scared to make something that seemed to court controversy so clearly on its surface with its subject matter, and to have been celebrated for it was definitely noticed by other filmmakers who feel a lot of relief to get freakier in their own work now.

I am the first audience member so it really is all about trying to impress myself with everything we do.

This is only part one of the anthology, what can we expect to see from part two?

The movie goes increasingly harder as it goes on. Part 2 opens with a chapter that goes into pure John Waters hysterical gonzo mode, which balances against even more bottomless despair. With every chapter I try to surprise myself and do things that don’t always feel right, that make me uncomfortable. I am the first audience member so it really is all about trying to impress myself with everything we do. Prepare to sit there watching it for a very long time.

Finally, what advice would you give to young queer filmmakers?

Go just be a filmmaker and don’t worry about what expectations that ‘queer’ label might place on you. Figure out what about your voice is unique and highlight that most of all. Make movies for yourself and you will be surprised by the audience you might find.

A filmmaker whose film Susana we highlighted at the start of the year as one of our Sundance Best of Fest picks, Gerardo Coello Escalante transforms an everyday moment, a child arriving at school with new shoes, into a devastating meditation on social class, cultural identity, and the painful dissolution of innocence in his short Business Trip (Viaje de Negocios). The film’s quiet but devastating impact lies in its understanding that coming-of-age stories are fundamentally about perspective and Escalante crafted his visual language accordingly. Positioning the camera at child-height to inhabit young Daniel’s worldview as his understanding of his father, and by extension, his place in the world, crumbles. Business Trip succeeds because it recognises that the end of childhood naivety is rarely dramatic, rather it’s quietly devastating, arriving through small revelations that reshape everything we thought we understood about the adults who built our world. As the film premieres with Directors Notes, we spoke to Escalante about the personal genesis and cultural heart of his narrative, his formalist visual approach bringing us entirely into the POV of his young protagonist and his mission to broaden the stories told in Mexican cinema beyond poverty and violence.

This is such a relatable narrative but told from a very specific viewpoint. Where did your story come from?

The idea for the film originated on my second date with my partner Amandine Thomas, co-writer, co-creative and editor of the film, as we discussed the similarities and differences of our upbringings, mine in Mexico City and hers in Virginia. How obsession with American products and commodities defined a lot of my childhood experience was something we both found interesting, and from various anecdotes and memories, the basic plot of the film started to take shape. We wrote the script and then several months later, in January 2023, decided that we would find a way to shoot the film that year. I approached my former elementary school and asked them for permission to shoot there. They agreed, but the film had to be shot before summer break because the school was going to start a big construction project that would change the look drastically.

The film was made on a shoestring budget. Amandine and I cast mostly out of the school, working with children and adults who had never acted before. The teachers in the film were my teachers back when I was in elementary school. To make it, so many friends and collaborators came together, and many children from the school came to perform as extras in our larger crowd scenes.

How did you translate those personal anecdotes with Amandine into a cohesive narrative that would resonate with audiences beyond your specific cultural experiences?

I wanted to make something that was a coming-of-age story, but that resonated in the way it was to grow up as a Mexican person during that time. We found this 2000s obsession with acquiring American products an interesting social and political phenomenon, and I thought that these light-up shoes, that maybe a younger child would want to wear in the US, to be a good metaphor for what I was trying to explore. Growing up, American trends would come to Mexico a couple of years later and the luckiest kids would go to Brownsville and San Antonio on big shopping trips over the weekend. The concept of the proximity to the United States serving as a form of social capital is familiar to any non-American person. But ultimately, the seminal moments in any kid’s life coming to understand the decisions adults are making and realizing that your parents are flawed human beings, is a wholly universal experience.

Opening with an unsettling, abstract sequence was the best way to invite the viewer into the beginning of the film.

I want to ask about your opening shot – the flashing lights and sterile soundscape are unsettling and don’t fit with the rest of the film – it left me with a real feeling of intrigue.

There were many different openings written. I wanted to communicate what the shoes meant, the longing for social capital, the appeal of this brand new American product. I had too many ideas to fit in an opening moment that I couldn’t figure out how to make work. I decided to cut the opening scene and replace it with just the bright shining lights of the shoes – to turn the lights into these ominous, shining presences before being revealed as coming from the heel of the sneaker. I realized that opening with an unsettling, abstract sequence was the best way to invite the viewer into the beginning of the film, which begins bright and light and changes tone halfway through the film.

The camerawork is, for obvious reasons, very focused on his shoes, but is also centred on the children at their height, which feels so intimate. What filmmaking techniques did you employ to authentically capture the world through a child’s eyes while maintaining the thematic complexity you were exploring?

The film had to be told from the perspective of Daniel, and the revelations needed to unfold for the viewer at the same time as they unfold for him. His revelations are private and thus we knew we had to be close to him, with him. A lot of the visual language came from wanting to live in his perspective. We also wanted the film to have a certain timelessness to it, we avoided most markers of time period like cars, screens and computers. We took a formalist approach, avoided handheld and moved the camera when the character motivated it to.

I am blown away by the level of performance from such young actors, especially since a lot of them are non-professional.

Working with the cast of young actors was the most rewarding process of the entire filmmaking journey. Most of the kids were cast out of the school we were shooting in and it was their first time in front of the camera. It was wonderful to experience the film set through their awe. I didn’t employ any special techniques other than trying to foster an environment of trust and freedom to play. They were just incredibly talented and deeply understood the stakes in the script. We truly just got lucky.

A lot of the visual language came from wanting to live in his perspective.

Working with child actors within a tight schedule presents unique challenges. How did you plan the production in order to maximise your shooting time?

We knew we had just three short days to shoot the film; therefore, we needed to come in with a very tight plan to execute it. I worked on the shotlist in a lot of detail with Cody Powers, the director of photography, and Amandine. We dissected every scene to make sure we were getting everything we needed in the most efficient possible way. We color-coded our shotlist to denote the minimum shots we needed to tell the story vs. the shots we really wanted to get, but might not have time to. I also made a horrible stick figure storyboard, which at least allowed me, Amandine and Cody to visualize the edit. We were always thinking about the edit, and we used almost every shot that we got.

I felt his pain, confusion and anguish so acutely in that last shot where you track him running around the court, tell us about the thought process behind that and the filming of it.

I knew the end of the film needed to be a private moment with Daniel as he is punished and runs around the court in PE class. Maintaining a frontal close-up on a running kid became the challenge and we knew right away we needed a rickshaw to get the shot. When you work with a limited budget, you don’t always have access to the state of the art gear. In our case, we had a pull cart of sorts, with a seat where our Steadicam operator was strapped in and our Gaffer, whose nickname is Monstruo due to his height and strength, pulled the cart running around the court. Our sound recordist and 1st AD ran alongside the cart. The rest of the crew had to be in the center of the court, which became the only blind spot. We all knew that we would only have a few takes, given that we couldn’t exhaust our Gaffer and Rodrigo. We got the shot on the third take.

Your background in both Mexico and the United States informs your storytelling perspective. How does this cross-cultural experience shape your visual language and the stories you’re drawn to tell?

Growing up in Mexico I was obsessed with American films and media. Most of the films I watched and the stories I tried to relate to came from the United States. That is partly because there were not as many Mexican films made as American films, but more importantly, it’s because many Mexican films that made it to larger audiences were centered on the aspects of our culture that a foreign tastemaker had decided were worthwhile stories to tell.

I grew up before the fever of narco films and TV shows, but I did grow up with stories that centered around poverty, migration and violence, the extremes that exist in my country. While those stories are important and worth telling, I didn’t often see representations of Mexican life that were truer to most of my day-to-day life. Most of my early film education came from American films, and it wasn’t until years later, when I left Mexico to study and to live in New York, that I discovered and fell in love with Mexican cinema. I am interested in films that expand upon what has traditionally been deemed worthy to depict in Mexican cinema, and I want to make films that are most of all honest.

Mexican films that made it to larger audiences were centered on the aspects of our culture that a foreign tastemaker had decided were worthwhile stories to tell.

It must have been a wild ride to premiere at Sundance so soon after the film was made. How was the experience and what’s next for you?

Premiering at Sundance with this film in 2024 and then this year with our follow up Susana [highlighted as one of our Top Picks from Sundance 2025], has truly been a dream come true. Receiving the call from the programmers was surreal and it made me feel like I was finally a director and my voice was being recognized. We were so lucky after the premiere to play at international film festivals from Sarajevo to Tirana, Palm Springs, LALIFF and Morelia. We have met a ton of wonderful people, from filmmakers to film lovers to programmers, through traveling with our films. I am hoping to get a feature film off the ground next. Amandine and I are developing a couple of projects in the fiction and non-fiction spaces.

Last seen on Directors Notes with her unforgettable spa retreat drama Hot Mother, Lucy Knox’s most recent project is a 7 minute acknowledgement, educator and reminder of the difficulties of growing, learning, experiencing and moving forward in the present day. Eighteen lends itself as a momentary scope into the reality of young adults and the world they are coming to conform and adapt to. With the help of the production company Trust, alongside her returning DOP Max Walter and the rest of her talented crew, Knox brings forward a documentary that “acts as a time capsule” for these adolescents and the entire generation around them. Exemplified by a triad of individuals from her home turf in Australia, Knox’s short curates an intimate, thought-provoking and contemporary nostalgic glimpse into these lives on the cusp of adulthood, offering an opportunity for their voices and stories to be shared and understood. Join DN alongside Knox as we discuss the development of her project, the challenge of weaving the subjects’ voices together and the importance of sharing the evolving emotional journey that this younger generation are having to come to terms with.

How did you come to be working with Trust on Eighteen and how did they support you through the process of making the documentary? Were you working to a brief or given free rein to explore where your interests took you?

I had the idea of making a film about being eighteen, and pitched it to Trust. Sarah Brannan, the EP there, was an incredible resource and very trusting. This was a documentary about a theme; there was no script so I was pitching something that I didn’t really know how it would turn out. But she got it. Her input made the project so much richer; she had thoughtful questions that gave me new prompts and made me interrogate the subject matter more deeply. There was a lot of creative freedom.

There’s a formality to Eighteen’s compositions which, rather than distancing, provides an intimacy that connects us both to your subjects’ environments and them directly as they make eye contact with us. How did you develop the film’s visual style alongside DOP Max Walter, given your desire to embrace a more reactionary approach for this project?

I think having worked with Max over the years, he understands my taste, and we have a shared language and understanding of what we want to achieve, so that helps when responding to largely unplanned material. The visual language developed in response to the content. Because it was reactive, we wanted the camera to bring formality. So we leaned into framing each moment formally – meaning locked off, close cropped and still – to give it a visual structure and cohesion. We kept the setup minimal, because our cast aren’t actors and we wanted to be unobtrusive around them. So we’d go into a space and turn a few of the house lights off, maybe put a light or a bounce outside the window, but nothing in the space. We shot on the Alexa 35 and the Cooke Panchro Classics, with mostly long lenses.

From Max: “The grain structure and highlight latitude of the Alexa 35 is the closest thing to getting a filmic feeling into the footage. The creamy and textured quality of those lenses, but within the dependable and solid modern housing, was valuable to us while moving fast. We were nimble enough to react to what unfolded in front of us. Despite that documentary approach we favoured long lenses, particularly the 75mm and 50mm. The camera remained observational and largely locked off, but the closeness of the long lenses, and the stillness of the frame brought a gentle immediacy to every subtle look, every self-conscious movement.”

We leaned into framing each moment formally – meaning locked off, close cropped and still – to give it a visual structure and cohesion.

The balance between the voices of the subjects that you documented and your own voice within the film’s style and aesthetic is bang on perfect. How did you encourage their reflective responses and initially craft the discussion topics? Did those evolve at all as you spoke to more participants?

Thank you! We began casting with a social media callout, and I did Zoom calls with everyone to ask about their hobbies, what they cared about, to get a sense of their lives and how they saw the world. From this, I had a basic framework of questions going into their interviews, but the focus was on listening and responding to shifts in conversation. It helped having a team who understood and were invested in the project – in a couple interviews, our sound recordist Adam Armstrong also jumped in with some great follow up questions. It was also important to make sure the cast have agency in the filming process – establishing that their involvement doesn’t stop when we finish recording their interview. They knew they could retract anything later, and they are brought in to see the edit when it’s in post production. Then they can see and be part of how their story has been shaped, and we can ensure it feels authentically in their voice.

It was also important to make sure the cast have agency in the filming process – establishing that their involvement doesn’t stop when we finish recording their interview.

You’ve said this film is a time capsule documentary that marks a significant shift in the world as experienced by 18 year olds now, as compared to generations gone before. Is this something keenly felt by your participants or more a reflection of your observations comparing their concerns now with your own when you were their age?

I guess it’s probably a mix of both, as it’s hard to divorce from my own perspective. I do think this generation feels like they’re living through something unique. That the world they’re inheriting, the societal pressures around them, feel more intense than before. I felt that sense of pressure come through a lot of the interviews. But maybe that’s something every generation feels to some extent.

As you went into this with a clear desire to find your way with the material, how arduous was the editing process in identifying the connective tissue and final structure of the film? Were there any initially promising structures/flows which you abandoned or reformed to arrive at this final one?

Definitely, there was intentionally no plan in pre of how the scenes would link together, so finding that flow in the edit was a real process of experimentation – beautifully navigated by editors Leila Gaabi and Shannon Michaelas. I’ve worked with Leila a lot – she did an amazing job of crafting the scenes and shaping the tone of each character. When she got pulled onto a commercial, Shannon stepped in seamlessly, and then further shaped the non-linear structure that gives it that flow. It was actually great working with both of them, they discussed it a lot and bounced back and forth. We did try other structures – other edits that spent more time with each person, but in the end it felt strongest when we weaved their voices together. Not staying with one person for too long, made it feel like it spoke more universally to this age, more like a collective portrait, which was always the goal.

We did try other structures – other edits that spent more time with each person, but in the end it felt strongest when we weaved their voices together.

Eighteen is contemporary, present, relevant, and makes for honestly eye opening watching. I’d love to know if you learnt anything or connected differently to the themes during the journey of making this film?

For sure. I think I was reminded how emotionally intense that age really is – how deeply things are felt, how much pressure there can feel like there is around you. I think the process deepened my empathy and respect for this generation.

How go the long form projects you mentioned last time we spoke and will we also see more shorts from you in the future?

Yes, the long form projects are moving along, and yes to making more shorts. I love shorts, I think some stories are better suited to short form. It’s a great way to stay connected to making things or to try new techniques… while developing bigger projects in the background.

In this episode we’re joined by Daisy-May Hudson whom we last spoke to as part of our London Film Festival coverage alongside co-director Sophie Compton for their feature documentary Holloway. Today, Daisy-May returns as the writer-director of feature drama Lollipop, which stars a captivating Posy Sterling as a young woman newly released from prison after serving four months, who is forced to struggle against a not fit for purpose child protection system to regain custody of her children. With Lollipop arriving on cinema screens this week as part of its Q&A tour, before being released nationwide on the 13th June, Sarah caught up with Daisy-May to learn all about how she made the move from documentary to narrative features.
[Watch/Read the full interview]

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When Beth was first commissioned, it made waves for its format as “Channel 4’s first digital original drama“. Billed as both a YouTube short form mini series of three episodes, and a 45 minute linear short (same narrative, two ways to watch). Given the industry’s current obsession with format experimentation and digital consumption, it was and is a moment, as audience viewing habits evolve and opportunities to shape what that means arise. One both writer/director Uzo Oleh (who last joined us here on DN with his mind-bending sci-fi thriller Edicius) and Dark Pictures founder and producer Yaw Basoah are incredibly appreciative of. But to focus on the form alone would do this incredible piece of storytelling an injustice – it is first and foremost a distinctive narrative, beautifully told. A story of an interracial couple, their longing for a baby, struggle with IVF and moral battle with adoption. We meet them at their highest high and see them at their lowest as mysterious circumstances fracture their relationship and their lives. Oleh’s incredible use of subtext packs so much into the runtime that it’s also a drama which demands attention, evokes emotion and, if consumed on YouTube (versus linear), will begin to redefine what we as audiences should be expecting and how we should be engaging with content from the platform. This is not, dear reader, background or thumb candy viewing.

The creative alchemy of Oleh and Basoah’s partnership was felt loudly and deeply in my conversation with them, even over the screens of Zoom – the magic of which both attribute to ‘Higgonometry’ – which, as I’m fast learning, is the renowned Anna Higgs effect (Exec Producer on Beth, Film Committee Chair at BAFTA, MD at Character 7) who paired the two together and in turn inspired key decision makers in the industry to back them – not least Channel 4 to go ahead and commission it. I for one am sure this is just the beginning of the journey for Beth protagonists Joe and Molly as a world this rich will undoubtedly have much more to come, but for now this is an incredible start that has you as a viewer intrigued and rooting for the couple, even though we’ve spent such a brief amount of time with them.

Uzo and Yaw’s alchemic magic made me wish I was on their set – however, their generosity of insight, spirit and fresh perspective in our interview made me feel like I was… just for a hot minute.

[A heads up, this interview contains light spoilers so you might want to watch Beth first, it’s right there ]

Please can you both introduce yourselves and the piece we’ll be talking about – Uzo let’s start with you…

Uzo Oleh: My name is Uzo Oleh. I’m a writer and director and we’re talking about Beth, which is an idea I had a while ago that, without giving too much away, is basically about a family. I was a photographer for many years. I love creating and making things, whether pieces of art or a motorcycle. I like making things basically, that’s my whole thing.

Yaw Basoah: Hello, I’m Yaw Basoah. I’m a film, TV and digital arts producer. I love working with talented filmmakers, that’s why it has been a privilege to work with Uzo on this fantastic film and for people to see the amazing ideas Uzo has in his locker.

And how did your creative partnership come about?

YB: Uzo is such a good storyteller and such a charmer, it is something you can almost believe.

UO: In all honesty, we got introduced by Anna Higgs. The Higgs. You know, the magic maker – Higgonometry. I talked to her about my idea and she was like, “You have to meet this guy Yaw”, so we met up and had coffee. I did most of the talking, which is no surprise and yeah, that was that.

One of the biggest things about Beth that stood out to me was that we’re with these characters for such a short space of time, but you pack so much in that we get to know quite a lot about them. How did you go about that?

UO: For me, it’s all about symbolism and choices. We got so lucky with the cast, they got the idea of the unsaid little moments. For example, there’s a moment where Molly touches Joe’s chest, she knows she’s said something wrong, he starts talking and she says “Yeah, of course” without him even needing to finish. You’re meant to feel that there is so much more there. There’s so much subtext, I love trying to infer things. That’s my taste though. I mean think about it, we all speak the same language spiritually as humans. I’ve lived in countries where I don’t speak the language but you can communicate.

One of our biggest things was to make people fall in love with this couple and feel their struggle. Given the reduced time frame, if we’ve nailed that, then anything else is a bonus.

YB: I would just add a lot was already on the page to work with, that’s testament to Uzo and him getting the performances out of the cast. He pushed them to breathe this reality into these characters so it would be wrong for Uzo to do a disservice to himself and not talk to how much was already on the page from day one and enhanced by the development process.

UO: Aww thanks Yaw, mate, do you think the time constraints we had also helped bring so much out so quickly?

YB: I think so, it made us focus a bit more on character. One of our biggest things was to make people fall in love with this couple and feel their struggle. Given the reduced time frame, if we’ve nailed that, then anything else is a bonus. I fell in love with them when I read the script. There’s so much subtext but ultimately it’s about them two.

The use of clocks, watches and time really stood out to me. What was the symbolism of that?

UO: How spoilery can we go in this interview? [semi-spoiler alert] Well, the clocks. Molly is a woman approaching middle age and time is ticking, each try is another year. So time is ticking, but also every time you see a clock, the time is a bible verse linked to a virgin birth. The time is very symbolically linked to what’s going to happen to/with her. I love all that stuff though, again, so much comes through the subtext.

I’d love to talk about the cinematography. It was so beautifully shot, quite retro, with some stark moments like the red dress in the bathroom with the pregnancy test. What was your brief/vision for it?

UO: For the clothes, Emily Rose our costume designer went through all of the relevant colours based on what Molly will go through. Then overall I knew I wanted it to be like a movie, anamorphic, seventies lenses, old school vibe – something really textural. I met the DoP Sergio Delgado via a friend. We spoke and I sent him some of my references and he showed me his references that he uses in general, which had a bunch of my references in there so we were like, say no more, we’ve got the same style. It’s a meeting of minds. It was the first time I had worked with Sergio, but it was unbelievable, we were going through stuff so quickly, his team were amazing.

I knew I wanted it to be like a movie, anamorphic, seventies lenses, old school vibe – something really textural.

YB: Yeah, those two went off, had their DoP/Director chats and I’d be like, this is going to be great, never mind how I’m going to pay for whatever they’re going to do. But Sergio isn’t just one entity, his whole team knows exactly what they’re doing. The execution was incredible. The scale and gravity of what we had to do was huge but their work was like a Rolls-Royce. There’s no filmmaking that goes smoothly, everyone knows that there are good and bad days, but we had high ambitions and everyone had the same goal – to make it look brilliant and get people to FEEL something. There was creative magic and everyone was ‘Team Beth’.

Did you use any special equipment on the shoot?

YB: We just had all the toys. Everyone bought into Uzo and him as a filmmaker, that’s how we managed to bring in the calibre of people we did, from the actors to the DoP. All the equipment houses then supported the team so we managed to get the toys for very little money. But it’s one thing to have the equipment, it’s another to figure out the right time and way to use it and that’s the skill of the filmmakers. Essentially, we had a lot of amazing kit that came from a lot of goodwill.

It says a lot about the industry wanting to support doing incredible things despite how tough things are right now. And that brings us on to format, with Beth being the first original digital drama for Channel 4. Tell me about that, what it means, how it came about?

YB: I mean basically it’s a digital commission. Tom Pullen within digital at Channel 4, working alongside drama and trying to push boundaries of what’s possible in different forms and formats. The ambition was great and Tom was a brilliant colleague and ambassador for the project. Any inch he could get at Channel 4 in whatever capacity to put toward this project, he did. We’ve been so well supported in that respect. And with the format, we were open. We love linear long form, but this was an opportunity to do something and give a flavour of the potential of what Beth could be and work within those constraints. Channel 4 always wanted a series of three 8-12min episodes, those were the parameters at the beginning. But once they saw it coming together, they wanted to make a play for linear – Channel 4 as opposed to E4 or More4, and that’s testament to what Uzo created.

How did you approach editing it into those three episodes? I’ve only seen the linear version so am curious about the experience of it as a three-parter and where you cut.

YB: Uzo, you can explain but it’s quite intuitive once you think about the different parts in this relationship, you can see where the episodes will be.

UO: Well, a question for you Nimi. Where would you have ended each episode?

UO: So we end the first episode when they’re in the bathroom and they’re waiting for the pregnancy test. That’s probably about 12 minutes, something like that.

YB: 12 minutes, 34 seconds, I think.

UO: Oh, my God. Wow. This is what I love about Yaw. He’s not messing around! Then the second one is when the baby is born, which ended up being 7 or 8 minutes.

YB: It’s just under 8 minutes so it just hit that threshold of 8 to 12 minutes.

UO: I’d always seen it in three parts in my head, even when writing it, but where we ended up making the cuts and the length of each episode surprised us all in the edit to be honest.

I’d love to hear a bit more Uzo about your process for writing and directing. As you write, do you think through the director’s notes, treatment, roles, etc.?

UO: Definitely! I just imagine what’s happening, I let them do their thing. It’s emotionally expensive. There are scenes and moments that you think through before you’ve even written them down and they break your heart, they really upset you. I cry a lot when I’m writing, which is quite funny. I remember being in a meeting with Anna and Tom at Channel 4, and Tom was asking me about the character of Joe and his upbringing. We were hashing some points out, and I was defending his position on adoption and getting quite emotional. Anna put her hand on my knee and it was only at that point I was like, “Oh, I’m crying. Oh dear, excuse me.”. So it’s emotionally expensive, I just see it and I imagine. My whole thing is just ‘make what you’d like to see’. Your taste carries through.

There are scenes and moments that you think through before you’ve even written them down and they break your heart, they really upset you. I cry a lot when I’m writing, which is quite funny.

I guess I’m also asking that because you use some lines which say so much – like the one in the car where Joe says, “You’re thinking out loud” – and the body language does that too, telling so much of the story so quickly, but in a good way.

UO: I’m feeling emotional listening to you, because you don’t know how much people are going to get and why you make those choices so it’s really beautiful hearing that. I really appreciate you noticing those little things. And Nicholas Pinnock, what an actor, it was an honour to work with him. He said to me, “It’s my job to serve you. If you’re happy, I’m happy.” That’s his approach and he was just so collaborative.

How do you direct your actors? Like the scene with the mother in the hospital, how do you get that out of someone?

UO: It’s interesting because we cast Louise Bangay very late so our first conversation was on set.

YB: That was actually her first scene and it was the first time you’d met her. It had been a crazy morning. We had a baby on set (who was amazing), her mum is a midwife and they were just brilliant. But back to Louise, it was all in the room. Uzo and Louise were just given space and he explained what he needed out of that scene. Broke it down and I think at one point Uzo even acted it out. We were under so much pressure that day, but it’s about how effectively you can communicate to the actor and still give them the space to bring themselves to that performance. That’s what Uzo did and that’s why she nailed it.

UO: It’s so interesting to hear what you were seeing Yaw. But I’m never doing that again! Meeting someone so late in the day and going for it that is. Louise and I had a really good creative moment in that scene, because what she had in her head as to what this would be like versus what I was shooting for were actually mismatched, and I could see that from the first version of the take. She then totally understood my vision, took it and was totally on it. And she actually pulled me up on something, which I really like, and Nicholas pulled me up on something. They were like my heroes because I felt that there was enough trust for them to look at the script and say, “I don’t think the character would do that,” and it was brilliant. Especially when they can feel the instinctual behaviours of the characters. It was really collaborative.

Through everything we’ve talked about, you’ve packed in so much through the film’s subtext.

UO: You’ve picked up on some of the biggest points. For example with Joe, imagine being so consumed that passion takes over and you miss the important points. We had to make sure Joe’s character was open and the internal conflict he was having was apparent. We had some really tough scenes, and had to be careful of optics and let each character be in their zone and not predictable.

They were like my heroes because I felt that there was enough trust for them to look at the script and say, “I don’t think the character would do that,” and it was brilliant.

Do you know about Zahavian Signal Theory? This really gets me going. Basically, in the wild if a lion is about to catch a gazelle and the gazelle can’t run away, didn’t escape with the rest of the family and it starts jumping up and down madly its signalling to the Lion, I have so much energy that I can waste it in front you and still outrun you so let me go. So we have these Zahavian signals in our day-to-day lives – Diamond ring, choosing to wear ripped jeans, driving a Mercedes… These signals can halt emotions that are expected so I wanted to create signals that put the character of Joe off. Take the apartment scene, when he goes to collect his mother-in-law’s tablets and he sees Molly in the coffee shop. He didn’t know how to respond to her energy in the scene when she came back and saw him because her weirdness threw him off. It was interesting trying to get that across and for some people, it may or may not land. But she’s just had a huge revelation of what’s happened to her and she’s trying to make sense of it.

And on that, where did this whole idea come from?

UO: Well, I used to be an optician and then a photographer and in my apartment basically, I had a bunch of French Vogue and Scientific Americans as the only two magazines I loved, oh and Numéro magazine. I remember reading about parthenogenesis a long time ago and I love it. You just go down a rabbit hole and I kept asking, “Why is no one talking about this?” Imagine if humans could do it. You think about the story and the most interesting version of that story, that has drama, emotion and a struggle we’ve never heard of before – imagine Mary saying it to Joseph.

And did you work with the scientific community at all?

Yes! Our scientific advisor is Dr Eyman Osman, who is so experienced and she was incredible. She’s like a sister to me and was so supportive. She really helped us navigate what the scientific community would find credible but where we could find the stretch for a fictional story.

What would you say to people to encourage them to watch Beth now that it’s available?

UO: I think people should watch it because it’s a really interesting story, told in a really interesting way. There’s so much richness in it. It’s full of emotions we can all relate to. It’s a beautiful story beautifully told, which is testament to all the cast and crew.

Without being reductive, is this a love story?

UO: I mean, yes. That’s part of it, but we now live in a world where love is way more complicated than it used to be and you see that complicated nature in Beth. It’s true love, that kind of true love where it’s not all, “Oh my God, I’m in love with this person, they’re amazing.” It’s like, “No, I love this person because they’re a bit fucked up.” Joe is struggling with the fact that she hid the truth from him because they are each other’s person and he can’t forgive that. He could probably forgive her for cheating on him more than that.

Yaw, what would you tell people to inspire them to watch it?

YB: It’s the most distinctive bit of drama on Channel 4 this year, that’s why they should watch it. They’re not going to have seen anything like it. Ultimately, people are craving it from the commissioning side. When you’re looking at making films and TV, one of the buzzwords is ‘original’. We want something original. What’s original? Most things aren’t original. If you study narrative, there are only a few actual types of stories. What you’re looking for is something really distinctive and this is just such a distinctive, emotional piece of filmmaking. There’s not anything I’ve been pitched that is like this and where it can go from this already amazing point is what’s really interesting about it. So I’ll say, definitely watch it for this flavour of this new, exciting, brilliant filmmaker who is gonna go off and do all sorts of incredible stuff.

There’s not anything I’ve been pitched that is like this and where it can go from this already amazing point is what’s really interesting about it.

And finally, just stepping out of Beth, where do you guys think the industry is going in terms of formats, developing for platforms like YouTube, etc.?

UO: From my point of view, I honestly think it doesn’t matter what you do, it’s how you do it. Industries go through these waves. When it comes to telling stories, we need stories and we do it in so many different ways. The problem at the moment (and it’s been a problem for a while) is that the people who are accountants are obsessing over eyeballs and followers, and what you actually need is more people who love it, but you also have to be comfortable with people hating it. Be comfortable in making something that’s someone’s favourite thing. You don’t want to be the TV on in the background vibe that everyone is like, “Yeah, meh, I saw that thing.” For me, as a filmmaker you want to be pushing the boundary, it has to be worth it and pull its weight. That stuff will find an audience.

YB: I agree 100%, and I’m very grateful to Channel 4 for giving us the opportunity to do this and to get it out there as well. It’s not a given for anyone that they’re gonna have a career but you can already see what Uzo is capable of doing on this sort of scale. He’s only going to make bigger and better stuff when he gets even more money, so yeah, I’m really happy to be here at this stage in his journey.

Daisy-May Hudson’s seamlessly transitions from documentary filmmaker to narrative storyteller with her Parkville Pictures produced feature Lollipop – made with BBC FIlm and the BFI – a visceral exploration of the British child protection system through the lens of maternal experience. Drawing from her BAFTA Breakthrough experience and the profound impact of her documentary Half Way, Hudson crafts a story that inhabits complex grey spaces where real human drama unfolds. Hudson’s documentary background informs every frame, creating an authenticity that extends beyond surface-level social realism, incorporating women with lived experience of the prison system, women who she was inspired by in the making of her documentary Holloway – co-directed with Sophie Compton and which we were fortunate enough to speak to them about during last year’s London Film Festival – and enlisting a family lawyer as both script advisor and performer, ensuring genuine representation. Lollipop demonstrates Hudson’s evolution as a filmmaker who understands that systemic critique requires nuanced character work. Rather than demonising social workers or idealising mothers, Lollipop acknowledges the shared humanity binding all participants in a broken, byzantine system. The film’s June release in UK Cinemas promises to continue Hudson’s mission of creating transformative viewing experiences that validate overlooked experiences while challenging audiences to confront uncomfortable truths about institutional care and community responsibility. Before she hit the road for her Q&A cinema tour, we caught up with Hudson to learn about the extensive research she undertook to ensure she accurately portrayed everyone in the system rather than presenting pat ‘goodies and baddies’, the deep on screen connection that came from casting actors Posy Sterling and Idil Ahmed, and why she sees film production as a metaphor for life.

[The following interview is also available to watch at the end of this article.]

Daisy-May, it’s lovely to have you back on DN. When will audiences be able to watch Lollipop and how have the reactions been so far?

Lollipop comes out in UK cinemas on the 13th of June with a little tour and accompanying Q&As. I’ve seen it play a few times with audiences, and the way that it lands blows me away every time. There are always hugs and lots of tears – good tears that maybe needed to have been expressed for a while and always deep conversations and moments of connection. I love playing in front of an audience and being able to feel it myself.

Loads of single mums were air-punching at the end of Q&As because they felt seen, heard, and witnessed in a way that they hadn’t experienced before on screen.

I was watching your documentary Half Way, which I know was a big influence on Lollipop.

Half Way is about me and my family being made homeless in 2013. I’d never thought about making a film before, but my friend suggested filming it. I felt really powerless – when you’re going through these systems, you feel invisible, like you don’t have a voice – so I just started filming it. I filmed every day in the hostel for a year until we got rehoused, and through that process, I saw how empowered I felt to be able to take ownership over my own story. When it played in screenings, loads of single mums were air-punching at the end of Q&As because they felt seen, heard, and witnessed in a way that they hadn’t experienced before on screen. That was my motivation when I was thinking about Lollipop’s audiences, who am I making it for? It’s for those women who suddenly feel seen for the first time.

How did you make the move from documentary to narrative filmmaking?

After getting BAFTA Breakthrough, I met Olivier Kaempfer and Cecilia Frugiuele, who attended a screening of Half Way. They came up to me and said, “Have you ever thought about writing anything before?” I never had, it wasn’t on my radar, but I knew that there was this story of women who were having their children removed. I met these incredible women at a protest outside the Houses of Parliament, holding placards about the separation between mothers and children through social services. I don’t believe in putting women on screen as victims, and at the time they were in the middle of their traumatic experience, still going through the family courts where there’s a lot of secrecy and you’re not allowed to put things on film to protect the children. I felt like I could write these women as they are, but with humour and bits of my own story in it as well. Lollipop really is a collective of lots of different women’s voices.

Tell us about your research process.

I have a documentary approach to filmmaking in that I do loads of research. I want to speak to as many people as possible. I want it to feel as authentic as possible. A friend of mine, Amelia Rose, had her children removed, and she became an advisor on the script. I really wanted to get a sense of how it feels to walk into a meeting with social services. Where are you looking? What’s your attention on? How can we then weave that into production design and build a very immersive perspective of a woman going through that process?

I really wanted to get a sense of how it feels to walk into a meeting with social services.

I’m immediately reminded of the scene where she walks into that room full of faces staring up at her. I can’t even imagine how terrifying that is.

It was really important for me that there are no baddies or goodies, because going through various parts of the system myself, I saw people go into a profession wanting to do their best, but they’re between a rock and a hard place because of the rules of the system. They can’t speak out because of how it might impact them. I think a lot of society is founded on this duality of good, bad, right, and wrong. I think there’s a lot more space for connection in the in-between. When I was casting it was really important for me that there was a lot of mirroring between Molly and the other women who she meets, because I think that could lend a lot more compassion and unite this space that sometimes you’re just one decision away – one thing a teacher says to you, one school away from being on either side of the table, whether you’re the judge or the person being sent to prison. I think it’s really important that we acknowledge this shared humanity.

There are women within the film who come from lived experiences of the places and the themes that we talk about in the film. I wanted them to, first of all, naturally lend compassion because they know what it’s like, and secondly, there’s a really powerful experience of alchemy when we take our pain and turn it into something beautiful just by creatively telling our story and weaving all of that together. Suddenly, something that caused us suffering can be medicine for so many other people. That was a big intention for Lollipop.

I know a lot of it comes from lived experience and research, but I was also so impressed by your representation of the bureaucracy of these systems.

I had a family lawyer as a script advisor, and she ended up playing one of the social workers, Sherma Polidore-Perrins. She was amazing, talking me through the authenticity of the language and how things are portrayed. I spoke to a judge who lent his version of how he might summarise a case and what kind of things he’s looking for. I spoke to a lot of women who were going through the system. I spoke to social workers. It was so important for me that everyone in this system would watch it and see how accurate it was, and that it’s not from a biased perspective of the mother, even though her story, which represents so many other women’s stories, is so important.

I think the film is an invitation, particularly at the end, asking what do we want from society?

Again, I don’t want to point out a baddie, but I want to say, regardless of everyone’s intentions, this system doesn’t work. I don’t have the answer because I don’t work in the sector. I think the film is an invitation, particularly at the end, asking what do we want from society? We want somewhere that makes us feel safe. We want somewhere that’s rooted in community and in love, and for me, that’s what we need to come back to each time.

I love the power of Molly and Amina and the strength in their friendship.

There’s so much power in women coming together. I come from a shamanic practice and I hold women’s circles, and there’s something so beautiful when a woman sees another woman and says, “I fully accept you.” That is completely transformational and it’s so healing. There’s so much mirroring between Molly and Amina’s experiences. They come from very different life experiences, but ultimately, they’re very similar and they hold each other in so much love. Molly is coming out of survival mode – I’ve experienced it myself – and when you’re just trying to survive, you’re very reactive to everything that’s in front of you because that’s the only way that you know how to manage. When she meets Amina, it’s the first time she’s offered a safe space where she can begin to put down her guard. And Amina feels seen by Molly, she is valued beyond just being a mum, she’s a whole person, which happens when we create safe spaces, whether that’s in friendships or in society. Magical things really can happen because it’s the first time where you can put down your walls and connect.

In the casting process, we had a chemistry read between the actresses Posy Sterling and Idil Ahmed, and as soon as they walked in the room, they connected so deeply and saw each other for who they were. We improvised a party scene and they both put on 21 Seconds and rapped every word and danced so hard, which is what Lollipop’s about. How do we find these huge, profound moments of joy within life? Because that’s what real life is like; one minute you’re laughing, one minute you’re crying. I think sometimes the deeper we allow ourselves to feel grief, the deeper we can actually feel joy. That is what motivates me to write and to make films which show this full spectrum of emotion and humanity.

I know when you were making Lollipop, you were also making your documentary Holloway, which is about the circle of sisterhood and the strength that women find together. Did they influence each other at all?

When co-directing our feature documentary with Sophie Compton, which is coming out in cinemas from June 20th, I met the incredible Lady Unchained, Aliyah Ali, Mandy Ogunmokun, Tamara Mujanay, and Sarah Cassidy, who were inspiring, courageous, full of love and hope and doing brilliant things out in their communities for other women through organizations or in their own lives, driven by their lived experience of time in Holloway. I asked if they’d like to try acting and we did a few auditions, and they all just nailed it with so much compassion and depth of understanding for the roles—and the women they were representing. It was a privilege to have them act in Lollipop, rooted in truth, empowerment, and passion for change — as we see them speak about in Holloway. I have felt the power of alchemy in storytelling, and all of us in our own ways were contributing to that. Taking things that caused us pain and turning them into our power and medicine for other women, both across Lollipop, Holloway, and in our own lives.

I have felt the power of alchemy in storytelling, and all of us in our own ways were contributing to that.

Talking about incredible women, Posy Sterling blew me away!

It was really important for me to stay open because I knew that I’d written these characters, but I wanted the casting process to surprise me. I think you’re always co-creating with life and the universe, and I wanted to stay as open to who walked through the door. But as soon as Posy came in, I had a gut feeling she was perfect. Posy and Molly both have this unbelievable energy to their bodies — they’re really, really present and have lioness spirits. In the casting process, I’d always talk about the joyometer and how much joy does someone make me feel. Even within the hardship, can they still reach these places of deep and profound joy? Posy just had so much humour and lightness and love. We developed an amazing working relationship with a lot of trust, and we managed to develop a shorthand — we wouldn’t even need to speak, but we’d know.

There’s so much unpredictability when you’re making a film. You think you’ve got control, but you’ve got zero control. I feel like film is an amazing metaphor for life. You will turn up on set and something didn’t arrive, someone is ill, your location’s gone, and I think the more that you can surrender control leaves more space for magic to happen.

I’d love to touch on your change in pace. From the moment she takes her kids away, your camera work really changed and my heart was in my throat.

When working with my cinematographer, Jaime Ackroyd, we both wanted it to feel like the camera is right there with Molly on every step of the journey. Then when Lee McKarkiel, our editor, came on, there was a beautiful working synergy together. There were so many times where we’d shot it in a certain way, but then we’d get into the edit and we’d realise we just didn’t want to cut. It should feel so intense that you want to get away, but you’re just still with her because Molly doesn’t get a chance to leave. Then we worked with our incredible sound designer, Chad Orororo, and really played with this intensity. You’re basically watching her make this decision in real time.

I wanted the audience to feel exactly what Molly was feeling at every point. Even to the point where it’s unbearable. Where you think you’re going to break.

You don’t shy away from making us feel uncomfortable.

I got into documentary in the first place because you can literally say, “This is how I’m feeling,” and you can communicate it directly to an audience. I don’t come from film school, and I didn’t grow up coming through the ranks; all I can go on is my feelings and my gut and how things make me feel. I wanted the audience to feel exactly what Molly was feeling at every point. Even to the point where it’s unbearable. Where you think you’re going to break.

So, you have both Lollipop and Holloway heading to cinema’s this month, what are you doing next?

Great question. After Lollipop, I pitched another feature to Parkville, who I made Lollipop with, and BBC Films. We’re now in development for my next scripted feature, which is really cool and exciting. I feel really driven by truth and the messages of my heart, and I don’t really know what they are in the future, but I love science fiction and I love fantasy. I want to make films that make people feel deeply.

A multifaceted, unique and beautiful curation of both humanism and naturism, Déjà Nu is a genre-bending audiovisual poem directed by Rolf Hellat, undertaken with the express desire of seeking out collaborations with creative and inspiring people from North and West Africa. Describing the project as something to “become shared rather than imposed”, Hellat has harnessed his past experiences of artistic creation in order to craft a combination of documentary, poem, artistry and everything in-between. Taking an unprecedented approach to storytelling, Déjà Nu comprises various sequences – all differing in style, content and meaning – that tell the story of each contributor’s heritage, culture and body whilst simultaneously forming a whole that is all the richer for this confluence of parts. To accompany Déjà Nu’s premiere today, join Hellat and DN as we discuss his entrancing experimental/documentary/music video hybrid short, where we discover what ignited his filmic cycling journey from Switzerland, his process for forging meaningful collaborations along the way, and how ‘the body’ became a central tenet of Déjà Nu.

I’m aware that you don’t view Déjà Nu as a traditional director authored piece, with your protagonists’ contributions being equally as important as your own. How therefore did you come to be working with these collaborators and could you provide an insight into how you worked with each of them to create their specific element of the film within your non-hierarchical production structure?

I met all the collaborators of Déjà Nu during a seven-month bicycle journey from Zurich to Abidjan. These encounters weren’t planned – they emerged from shared conversations, meals, silences. We spoke about life, about loss, about transformation. And at some point, when trust had settled, we decided to make a scene together. Just a moment, developed in dialogue, grounded in mutual curiosity.

With Laetitia Ky, for instance, the menstrual blood painting scene grew out of a conversation about bodily autonomy and shame. She spoke about the long road of reclaiming her body from the taboos around menstruation. The idea to paint with menstrual blood wasn’t staged for effect – it surfaced naturally, as a reflection of her audacious spirit. A provocation, yes, but also an affirmation. Jean-Luc Yonhite, the protagonist in the homeless sequence, I met in a small café. We connected immediately, two strangers speaking with unusual honesty. He told me he had lost everything – his home, family, and friends during a prison sentence. We decided to share his real experience in the form of a poem, based on the Nina Simone song Ain’t Got No – I Got Life, which resonated deeply with him.

And at some point, when trust had settled, we decided to make a scene together. Just a moment, developed in dialogue, grounded in mutual curiosity.

We shot both of these scenes with just the two of us present – no sound recordist, no lighting, no crew. I believe this contributed significantly to an equal and trustful collaboration. Still, I hesitate to call the process “non-hierarchical.” Filmmaking always involves asymmetries – holding the camera is a form of power, just as standing in front of it can be. But perhaps it’s more about how we hold that power. What matters to me is that both sides bring a conscious effort to disrupt the usual dynamics, to let authorship drift, to let the film become something shared rather than imposed.

The body, or rather different moments when the protagonists value the body, as well as the ephemeral nature of our limited time within our bodies, is a unifying concept here. Was that a directive you entered each of these collaborations with ahead of time or a theme you discovered later? Could you please expand on how this presents across the different scenes?

I’m happy that you read the film in that way. When I first set off on my journey, I had no clear concept in mind. Just a feeling. It wasn’t until two or three months in, somewhere between solitude and flow, that a thread began to reveal itself. It came from my body – its fatigue, its strength, its vulnerability. And from that, an intuition: that this film might revolve around the body, its limits, its spirit, and its inevitable fading. In some of the collaborations that followed, I shared this intention: to make a film about the body, the spirit, and the mind. But only after the filming did it become fully evident – each scene, in its own way, was speaking of the body and its transience. With Sylvia Ouattara, for instance – the dancer in the hall of dust, we agreed she would dance until her body gave out. No “cut” at the climax. Instead, we stayed with her through the fall, through the decline in strength that followed. Exhaustion became its own kind of poetry. Let me bring Sylvia into this:

Sylvia Ouattara: The idea of dancing until exhaustion was a bit frightening, because I didn’t know how I would react. But it also sparked deep curiosity. In the end, it became about translating the beauty of the thought of death. As a believer, I feel this: I am dust, and I will return to dust — but not without having fulfilled the reason why this dust took shape. Stardust, to me, is how I – as an Ivorian woman – am meant to shine on earth.

In the scene with the Kumpo – the straw creature – we encounter the body not just as vessel, but as mystery. In Diola belief, the Kumpo isn’t human. It’s something older, more elemental. It walks among us, reminding us that the soul exists not only within humans but in animals, plants, rivers, and stars. Younouss Sadio, the collaborator for this scene, expressed it like this:

Younouss Sadio: The Kumpo is sacred. It approaches people to help them. It’s not a human, but a spirit, a being, a creature. It has existed for countless generations. There are things we can’t see. How can we really explain the coming of human beings? What makes us alive? Whether the soul exists or not – I don’t really know. So I choose to believe it does. Because that belief helps me do good for others.

In both of these scenes – and really, throughout Déjà Nu – the body is not just a surface. It’s a question. A form of presence that’s constantly slipping away even as it glows. For deeper insights into each scene, you can find the full conversations with the protagonists here.

In the end, the film is a hybrid in every sense – between intention and coincidence, structure and spontaneity. There’s no single rule running through it, no fixed logic.

This is a film which very intentionally is a cross-border production being created by people from Senegal, Guinea, Côte d’Ivoire and Switzerland. What dictated your creative journey and the stops you made along the way? And what parts were intentional vs fortuitous incidents, such as the dancing petals tornado?

What shaped the creative journey wasn’t a script – it was a longing. At first, I thought I wanted to learn something from myself. To test what happens when you’re alone, when you’re vulnerable, when you remove the structures that usually hold your life together. But quite soon, that solitude gave way to something else: a deep sense of connection. I began learning not from within, but from those I met along the way. As someone who grew up in Switzerland, I’ve come to realize how deeply my reception or imagination has been shaped by North American culture – its cinema, its music, its modes of storytelling. And yet, West Africa, so much closer geographically, remained distant to me for so long. When it did enter my awareness, it often came filtered through stereotypical or Eurocentric lenses. This film was, in part, a step toward unlearning those inherited views. I wanted to challenge my own gaze – to ask, quietly and honestly, where traces of exoticism might still linger in me, and how to let them go.

Some moments in the film emerged as pure serendipity. The dancing petals, just a passing breeze, a minor miracle. But others were carefully sculpted. The Kumpo scene took a little time to prepare. We filmed it around fifteen times, exploring different textures. The dance in the hall was also planned, a choreography with induced dust. Then again, the scene of people dancing in the streets at night – that was unplanned, an eruption of joy after Senegal won the Africa Cup. I had never witnessed such collective euphoria. We spoke with the dancers afterwards, and they gave their blessing for the footage. Sometimes, it felt right to plan, sometimes not. In the end, the film is a hybrid in every sense – between intention and coincidence, structure and spontaneity. There’s no single rule running through it, no fixed logic. Only the sense that the journey itself was a kind of co-authorship, shaped by instinct, encounter, and the mystery of what unfolds when you loosen your grip.

As an opener the Kumpo is absolutely captivating. It’s thought-provoking, ambiguous and almost spiritual and something that had my mind racing as to its meaning, the practical techniques of its creation and the filming of that scene. Could you please demystify that for us?

I understand the impulse to demystify. I had it too, the first time I saw the Kumpo – this swirling figure of straw, alive and ungraspable. I was stunned. And I had questions. So I turned to Younouss, the man from the village with whom I collaborated, and asked: “How? Who is doing this?” He looked at me and said, “The question is not who. Because it is not a human being.” That stayed with me. From the beginning, our agreement was not to unravel the myth, but to live inside it. To let the mystery breathe. In the film too, we chose not to explain. Just as the soul is not something we solve, but something we feel. So no – I can’t demystify the Kumpo. And I wouldn’t want to. It’s a beautiful secret that deserves to remain intact.

But let me offer some context, in Younouss’ own words: “The Kumpo is a traditional entity from the mythology of the Diola people in Casamance, Senegal. It approaches people to help them, to strengthen the community in which it appears – whether it’s to bless a rice harvest or a wedding, or to bring reconciliation during a dispute. The Kumpo is a refuge for humans.” For those curious to hear Younouss speak to the Kumpo, here’s a link.

As for the filming: we captured the scene at 200 frames per second. In real time, the Kumpo’s spin and the movement of the camera were eight times faster. That stretch of time – slowed yet still charged with energy – evoked something liminal for us. It gave the Kumpo a weightless presence, like a spirit negotiating its own gravity. That sense of transcendence was not added in post – it was embedded in the way we watched.

I’m interested to know what kit you had to capture everything, especially as your mode of travel was a bicycle. Did your collaborators augment that set up at all? How long was the production journey of Déjà Nu?

I worked with a Sony FX6 paired with a 24–70mm f/2.8 Sony zoom lens. It lived, snug and secure, in a small padded bag strapped to the frame of the bike. Soundwise, I used a semi-directional Sennheiser microphone, four lavaliers from Voice Technologies, and four Rode GO wireless transmitters. I added an XLR adapter that allowed me to run four channels of audio directly into the camera. There was no lighting equipment. I worked entirely with natural light. When I could, I would scout a location in advance – not just for visual aesthetics, but to understand how the light moved, where it fell, and how the protagonist’s presence might align with it.

My collaborators didn’t augment the technical setup – it remained minimal and mobile throughout. That restriction, in retrospect, became a form of creative clarity. There’s a certain intimacy that arises when you strip things back. The production journey took seven months on the road. Post-production stretched over twelve months – time needed not just to edit, but to listen and reframe.

Sound, both as music and audio design are equally weighty elements alongside the visuals in this film – from the naturalistic atmosphere of the opening to the digital morphing of the scream or the slowing and reversing of music elsewhere. What was your process for building these rich auditory components of the film?

I’m glad you experienced the sound not merely as an accompaniment, but as something that sometimes leads. My field of activity is also in sound art as part of the duo Oszilot, together with Luc Gut, so sound is never an afterthought. It’s a terrain I begin to explore from the very first edit. While assembling the footage, I begin gathering sonic fragments – snatches of music, textural recordings, atmospheric noise, even deliberately ‘wrong’ sounds. I spend time with these materials, layering, distorting, discarding. Often the process produces nothing but trash. But sometimes, something breaks through – like a scream that bends into another shape.

Moments of contrast – naturalistic and highly designed, intimate and exuberant, silence and ecstasy – allowed the film to breathe in unexpected ways.

The idea of slowing down was already embedded in the shooting. So it made sense that time would stretch in the sound as well. That deceleration didn’t just affect pacing – it altered my perception while editing. The reversed piece of music you hear in the petal whirlwind began as a bright and joyful track. Played backwards, it became something else entirely: poetic, veiled, enigmatic. In general, we found that friction worked. Moments of contrast – naturalistic and highly designed, intimate and exuberant, silence and ecstasy – allowed the film to breathe in unexpected ways. And of course, this was not a solo composition. Sound designer Oscar Van Hoogevest and musicians DJ Asna, Thomas Gueî, and Nicolas Jaar (whose piece of music Time for Us already contained a wonderful slowdown) each brought their artistry to the project.

The whispered child voice narration is a unifying motif which you wrote during the editing phase. Had you always planned to include that poem or was it in assembling the film that you realised it was needed?

The poem in the first scene had already been chosen before we shot the Kumpo scene – so yes, it was planned from the beginning. Meless (the second collaborator in this scene) and I felt a strong connection between these words and the creature, so we recorded it with his five year old daughter. The child’s whispered voice of wisdom invites us to perceive everything around us as animate, as alive. And therein lies the beauty of the Diola faith, of which Meless and his daughter are a part.

I wrote only the poem in the final petal-whirlwind scene, and that happened during the editing phase. It is the only scene that I shot in solitude and the one that is most strongly connected to myself. The voice there echoes, in spirit, the first scene with the Kumpo. In this final scene, the child’s voice addresses her mother – Mother Earth. But it turns out that this is not a human child. It’s a flower petal. The petal says: “I have fallen, but I can dance, better than ever, with your brother the wind and my new friend, the plastic.” These lines came to me as I watched the images again and again. I imagined, like a child might, the story of a petal that once lived as part of a flower, held firmly together with its beloved ones. And then a time comes when the flower disintegrates, the petals fall – meaning the family, or a partnership, breaks apart. In the moment of falling, the petal gains the ability to dance. It’s no longer held in place, though it feels lost.

The child’s whispered voice of wisdom invites us to perceive everything around us as animate, as alive.

Before the journey, I went through a painful separation and mourning. I fell into a darkness deeper than I had ever known. And it was in that time that I learned to dance again. That’s where the line “I have fallen, but I can dance, better than ever” comes from. In the midst of grief, I danced – at night in parks, at noon in my room, in the evening in dance classes. Despite the sadness – or because of it. I tried to dance the sadness away, but it didn’t always work. I felt that dance was the final gift left to me by the person who was no longer in my life. Again, the theme of seeing the body as an ultimate, ephemeral, ever-present gift resonates with me.

Likewise, I can imagine that the order of the scenes and how what comes before recontextualises what follows would have taken quite some consideration. For instance, some of the movements from the dust dance returned my mind to the Kumpo. How did you arrive at this final order and was that a fraught process?

That’s a beautiful observation – the shared gesture of rotation. I had once envisioned the rotating movement as a visual motif running through the entire film. It’s also present in the petals. But in the end, we couldn’t sustain it across all scenes. And maybe that’s how it should be – some patterns want to dissolve. Finding the final order of the scenes was a long and uncertain process. In an experimental structure, everything is theoretically possible – but only certain sequences bring meaning to the surface. You move one scene and everything shifts – tone, resonance, memory.

Over the course of a year, I shared the edit with friends and collaborators from Switzerland, Senegal, Guinea, and Côte d’Ivoire. Each exchange became a kind of rewriting. The film reshaped itself again and again through these conversations. Eventually, we found a rhythm where abruptness felt right. The cuts are often sudden, even jarring. As beings, we don’t always get transitions – we get ruptures. Death arrives without a cue. Grief interrupts joy. What mattered to me was not smoothness, but connection. Even in the jump there may be a thread – an invisible logic that holds things together, however loosely.

Finding the final order of the scenes was a long and uncertain process. In an experimental structure, everything is theoretically possible – but only certain sequences bring meaning to the surface.

Your film is genre-bending, multifaceted and open-ended, but what does Déjà Nu truly mean to you?

Your use of the word “truly” makes me think. Perhaps, for me, Déjà Nu is a tool for coping with personal grief. A way to liberate myself from the feeling of being trapped inside my mind, the self, and also my body. It was an attempt to dance while still carrying sadness. And maybe also a helpless cry for acceptance of growing older. Since the film is open-ended and layered by design, it always seems to shift, doesn’t it? It holds a different meaning for each person who touches it – those in front of the camera, those behind it, those who watch. And maybe that’s its truest meaning: not one truth, but many. Not closure, but a continual unfolding.

I initially thought that your tantalising end with the “Ma Vie” (My Life) title card, comprised of fractal colours which lasts 0.1 seconds, was perhaps a hint of another related film to come, creating a series, but it seems it has a much more profound meaning for you as a person?

Ha, that’s a lovely idea – a hint of another film to come. I might actually implement that. For me, that flicker is a gesture toward cosmic time, geological time. In the scale of the Earth, of stones and elements, my life is a blip. A brief pulse. A tiny flash in the void. That awareness has grounded me, and I wanted to leave it there, at the very end of the film. A reminder that the body disappears swiftly. The one-tenth-of-a-second visual is a close-up of my purple beets, burnt almost black in the oven, layered with a splash of Jackson Pollock’s artwork. I hope the audience receives that closing moment as a wink. A brief laugh in the dark.

Where are your creative travels taking you next?

I’m currently working on four projects:

• KY is a feature-length documentary about Laetitia Ky – the Ivorian artist, activist, feminist, and co-creator of the menstrual blood scene. It follows her artistic process and emotional journey as she explores agency over the female body.
• On the Edge of Your Senses is an experimental short that leads viewers toward the threshold of perception – spaces where the senses falter. Where we’re not quite sure whether we’re truly perceiving… or imagining.
• Meinetwegen (For My Sake) is a feature narrative centered on 17 therapy sessions between a juvenile offender and a forensic psychiatrist. Two people, one room, silence, speech, imbalances of power.
• And then there’s Oszilot – a live performance in which we use sensors to sonify everyday objects, giving them a kind of sonic life.

If you’d like to share feedback, criticism, or ask questions just contact me or comment here, and feel free to subscribe to my newsletter or follow me on Instagram: @rolfhellat

A filmmaker who eschews archetypal and misleading female-driven narratives, Nat Gee’s short film Buried carves out distinctly uncomfortable territory. Gee, previously featured on the pages of DN with Waves – a passionate short which addresses a woman’s intense relationship between mind and body, and likewise stars Lily Baldwin who joined us last week in her directorial role for boundary-pushing doc Ecstasie – now brings us a female protagonist in the form of dedicated new winemaker Eva, whose world is becoming increasingly unstable due to the multitude of pressing issues surrounding her. The film operates as both a character study and a sensory experience for the audience, refusing to provide a clear delineation as to what constitutes reality versus perception. Gee’s approach to filmmaking is notably tactile and immersive, and her decision to shoot on 16mm film wasn’t merely aesthetic; the grain and texture serve as extensions of Eva’s psychological state, creating an unpolished rawness that mirrors her internal fragmentation. Buried’s compelling achievement is its maintenance of ambiguity. Gee constructed a narrative that deliberately walks the line between external threat and internal breakdown and demonstrates how contemporary filmmakers can explore complex female psychology without resorting to histrionic tropes. Instead, Gee creates a viewing experience that immerses audiences in Eva’s uncertainty, making her subjective reality the film’s primary truth while questioning the very nature of that reality. DN took a beat with Gee and some of the team behind Buried as the film continues its festival journey, to speak about centering the narrative on Gee’s own experiences of feeling ignored by those supposed to help, playing around with the visual representation of the little tricks the mind can play and the complex females she relishes in portraying.

I can only imagine a very involved script-writing process for this film.

Nat Gee: I was working on it right up until the shoot, and of course, on set new ideas always brewed and organically sprouted through collaboration or in order to overcome any unforeseen obstacles. I think the pressure of a shoot day/schedule adds an intensity to the life of a script and fresh ideas appear or solidify what you have. I think you just know when it feels like it’s working, when others like your actors, DP, and costume designer are all having creative conversations around the script and it’s resonating with your team.

We wanted to make sure the storytelling was tactile, physical and felt organic.

How did you then move into production with this very collaborative approach?

NG: Lily Baldwin, who plays Eva, and I had a lot of conversations and shared a lot of stories around our health and our bodies and how we wanted the character of Eva to physically be in this world. We visited the winery and Matthew Tobin taught us everything that Lily had to do with the machinery and wine. We wanted to make sure the storytelling was tactile, physical and felt organic. That’s why it was key to shoot on 16mm, it’s unpolished and raw.

Buried houses such a female-centred story of being ignored and made to think it’s all in our heads – did lots of research go into this?

NG: Most of it actually came from my own personal experience. The doctor’s line “We’re all tired” was said to me by my doctor at the time when I was struggling with pain and fatigue and I just felt very ignored. Conversations with Lily also validated mine and her experience in this area, and books like Dr. Sarno’s The Mindbody Prescription were like a lightbulb moment for me.

Lily, as this is such an intimate character depiction, how did you inhabit the role of Eva?

Lily Baldwin: Climbing inside of Eva was a potent challenge. She is a version of me – one who I wrestle with, deeply admire and who also breaks my heart. For me, Buried is as much a portrait of a stunningly, at times barbarically committed – perhaps possessed? – woman, as it is a portrait of society’s propensity to underestimate and diminish hard working independent women – particularly those going against the grain.

I entered Eva through the intensity of her physical focus. It felt essential to have a real relationship with the land and the winemaking techniques, which I wanted to imbue with fierce essentialism, this ‘every detail means the world’ kind of drive. Eva tired me out! It took me a couple days to shed her weight after shooting.

I feel like cinema needs to feature more complicated female heroines without falling into tropey renditions of the maniacal woman. This is my second film with Nat, who is one of my favorite directors to work with: her value of subtlety and how she prioritizes the space (in pre-production and on set) to authentically mine physical and emotional truth. Our trusting relationship enabled me to let go of Lily and find Eva’s singularity.

Nat, I really resonated with those flashback nightmare sequences as doubt is coursing through her.

NG: It’s interesting how the mind plays with you under stress and how that’s invisible to those around you, so I wanted her internal struggle to not always be clear to the other characters. That stress can be so debilitating, regardless of what’s real or not. Lindsey Nadolski did an amazing job of weaving those subtle moments into her work as these little tricks of the mind. We played around with what to show, what’s in her subconscious, how does the land and her work seep into her insecurities.

I wanted her internal struggle to not always be clear to the other characters.

I also felt so engaged with your changes in pace and camera movements when she starts to act out at the tasting.

NG: Wow, thank you! Lindsey knocked it out the park in the edit, and Alván Prado our DP and our first AC Pablo Pascual were so in tune with capturing the tension of that scene. That scene was the hardest scene to shoot because we wanted to capture so many things: everyone’s reactions, the breaking of the glass, the shock and stillness against Eva’s breakdown, the push. We rehearsed on the day with everyone hoping to not over block and just went for it and shot it in a few hours. I think that scene is really sad.

Alván Prado: Buried is a sensory, atmospheric short film, designed to immerse the viewer in the protagonist’s emotional state. From the start, we wanted the imagery to reflect Eva’s ongoing anxiety, visually amplifying the internal tension that slowly consumes her. We chose to shoot on 16mm to capture that emotional weight. The grain of the film gives a tactile quality, enhancing the vulnerability of the characters and the heaviness of their environment. The color palette, with vivid greens and open skies, adds to an unsettling feeling, rather than offering relief.

For the night scenes, we played with deep contrast and shadows, trapping Eva in her own isolation. The light in these moments isn’t comforting but restrictive, highlighting her emotional fragmentation. As the story progresses, the camera movement shifts from controlled compositions to a more unstable, handheld approach, mirroring her psychological breakdown.

We had the opportunity to watch an earlier cut of Buried last year. How do you feel this edit better serves the story as compared to that previous version of the film?

NG: I worked with my editor Lindsey Nadolski to cut out around 4 minutes from the original cut. We focused more on Eva and removed scenes with other characters that we loved but felt weren’t really adding anything new to what Eva was going through. I think staying with Eva more helps build that line of doubt and uncertainty because you become more connected with her and get sucked into her perspective of what’s happening. Her own truth is a bit blurry, and that felt more powerful, to just stay with her in that bubble.

Lindsey Nadolski: Nat really wanted to walk that line of uncertainty in Eva’s reality – is she being tormented externally or is it all in her head? And my job was to constantly keep that narrative in check while editing the film, ensuring we never verified things for the viewer. Sometimes slipping down the slope a little in either direction in order to add further intrigue, but never straying too far from that line.

There were certain scenes that I worked on with great care, but then we realized they no longer served Eva’s story. 

Buried is now our second collaboration and I think one of the biggest components in bringing this film to life for me was being able to let go. There were certain scenes that I worked on with great care, but then we realized they no longer served Eva’s story. A lot of the work is deprogramming in order to see things in a new light. And this film was certainly served by stepping away and then coming back with the willingness to do just that.

I know how important it is to see complex, female characters on screen and really appreciate who you have brought to us with Buried.

NG: I’m really intrigued by female characters that go against the grain and why that is so unnerving to others! Why do people bristle at a woman doing something unusual or out of left field? What are they afraid of and how can women remain in their power when judged for it? It’s exhausting for us, but it’s very exciting to explore these characters because it drags up a lot of baggage and shame, but also wild, unapologetic behaviour.

What is next for you?

NG: I’m writing the feature version of Buried! This was never the original plan, but I’ve become so close to Eva that I want to expand her story, her courage, her vulnerability and I have the first draft written. I’m so excited to be back writing and exploring this world of hers!

Adapted from a stage monologue, comedy duo Ada Player and Bron Waugh have crafted something genuinely special with their playful short film Spare Part. Their approach to adaptation showcases restraint and ingenuity, and rather than literally translating every spoken element into visual representation, the pair nail the delicate balance between what’s shown and what remains tantalisingly off-screen. They’ve also harnessed the art of making audiences laugh while simultaneously breaking their hearts, introducing us to a protagonist so earnestly delusional that her tragedy becomes our comedy. London serves as a suitably bleak emotional landscape, and Player and Waugh’s use of playful aesthetics brings the whole thing together in sympathetic merriment. Hot on the heals of their recent BAFTA TV Awards nomination for their series Peaked, the duo join DN for the premiere of Spare Part and talk to us about the obstacles they faced bringing their idea to screen, ensuring we don’t see the central Shy Girl as a victim and their experiences filming in London for the first time.

You two are quite prolific in your comedy – where did this particular story come from?

We’d made a film called Jonny and Tommy, which was also Ada monologuing to camera accompanied by a whimsical xylophone. It won the Funny Women Comedy Shorts Award 2021. We really liked the style, a mix of naturalistic monologue with whimsical/unreal things happening in the background. We wanted to play in that space again but develop it. Spare Part was originally devised and performed as a monologue for The Origin of Love, a comedy show that we are taking to Edinburgh Fringe this year. We play different couples in each sketch and explore what it means to love in different (very silly) ways. We wanted to write about someone who always puts themselves second in a relationship, with a tragic need to please! The image of a fly-on-the-wall girlfriend watching her boyfriend play football all day felt like a silly, but very sad, image. I think being a hanger-onner and doing things you don’t care about in an attempt to make someone like you is a universal experience. We wanted the lead character to be so totally passive that it became almost a concerted effort for her to stay as such a doormat.

In the show we also have a male loner monologue, a man who is incessantly sending creepy letters to his next-door neighbour. Kind of incell-y, and very lonely, but with a real sense of entitlement. We wanted to balance that out with a different perspective on loneliness and love, through improv we discovered a very passive, shy girl who said lots of very sad things about her life but in a very obliviously upbeat way. The contrast between her sad little life and unwavering optimism felt like a fertile ground for comedy!

The look of Spare Part was entirely shaped around Ada’s performance style.

How did you two come to work together and what’s your process as a creative partnership?

We met at the University of Bristol doing a fIlm/theatre degree, and bonded making sketch comedy. In lockdown, when our degree was on pause, we started making shorts together. Our initial reason for making them was wanting to collaborate with other performers over lockdown when there were no stage opportunities at the time. We made an online series called Storytellers that included Jonny and Tommy, in which performers told stories to the camera.

We write through a process of improv and performing out loud, so characters hopefully emerge organically and have a life of their own. We try and make films that bring out the best of the actors, and look for a way to build tone, story, and visual style around the central performances. For example, the look of Spare Part was entirely shaped around Ada’s performance style. And we had fantastic comic actors, Jake Detenber and Freddie Hayes, in our minds from the beginning.

What challenges did you face adapting Spare Part from a stage monologue to a short film?

We spent a long while figuring out how we would adapt it. The script was kept mostly the same, so we started working with our DOP Max Brill straight away to put together a storyboard and started looking for locations, which took us months. We are all from the countryside, including our Producer Daniel Sved and normally make films there. Our BAFTA nominated series Peaked is set in Ada’s Derbyshire hometown. So, we wanted to finally make a film set in the city. The film is shot all over London – Leytonstone, Silvertown, Hackney Football fields, Kennington Estate. We liked the brutalist buildings, places that feel quite urban and lonely, but also quite beautiful and dreamlike. Then based on our locations, we made a detailed storyboard, finding playful things to do in each space. We wanted there to be a storytelling journey in the way we moved through locations.

A challenge in adapting the monologue to screen was deciding how much of the main character’s story we showed and how much we kept off-screen. Our first storyboard was super literal and showed everything the character describes, e.g. playing mini golf. But it felt we were saying everything twice. We wanted a strong visual anchor that would hold the film together. The image of a fly-on-the-wall girlfriend watching her boyfriend play football all day felt like a sad, but very silly, central image.

A big goal in adapting the monologue to screen was to find a more visual way of diving into the Shy Girl’s inner world.

Bringing in the footballers felt like a huge breakthrough, and added a lovely extra layer of storytelling we couldn’t have had on stage. Neither of us can play football (can you tell!?) so it’s almost like they are Ada’s character’s badly remembered version of it. We used the footballers to mirror what’s going on in her head, but also to undermine the monologue. The silliness of seeing her footie boyfriend, Darren, in the background makes you wonder what she sees in him! A big goal in adapting the monologue to screen was to find a more visual way of diving into the Shy Girl’s inner world. We wanted the visual style to reflect her overly optimistic, idealised narration and we tried to create a dreamy sense of unreality, like the story is all from her hazy, rose-tinted memory.

The bench scene is brilliant and perfectly demonstrates your poor female doormat. How did you manage the balance so we don’t completely dismiss the passive girl, keeping the humour while maintaining an emotional truth?

Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say! I think a huge part of why we sympathise with Ada’s character is that we see the story from her perspective. In her mind, she’s not telling the audience something sad. She’s talking to them about the best days of her life (drinking lemony limoncello). It’s very nostalgic and the audience hopefully understands the story on two levels – her rose-tinted perspective but also the sad reality. She is totally delusional about her life. We feel sorry for her because she is so clueless about how tragic she is, but that’s also why she is so silly! I think the two go hand in hand. The tragedy in the comedy, and vice versa. Also, Ada’s performance is so magnetic (Bron here, not a boast), she really knows how to draw an audience in.

It’s really interesting playing/writing a character who so wholeheartedly puts herself second. As a woman (Ada here – hello!) I think there is a tendency to make ourselves small. It happens in loads of tiny ways, for example, sometimes I notice myself on autopilot pretending not to understand something because I think the person I’m talking to wants to explain it to me. And I’ll be like oops! what the heck am I doing! Because that sort of thing gets really weird when they figure out you’re lying. Whether we like to admit it, we are all people-pleasers to some degree and that’s the heart of the character.

I love the vintage aesthetic in all the scenes. What were the conversations you had with your cinematographer about the look and feel of the piece, and how you’d frame the characters in those brutalist London locations?

Our cinematographer, Max Brill, was really excited about exploring the relationship between character and audience in Spare Part. We felt that there was a fun tension between the story being told and how the character wants to be perceived. We explored ways to create a sense that the audience is looking at someone in the process of taking their own self-portrait. We had fun conversations about that uncomfortable moment when you are posing for a photo but the image hasn’t been captured yet, and it has gone on a little too long and the genuine moment is lost. Max suggested that the look of the film exist in a nostalgic past that could pass as a found photograph. The tower blocks being framed geometrically in the back of shot add to this sense of unreality, characters being posed in front of the camera. We aren’t capturing a candid moment in the character’s life, but an authored and untrustworthy one.

The locations feel crucial to establishing the film’s sense of urban loneliness.

We wanted the Shy Girl to be surrounded by empty space, to add to her sense of alienation and loneliness. It was really hard finding locations in London that aren’t busy and full of visual clutter. And we didn’t want anywhere that felt too lived in or specific. The locations in Spare Part have the feel of taking place in the main character’s vague memory, rather than reality. The brutalist architecture has that featureless, non-specific feel. They are awe-inspiring and vast, but also feel like something you could draw just from memory.

The tower blocks being framed geometrically in the back of shot add to this sense of unreality, characters being posed in front of the camera.

The location scouting was by far and away the most time-consuming element of the film. We found that a lot of brutalist buildings are either being knocked down, covered in scaffolding, or being regenerated in a way that made them look too busy/covered in foliage. The car park was particularly last minute. It was an underpass in Beckton that we discovered when we were looking at a different location on Google Maps and accidentally clicked left. It was the day before we scheduled shooting and an absolute lifesaver! Miracles can happen.

I want to know about the edit, fine-tuning the scenes and knowing what you needed to hit the comedic beats.

(Bron here) The edit took longer than we were expecting. A huge stumbling block was that I thought everything needed an establishing shot to set up the geography of the space – e.g. the scrapbook sequence initially had an establishing shot of Ada leafing through the pages. It took me a while to realise that the audience didn’t need a sense of the spatial geography (Dan, our producer, gave some brilliant notes on the edit: too slow, too dull, get on with it!)

Once I stripped out all those unnecessary continuity shots, the edit became much more instinctive. I tried as best as possible to edit to the rhythm of the music and words, and let the visuals flow more freely. There were times when the extra time on set saved our skin in the edit. We only planned one of the footballers’ warm-ups/stretches in the storyboard, but because we had so much time, we filmed a few variations. I’m so glad we did because it papered over a very awkward crack in the edit and is maybe our favourite shot in the film (when Darren is doing a Grease Lightnin’ style power-pose).

The script, storyboard, the edit, and even the way it was performed were based entirely around Ed’s initial score.

Ed Lyness’ soundscape is brilliant. How did he adapt it all for the film beyond the live show?

Working with Ed is brilliant. He’s so collaborative and responsive, working with him feels like a mad science experiment, lots of trial and error, trying anything and everything to see what fits. The initial music was inspired by Badlands (but sadder!), we love the innocent sound of marimba and Ed obliged. I think he totally brings his own flavour to it. The music for Spare Part feels hopeful, yet melancholic – we’re not musically trained enough to tell you why! The script, storyboard, the edit, and even the way it was performed were based entirely around Ed’s initial score, so the process of adapting it to screen wasn’t too painstaking. But the picture lock meant Ed could get much more precise on the emotional beats.

What are you working on next?

We are bringing our first-ever live show The Origin of Love to Edinburgh Fringe this August! It’s a cursed couple’s character comedy where we play different weirdo soulmates in doomed romances. Tonally it’s very different to Spare Part, very campy and larger than life, with live piano from Ed Lyness throughout. There are lots of other characters who we’d love to adapt to film too and we have more shorts on the horizon as well!

Lily Baldwin, an artist, filmmaker, and dancer – whose exploration of mind and body was previously highlighted on Directors Notes in Nat Gee’s filmic representation of an anxiety attack Waves – now hits our pages as a director with Ecstasie, her stand-out hybrid documentary that functions as both a study and a transformative ritual. Ecstasie emerges from a profound inquiry and reflection upon the paradox of capturing the uncapturable; how does one film a state of being that, by definition, exists beyond the reach of external observation? Everything came together after a proposal from female-led creative content studio Lief, and a well-timed introduction to the film’s magnetic subject Liz Rosenfeld. The Berlin-based visual and performance artist soon revealed themselves as the ideal collaborator, not only for their articulate understanding of ecstasy as a lived creative practice, but for their ability to maintain authentic self-sovereignty while remaining open to directorial guidance. Through a somatic approach, treating the camera not as voyeur but as witness, Baldwin challenges documentary conventions through a hybrid approach, weaving together talking head interviews, live performance and impressionistic tableaux. Prioritising performer rhythms over technical perfection, the result is a piece of work that mirrors the film’s central thesis: that genuine ecstasy requires space outside conventional structures of performance and spectatorship. As Ecstasie premieres on Directors Notes, we dive into Baldwin’s fascination with the embodied experience, sound acting as a secondary protagonist and challenging the conventional power dynamics between filmmaker, subject and viewer.

Let’s start by finding out how you came together with Liz Rosenfield and then about your collaboration, in particular, how much of it was led by them as a performer in their own right?

I’ve been flirting with the topic of ecstasy for many years. It began in college, studying with author Anne Carson. Investigating texts of Sappho, Simone Weil and Marguerite Porete, I became fascinated – and equally stymied – by the idea that a certain kind of absence/vacancy creates space for something unnamable or larger than oneself. Perhaps the verb “decreate” is a path to ecstasy. There’s also the Greek concept of ekstasis: “standing outside oneself” and “outside of the proper place.”

More recently, I’ve been obsessed with bodies that aren’t performing, which is impossible to capture on film, but something I wanted to attempt. I think when we experience ecstasy, there is no room for an external gaze. This element of personal detached quietude feels necessary today in our saturated culture of visibility. I’ve also been curious to unpack the frame of ecstasy as activism. Ecstasy as a space-place that thrives beyond the status quo. So all of these ideas were circulating in my creative brain when Margo Mars, Founder of Lief and remarkable creative producer, reached out with the proposal that we make a new film together.

The process began in Berlin, where I lived at the time, with interviews: who would want to explore this? And who has a relationship with ecstasy that they can articulate? When I met Liz through mutual friends, I knew the film had to be all about them, that I had something to learn. They know their ecstasy very well – it is a creative practice for them. And I wanted to challenge myself to capture it. The final film emerged from our collaboration, which was centered around Liz’s performance of ecstasy and verbal articulation of it. It led me to create metaphorical landscapes for Liz to move through. I wanted Liz to lead as much as they were comfortable with. It was essential that they maintain integrity with their work while also being directed. A surrender to another POV while maintaining control (self-sovereignty) was a theme for both of us. The process of making this film with Liz was, in fact, ecstatic.

I read that the topic of queer embodiment came out of the questions you asked in the making of Ecstasie. Did you have a concept in mind of thematic explorations when you first approached the idea?

‘Queer’ is a by-product of my community, my lens, my interest in subverting expectation and existing without prescribed and rigid definitions. Embodiment is my lens and my alphabet. Moreover, the body as something that expresses what can’t be spoken, that dies, that houses us, that we have no choice but to be in conversation with.

Before making films I began my career as a professional dancer, and I teach a variety of movement practices, most recently through Body Lab By Lily, an online platform (and Substack) for yoga, functional anatomy, mystic queries and fitness. body and consciousness. I grew up with a mother who cared for people dying with AIDS. I’ve also been through significant curveballs with my own body – a completely novel experience with disability and falling through the gaps of diagnosis. Unpacking mortality feeds all my stories as a multidisciplinary artist. I’m pretty smitten with this mysterious body that carries me around. Ecstasie is yet another offshoot of my years studying embodiment.

In a description of the film you have written, “This evocative hybrid film re-visions cinematic conventions through an experimental fusion of documentary storytelling with live performance”. How did you approach the balance of these forms?

This fusion of storytelling tools was unlike anything I have ever done. I wanted the term ‘elevated doc’ to actually mean something: To invite the viewer into an accessible, informative and conceptual inquisition while simultaneously disorienting, with the hopes of ‘waking up’. To what or where, I can’t say, but it’s somewhere that circulates and reinforces a body truth. Formally, it was challenging for me to find the balance between talking head doc footage, performance, impressionistic tableaux, and breaking the fourth wall to expose my hand at work behind the lens.

Creating a seamlessness between what Liz was talking about and what we were witnessing them experience was a guiding tenet.

I explored multiple edit structures with editors Monica de Alwis and Mackie Mallison. Creating a seamlessness between what Liz was talking about and what we were witnessing them experience was a guiding tenet. I also wanted the act of watching the film itself to be a transformative happening – which sounds a bit pompous. I can’t mandate transformation for the viewer, but what I know is that I wanted to find a way to engage them on a visceral level. By feeling the story just as much, if not more, than watching the story.

I was so drawn by the line and part of the film where Liz states, “I often feel it is most vulnerable for the people that are watching”, and your interest in provoking discourse around the propensity of exploitation in film, along with so much more.

I love this line too. I was concerned that Liz would feel exposed and wanted to protect them from that – so when Liz said this line, it surprised me, turning the lens back on me. I was the one feeling vulnerable! I think this happens more than we realize – and then we project our experience onto the performer erroneously or accidentally.

The stakes felt high in making this film. It was far too easy to create a sensational film with such powerfully open footage of Liz working with their body. This unnerved me. After shooting in Berlin, I sat watching the intimate footage, unseen and clothed, feeling removed and extremely powerful in my capacity to shape/alter/construct the story through my clicks on a keyboard. I didn’t have enough at stake, and I felt like I needed to ‘call my bluff.’ Asking Liz to share their ecstasy without somehow putting my body on the line too didn’t feel ethical. And the film isn’t about me. I wanted to find a way to include these questions in the final edit, particularly the capacity for coercion (dishonoring truth for the sake of drama and enticement), through editing and camera framing. At the same time, I’m not interested in duplicating reality in film; I want to make something that is not possible in ‘real life’ that also honors authenticity of a body. This type of conundrum is my creative fodder.

You invite viewers in through intimate cinematography and captivating close-ups and shots of Liz’s body. How was the relationship between you, Liz and cinematographer Greta Isabella Conte structured to achieve the film’s visual aesthetic?

Trust, transparency and slowness. I wanted Liz’s rhythms to drive the shoot. I’ve been on the other side of the lens (and onstage) so much – on set there’s lots of waiting for camera, lights, etc. to be aligned, which can stifle or thwart the timing of a performer. I know when my body’s ready, it’s time to shoot, and this doesn’t happen enough. Given the level of intimacy in Liz’s work, and that I wanted to feature in Ecstasie, honoring their needs was a priority over the perfect setup.

Greta is brilliant in her crafted and highly attuned vision. In pre-production, we spent a lot of time exchanging ideas and visuals, designing a loose storyboard for the coverage we needed to build a story arc. And then there were the unknowns of Liz having a real experience onset. I really trust Greta’s impulses and wanted her and Liz to have their own relationship during the shoot. Liz is also incredibly open and vocal. Our collective communication was instrumental in defining our cinematic vocabulary.

Sound is the secondary protagonist to Liz. It’s an essential tool in exploring embodiment and transformative films.

We have to talk about sound design. How did you come to work with Q Department and develop and employ the technologies which have led to such an auditory joy to accompany the visuals?

I’m so glad it spoke to you! Sound is the secondary protagonist to Liz. It’s an essential tool in exploring embodiment and transformative films. Sonic vibration is literally a direct line to feeling. I’ve worked with Drazen and his remarkable team at Q Department on multiple films and immersive projects. He is utterly brilliant and keeps me abreast on all things sonic. I did my own sound editing with stems from the composer Felix Godden, punctuating the visuals (mimicking, in counterpoint and syncopation with the picture editing rhythms), exploring ways to lull the viewer into a trance and then jarring them out of it. Drazen then crafted layers upon layers of sounds, textures, melodies, etc. to craft a world that existed alongside the visual edit (not because of it). I invited him to try things he’s never done. Exploring risk with collaborators feels paramount. For our binaural mix, we recorded Liz’s voice into a special microphone that matched the density of a human head.

What considerations went into designing the film for both collective viewing and individual experiences?

There is so much that’s new for me with this project. I’ve never made a flat (non-360) film with binaural sound, but I had this vision of the viewer sitting alone with Liz, as if they’re on the ground nearby, having their own ecstatic experience in this extreme ASMR landscape. I also like the idea of being surrounded by people while watching such an intimate experience on screen. The topics of this film feel important to get into the world, and therefore demanded a flexibility in viewership. I’m very interested in finding ways to screen films outside of the obvious cinematic, proscenium setup.

Consider that the viewer brings their own perception-projection to interpreting the story, that they may not be aware of.

How did you want Ecstasie to challenge conventional power dynamics between filmmaker, subject, and viewer?

I want viewers to know that everything they see comes from an author/director who has an implicit bias. That the performers onscreen are not always consulted in their depiction, which is consensual and not. To consider that the viewer brings their own perception-projection to interpreting the story, that they may not be aware of. Liz articulates this perfectly in the film: “People are prepped in some way to be told how to consume or how to experience the images that they’re being presented before they even have a chance to encounter them…Taking the time to just sit with somebody and who they are, rather than having to be told who they are first… The eye of the camera can’t be a neutral eye.”

With such a fabulously thought-provoking piece behind you, what’s your next focus?

Ecstasie will continue to screen in various installation formats throughout NYC this summer. I am working on a miniseries with author Sarah Gerard called Ghost Wall, which takes place in the near future in New York City, and follows a conservative PR manager down a time travel rabbit hole to uncover the story of a real and notorious 19th-century abortionist. I’m developing a multidisciplinary book of sorts, edited by curator/writer Ruby Guralnik Dawes, to accompany my feature documentary Chronicle of Hip. And I’m wrapping up a scripted feature film titled Profane, which transfigures the myth of Lilith in a contemporary genre-bending horror set within the confines of a rural Italian convent.

Premiering today on Directors Notes, Amsterdam-based writer/director Véras Fawaz delivers an unnerving slice of psychological tension with his short film Warm. Inspired by a chillingly real ‘stranger than fiction’ US news story he stumbled upon with actor Gover Meit – where a woman locked her boyfriend in a suitcase during an argument – Fawaz crafts a meticulously controlled nightmare rooted in the mundane horror of a second-hand marketplace sale. Warm traps viewers within the stark confines of an almost-empty Dutch house, witnessing the escalating power play between seller Meili (Jenny Hsia) and an enigmatic buyer (Gover Meit). Fawaz masterfully explores the suffocating grip of social and parental power, particularly how Meili’s overbearing mother haunts her ability to assert boundaries. As we premiere this unsettling exploration of politeness turned peril, we speak to Fawaz about transforming that bizarre true crime spark into potent cinema, dissecting the invisible power dynamics that drive the film’s tension, and the deliberate shift from observational calm to claustrophobic dread.

How did you come up with the idea for this unnerving story of over politeness, power and control?

The short film Warm began with one of those “Wait, what?!” moments. Back in 2020, my friend Gover Meit and I stumbled across a bizarre U.S. news story: a woman had locked her boyfriend in a suitcase during a fight, and he never made it out. That disturbing image stuck with us. The idea of being physically trapped, and the terrifying power that gives the person on the outside, felt like fertile ground for a film. But the real spark came from something closer to home: Marktplaats, the Dutch version of Craigslist. It’s where people buy and sell anything but it’s also full of eccentric characters and strange interactions. Early on, we pitched the concept to our friends at Underscore, a production house based in Amsterdam, and they immediately jumped on board. Though Gover and I financed the film ourselves, their support gave the project real creative momentum.

That tension between ordinary exchanges and hidden danger became the perfect backdrop but beneath that lies a deeper theme — power.

How did you move from that initial ‘stranger than fiction’ concept to a fully rounded script which, alongside the central weird encounter, ups the ante and emotional stakes by introducing Meili’s overbearing, judgmental mother?

The concept is simple: a second-hand sale gone wrong. I was fascinated by the question: you never know who you are letting into your house with these kinds of sales. That tension between ordinary exchanges and hidden danger became the perfect backdrop but beneath that lies a deeper theme — power. Social power, the kind that’s invisible but ever-present, and parental power, especially how it shapes identity when you’re growing up under a dominant hand. Meili’s mother reveals the emotional grip she still has on her — disapproving of her breakup, resisting her independence. She’s the reason Meili struggles to say no. The shadow behind every decision. And in the end, it’s that shadow Meili finally steps out of when the suitcase shifts hands.

As you’ve mentioned, tension is a driving force in this film. How baked into the script was that vs dialled up through Jenny Hsia and Gover Meit’s performances on set and then later when cutting Warm?

Every moment of tension was carefully engineered, rehearsed, refined, and then fine-tuned in the edit. I come from an editing background, so I direct like one: I shoot very little, but what I do shoot is precise and deliberate. That leaves room for experimentation in the performances. We also researched real experiences of women during second-hand sales, from invasive questions to the feeling of being watched. These moments fed directly into the power dynamic between Meili and the stranger.

You make great use of a distinctly minimalist and natural aesthetic, which feels contemporary and familiar, and fitting for the themes of the film. Can you touch on the technical elements of your visual approach and how those, in turn, fed into the narrative?

Thank you. We shot Warm over three intense days in a nearly empty house in the Netherlands. It was a small crew, intimate vibe, long hours. Together with DP Simon Meesters, we dissected the script and chose a restrained, almost observational visual style. But halfway through, that shifts when the deal turns psychological. We mark that moment when the suitcase falls silent, and for the first time, the camera glides forward on a dolly. We begin with observational distance but as Meili’s world contracts, so does the lens. Yet we never fully reach her, she remains just out of reach.

We dissected the script and chose a restrained, almost observational visual style. But halfway through, that shifts when the deal turns psychological.

In a world of infinite stylistic options, I believe restraint is the real craft. Holding back and then deploying your tools with precision leaves a deeper impression than showing off. That, to me, is how films become timeless. If people watch Warm in fifty years and still feel something… that would mean everything.

Warm is very much rooted within the confines of this house, which has gone from a happy home to a bitter liminal space for Meili. How did you find your location and then map the staging to it? A standout for me is the boundary of the stairs and the discomfort I felt when the buyer violates that.

There’s something haunting about an empty house, especially your own after moving out. All those memories, all that love, suddenly reduced to four bare walls. We found the house through an amazing scout (shoutout to Allard van der Spek!), it was for sale and completely stripped. Ideal for painting walls and tossing a suitcase down the stairs. Our DP initially hesitated because of the white walls. The rule is: no white — it’s flat, lifeless. Make it off-white. Add texture. But I secretly loved it, especially paired with Meili’s deep red shirt and the stranger’s blue one. Red, white, blue. Dutch. These visual contrasts subtly reinforced the shifting emotional and power dynamics.

The staircase plays a symbolic role. It leads to Meili’s bedroom where the suitcase first appears. And there’s an unspoken rule: you don’t just go into someone’s bedroom. But he does. Whether that’s ignorance or intrusion… I leave that to the audience.

The dynamic between the two characters isn’t what you’d call conventional, they are both enigmatic and unpredictable – neither (at least initially) is the ‘bad guy’. How did you strike that believable push and pull balance between them, which allows their unconventional interaction to escalate as it does?

It took rehearsal and many conversations, especially with Gover and our script editor Wouter Brugge, about realism. A small example: originally, Meili used a knife to open the suitcase. Later, we changed it to a screwdriver. It just made more sense. Dialogue in film is tricky. What’s left unsaid is often more powerful. The glances, the silence, the way someone shifts their weight — that’s where the emotion lives. On screen, and in life.

The score feels like it sits on the line between music and rich sound design, and definitely adds an extra level of discomfort to the situation. Could you tell us about constructing your foreboding sonic palette, especially given how bright much of the film’s images are?

I briefed composer Rui Reis Maia with strange, uncanny sounds, including NASA’s recording of a black hole. Unheimlich was the keyword. We also brought in live musicians — a violinist and a cellist — to improvise. Some of their raw takes were haunting and ended up in the final cut.

What’s left unsaid is often more powerful. The glances, the silence, the way someone shifts their weight — that’s where the emotion lives. On screen, and in life.

Together with sound designer Zoé Beekes, we created a house that creaks, sighs, breathes. Zoé was phenomenal. We looked to Hereditary, Funny Games — films that know how to weaponize sound. There’s a genre shift in Warm from absurdist drama into quiet thriller. The score had to reflect that journey.

I feel like I have to ask about the suitcase; it’s a great central prop. How did you avoid suspicion (and possible calls to the police) when hunting it down? What was the process like for you using it to the extent that you did? Any horror stories when Gover climbed inside it?

We tried maybe ten different suitcases before landing on the right one. Turns out, it’s not easy to find a generic-looking suitcase that fits a full-grown human. It needed to be fabric, slightly stretchable and camera-friendly. A lot of suitcases have patterns that cause moiré on screen, that weird flickering. So we ran camera tests too.

I spent weeks visiting thrift stores and luggage shops. The hardest part? Explaining what we were looking for (without sounding too creepy). “We need one that a person can fit inside.” Sure, we said it was for a film… but yeah, we got some looks. I tested them myself — curling up inside, zipping myself shut — until we finally found the one. I’m claustrophobic. Ten seconds inside felt like forever. Gover did full takes, up to ten minutes. Massive respect. It was hot, claustrophobic, and we had to unzip the suitcase between takes to let him breathe. But all that discomfort translated beautifully onscreen. He didn’t have to, but he did.

Given how Warm ends, for you, is there a larger symbolism of the suitcase in Meili’s life?

I don’t like explaining endings and I won’t start now. I’ll just say this: A suitcase is baggage. You carry what you can. The rest, you leave behind, or it ends up breaking you.

What will we see from you next?

A feature is in the works but it’ll take some time. Meanwhile, I’m developing two new shorts set in the same universe: To the Ones Beyond the Stars (2025) and Hemelspiegel (2026). One in English, one in Dutch. I hope they bring something meaningful to the landscape. I’ll do everything I can to make them unforgettable.

In a bleak, troubled small fishing village where options are limited and hope is in equally short supply, a young man neglected by his parents and seeking comfort wherever he can looks for solace with his neighbour, but in doing so takes an irreversible step onto a path that will determine his future. A story of shady business and tall tales, which may or may not hold dark truths, Jeroen Kooistra’s debut short Triton speaks to the deep-seated need we have to belong and how attempting to fill such a void can lead us to ignore our better judgement. Born from piano lesson conversations with DOP Jasper de Kloet that evolved into fervent creative brainstorming and a desire to “just make something”, Kooistra’s haunting film is steeped in the salt-tinged air of its rugged location, a desolate sense of place which is as much heard as it is seen. Accompanying today’s premiere on Directors Notes, we sat down with Kooistra to explore the journey of creating Triton’s foreboding atmosphere, the collaborative process of developing its rich visual and sound design, and the resonant symbolism of its final scene.

Where did the seeds of this pitch black tale come from and how did the film develop from there?

It all started when Jasper de Kloet, the DOP of the short, came over for piano lessons. Between practicing chords and working through exercises, we’d end up talking about films — stories we loved, shots that stuck with us, and this shared itch to create something of our own. It was during one of those chats that Jasper said, “We should just make something.” His energy was infectious. That one sentence planted the seed. I hadn’t written anything in a while, but his enthusiasm pulled me in. I started sketching out scenes — standalone moments, fragments of ideas. At first, there wasn’t really a world yet, just snapshots. Characters in search of a setting. But as I kept writing, I realized I was circling around something familiar.

That something turned out to be IJmuiden. IJmuiden is a gritty fishing town near Amsterdam, a place I’ve known since I was a kid. I used to visit often and was always struck by its rawness — the docks, the harsh North Sea wind, the people who live and work there. There’s a certain poetry in its toughness. And suddenly, I knew that this was where Triton needed to live. The setting clicked, and so did the story. At that point, I brought in Emile Almekinders to help shape the script. Emile has a great instinct for structure and dialogue, and together we began weaving those earlier fragments into a coherent whole.

The setting didn’t just frame the relationship: it carved into it, exposing deeper layers of silence, and struggle.

Meanwhile, Jasper and I were diving deeper into the visual world of the film — talking references, light, texture, mood. He brought this relentless drive and cinematic eye that elevated the project in every way. It wasn’t just a collaboration — it was a creative partnership that really fueled the process. Once we had a first version of the script and a clear lookbook, we approached Coen van Berkel at SODA Films. Coen immediately saw the potential and came on board as producer. That’s when things started to move fast. With Coen in our corner, the project picked up momentum, and Triton began to take on a life of its own. What started as a side conversation during music lessons slowly grew into something much bigger — a short film grounded in place, character, and collaboration. I’m proud of what we created together.

Your film touches on a variety of motifs and emotions. How did you and co-writer Emile craft those fragments into this cohesive whole, which touches on themes surrounding displacement and rurality? Were there any promising ideas which had to be jettisoned to best serve the film?

I’ve always been drawn to the theme of the father-son relationship and how it functions. What a father is meant to be for his son, and to what extent that role needs to be actively shaped and defined. This comes from my own experience, but also from what I’ve observed around me. For this film, we placed that dynamic under a magnifying glass. Every supporting character, in some way, reflects aspects of this theme as it plays out in real life. When a father is in some ways absent, you start seeking guidance, and love/distraction from those around you. That emotional vacuum shapes who you want and will become.

IJmuiden, the small fishing town setting of Triton, feels absolutely key. How did the gritty fishing town setting inform the nature of your characters and the situation we see them in?

It began as a straightforward story about a father and son, but that felt too flat. But the world in Ijmuiden, in this case of fishermen, harsh and weathered, cast a new light on the narrative. The setting didn’t just frame the relationship: it carved into it, exposing deeper layers of silence and struggle.

What references did you and DOP Jasper de Kloet draw from for the visual world of Triton and how did that inform your choice of gear?

At first, we started with a broad palette. But as the script evolved, so did the visual world, gradually sharpening its focus. We wanted the audience’s attention to rest primarily on Jacobus and the world he moves through. Everything around him feels unfamiliar, and because of that, intense.

Jasper de Kloet – DOP: For Triton, I was chasing a bit of that ’80s feeling, something with texture, mood, and a bit of nostalgia, but still clean. I shot on the ARRI Alexa Mini with a set of rehoused Leica-R lenses. The Alexa mini is my go-to for jobs like this. It’s compact and easy to rig. Other than that, it gives me the best colors after my first choice, celluloid. The Leica-R lenses are not overly sharp, which I like. There’s a warmth and softness to them that helped take the digital edge off and made the whole image feel a bit more lived-in. This setup gave us the look we needed without spending a ton on celluloid.

Watching this trio, you can feel that their stories extend far beyond this interaction. How much backstory did you provide to your actors?

We had a few rehearsals, and I believe there was a fitting right away as well, which immediately gave a sense of the world they inhabited. During rehearsals, I noticed that they worked well together, both in terms of acting and communication. There wasn’t a very elaborate backstory; it felt more like a snapshot, a moment they fully immersed themselves in. Of course, there was some context, but not an excessive amount.

The scene in the car where we hear the story of Triton really builds tension and adds a folktalesque atmosphere. What inspired it? Can you tell us about staging that scene both within the confines of the car and also within the edit as you incorporated the rainy theft sequence and punctuating stills?

I wanted to create a scene in which something is revealed that could be interpreted as either fake or manipulative. The underlying idea is: Am I sitting in a car with the murderers of my father? Have I aligned myself with the wrong people? Or are they just messing with me? It’s a moment that fits Jacobus perfectly, because he’s a young guy, easily influenced and taken advantage of. In that moment, he loses his grip on reality; he no longer knows who he is, what side he’s on, or what he should do.

I wanted to create a scene in which something is revealed that could be interpreted as either fake or manipulative.

For that scene, we had conversations with the actors about their roles and intentions. Jasper Stoop plays the angry cousin of Doris (Momo Samwel) who comes across as kind-hearted but is still part of the same corrupt family. She’s torn between two worlds. And we explained to Roman Derwig, who plays Jacobus, exactly what his character is going through at that point. Because we wanted it to feel like either a nightmare or reality, we chose to grade that part in black and white. And since, at that point in the story, it could still be perceived as a nightmare, I thought it would be cool to visualize it that way. For example, with the rifles. It gives it an almost comic book-like quality, which enhances the nightmare atmosphere.

The soundtrack plays a significant role here and cements the tone of the on screen action. What was your process for developing both the film’s score and the bleak weather-worn sound design?

Jasper de Kloet had already worked with Max Gramser from THNDR before. We visited them to introduce ourselves and discuss the script and treatment. Max immediately started brainstorming and creating ideas to show us what he had in mind. It resonated with us right away, and I became really excited. As a result, we ended up creating music for another short film together.

When Triton was filmed, they handled all the music and sound design. We spent several months working on it, back and forth. I visited often to listen to new versions, and we gradually got closer to the perfect balance. Something that wouldn’t be too epic, but still conveyed the message. In the end, we arrived at something that really captured the essence of the film.

Yes, it’s a dark path, but it is the path. You have to keep going, even if it means heading in the wrong direction.

The final scene is powerfully daunting. It feels loaded with symbolism and the start of a much darker path for Jacobus.

It felt like a kind of surrender. A moment in which Jacobus realizes there’s no turning back, and that he has to accept this is the life he’s going to live, even if it weighs heavily on him. I find the theme of a lack of guidance, and as a result, slipping into another world without fully understanding what you’re stepping into really compelling. And yes, it’s a dark path, but it is the path. You have to keep going, even if it means heading in the wrong direction.

What can we look forward to from you next?

I’m back to writing! In the meantime, I’m keeping busy with smaller personal projects, music videos, and some commercial work. It’s a nice way to stay creative while figuring out what’s next. Hopefully, I’ll be making a new film in 2025 or 2026. That’s the plan, at least!

Back in October, we headed to the Bolton Film Festival (a favourite, regular stop for us on the UK film festival circuit) to sit on the jury as one of the partners for the inaugural Slick Films Fund live pitch event. Of the five Filmmakers pitching their projects in the hopes of walking away with the £10K Grand Prize, it was Bradford-based filmmaker Jordon Scott Kennedy’s estate-set, kitchen-sink science fiction comedy Rocket Fuel, that won the room for the live audience and jury alike. Soon after his Slick Films Fund win, the BBC came calling! Having presided over the live pitch event and with Rocket Fuel recently premiering on BBC Three and now available for all to watch on iPlayer, Sarah caught up with Jordan for a chat about getting Rocket Fuel off the ground and on to the screens of a major broadcaster.
[Watch/Read the full interview]

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There’s something unequivocally magical about childhood summers, those seemingly endless days where imagination transforms the mundane into something extraordinary. In his latest short film Rocket Fuel, Jordon Scott Kennedy taps into this universal experience with a vibrant authenticity that defies conventional depictions of working class life. Kennedy, winner of Directors Notes partner Slick Films’ £10,000 Grand Prize Fund at last year’s Bolton Film Festival and the Bradford 2025 Forge Film Funding, eschews the desaturated, piano-scored bleakness often imposed on such stories by directors dogmatic about capturing a social realism milieu despite never having step foot on an estate, and instead infuses his film with colour, cinematic flair, and an infectious sense of adventure that reflects how children actually experience their world. Rocket Fuel stands as a testament to the writer/director’s evolving filmmaking philosophy, one that acknowledges the legacy of working class film depictions but pushes beyond those skewed constraints – the result is a short that adults and children can enjoy together, finding different layers of meaning in a story that celebrates childhood resilience and imagination. With Rocket Fuel making its debut today on BBC Three at 9:50pm (with a second screening at 1:45am 24th May), we caught up with Kennedy for a chat about the instant dynamism of his two young leads, why he is drawn to telling stories from a youthful perspective and harnessing where he’s from and the childhood experiences of his young actors to bring authentic stories to screen.

[The following interview is also available to watch at the end of this article.]

It is such a pleasure to be talking to you today about the finished film after having a front row seat to the live Slick Films Fund pitch finale at Bolton last year. How did you come to apply in the first place?

I’d always followed Chris and Rachel’s story, I was inspired by how they just came out of nowhere and won an Oscar. I attended the Forge Lab in Bradford and Chris was one of the speakers. I was buzzing because I’d never met him before and after the session, he said to me, “You need to apply for the Slick Films Fund”. Then it was like the Champions League, you get down to like the last 32, last 16, then I got down to the last five. I didn’t even realise until the day that audience votes counted, I probably should have read more details, but maybe it was good going into it a bit blind because then you don’t get too nervous.

People seem to think I’m a public speaking master but I hate public speaking. The one bit of advice I always give people is, don’t prepare too much. The first few times I used to get dead nervous and I realised it was because I was prepping so much. I was trying to remember everything I prepped, whereas I just started winging it and then I started enjoying it more. When I’m sat watching a pitch and I can hear someone shoehorning something in, something that’s got nothing to do with the context, it’s just there because they’ve prepped that, it’s almost like robotic. One thing people always tell me I’ve got going for me is I’m myself and I’m always authentic.

I wrote this draft in four hours and sent it out. I honestly didn’t believe I stood much of a chance then it ended up winning the Forge Fund Lab, then it won Slick. The next thing I know, the BBC were on the phone.

Now tell us all about Rocket Fuel.

It’s been an absolute game changer. I always said that the film I did a couple of years ago, Youthless, changed my life but I think this has even more so. I got this idea that I was going to do something like Scorsese’s After Hours. I’d been ruminating on it for ages, but I can get bored of an idea if I think about it for too long, then I put off writing. Then one day I went past a field and there was a burnt out car and I thought if I found a car like that when I was younger, that was my summer, then I was buzzing to write that down. I wrote this draft in four hours and sent it out. I honestly didn’t believe I stood much of a chance, then it ended up winning the Forge Fund Lab, and then it won Slick. The next thing I know, the BBC were on the phone. It was annoying because sometimes six months of writing doesn’t go anywhere, then with this, it was just like it was catching lightning in a bottle.

What do you think it is about the idea that’s made it so appealing?

I worked it out last night. When people come up to me about the script or about having seen the film, they don’t talk to me about the film. They don’t pick out scenes or lines or anything like that. When people talk to me about it, they talk to me about their childhood and stories from their childhood. Everyone can relate to it because it’s not just about estate kids, everyone has a childhood and it’s what you get up to. Rocket Fuel pays tribute to that.

I’d love to know a bit about the development of the project. You had your script, won two funds and had the BBC engaged, how did you move into production?

It happened really quickly. We got the BBC on board back end of last year and then it had to be done by May. I wasn’t ever going to make my first draft, as much as people were like “Mate, what more can you do to it? BBC have no notes at all, which is unheard of – go and shoot it!” But I wanted to develop it as much as I could, and I did. I was conscious of the fact that if I did too much, I might ruin it or undo certain parts but it was a rare one where every script revision I did seemed to improve it. Often, people develop a script then start rehearsing but personally, I think you lose something, especially when you’re working with kids. The workshop process should be about getting the script on its feet and letting the kids go for it. They are experts in their characters, these kids can teach me more about kids today than I could write.

It was about having the confidence to dismantle it and let it get messy. The first couple of days there was loads of fun, but there was also that tightness of the script being unravelled. It’s like when you tidy your bedroom, it gets messier before it gets better, then that process starts to click. I treated it like we were doing theatre, we had five days of rehearsals and then we were going to shoot it on the fifth day, and that’s what we did. The kids did it live, they did it without any interruption as if it were a play. These kids have never acted before and the way they did it blew me away.

The workshop process should be about getting the script on its feet and letting the kids go for it. They are experts in their characters, these kids can teach me more about kids today than I could write.

I pulled out a line from your local open casting call because I loved it. Lenny had to have “a gob like a foghorn Yorkshire accent.” How many applications did you get?

Absolutely hundreds, that casting process can often be about casting who they think the best actor is, whereas it’s not just about that, it’s about the dynamics. When Elif Riley came in, for Lenny, she literally kicked the door open, she swaggered in with such confidence. Everybody was well behaved and sat down, and they’d done what the parents had told them to do – whereas she just charged in. Then we started pairing them up, and it just so happened that she got paired up with Logan Ludbrook, who already had the mullet and when they were together I just knew straight away.

We all know there are more restrictions around filming with children. Did that cause you any issues when shooting?

I think I’ve got a bit desensitised to it because the last three films I’ve done have mainly been kid casts. The biggest one for me was the amount we had to get in the days that we had. The first day was a bit of a killer because we’d done a studio day where everything had gone well, then we were on set, on top of a moor, and the weather was horrendous. It was freezing – it’s supposed to be the middle of summer but then, the next day, the sun shone.

I’d love to know why you are drawn to telling stories from the point of view of children.

It’s a good question, I’ve never been asked that before. When I was a kid, you had to grow up fast. My first few years I lived on Dewsbury Moor Estate, which is a great but also rough place to live. Then I moved to Ravensthorpe, which is even worse, but I had a great childhood. So by the time I was five, six, seven, I remember my mates getting rid of their toys because they all wanted to be rugby players and boxers – we all grew up dead quickly and we all wanted to be like little adults, and that’s why my characters often behave like little adults.

I always saw childhood quite objectively and I think it’s definitely influenced my work.

Sometimes you look back and you think you missed out because you grew up too quickly. But also because I saw myself as a little man from being nine/ten years old, I always saw childhood quite objectively and I think it’s definitely influenced my work. It’s also the absurdity of it, like in Rocket Fuel, Lenny just whipping out a candy stick and smoking it like a cigarette. Those little things happen in all my films, and it’s me laughing at myself because, as much as I thought I was a little man, people must have just found it funny that I was definitely still a kid thinking that I were a little man. I also just find working with kids dead fun. I’ve got other stuff I’m doing about adults. My feature was about an adult and a kid, but every two or three films, I’ll always come back to a story about kids because they just fascinate me.

You can talk about so much and also draw in a much wider audience with those stories.

Someone said to me last night their favourite thing about the film is that she’s finally found a film (and if it becomes a series) that she could watch with her two young sons. Everything she wants to watch, they don’t want to watch, and the stuff that they want to watch isn’t her thing. I write stories that probably have 15 certificates, but knowing full well that kids will watch them, so I’m conscious of that. I’m conscious of not putting content in there that goes too far, but I don’t really tame the way that the kids speak. You hear people complaining, “Oh, kids don’t watch TV anymore, it’s because of their attention spans.” but also it’s because there’s loads of crap on telly as well – they’re not entertained.

When I was a kid, I wasn’t watching stuff that was marketed to me. We were all watching South Park and we all watched Terminator and Alien, even though they were 18 certificates. They knew that kids would watch them films because they sold the toys in Toys R Us. What’s happened is we’ve become dead conscious of it, and I think we’ve removed too much edge from kids’ programming. With Rocket Fuel and Youthless, I know full well that kids are going to watch it, but we also aim it at adults because the adults will get things that the kids don’t get and vice versa. Every now and then there’s the odd naughty word but I’m very conscious I don’t want to put too much in there where kids are watching stuff they shouldn’t be watching.

You had your cast and crew screening last night. Was this your first time seeing the film with an audience?

Yeah, the first time I’d seen it on the big screen. We were sat in an editing suite on Friday, and then Monday, here we are. Most of the kids in the film are Bradford kids who have never acted before so it was the first time they’d ever seen themselves on the big screen, and that’s why we wanted to do it before it went out on BBC. It was just so amazing, the mums were so emotional and it was such a good vibe. For me, that’s what filmmaking’s about. It’s not about the awards, it’s about when everyone who put so much into it gets together and they see it on screen. Some of them might not make another film, they might have to go off and do other things but they’ll always look back on that moment.

So what’s next for Rocket Fuel?

It goes on BBC on Thursday, 9:50 on BBC Three, then it’s a case of seeing what the reaction is. Hopefully, people will like it, share it, and comment on it. But I’m confident we’ve done everything we can. Everything is out of our hands now. The aim is to get a series and I think it speaks for itself. The one thing that people always say is there’s no reference, there’s nothing like it, it’s just its own unique thing. It’s obviously set on a council estate but it’s not something that mocks them. It’s also not all doom and gloom, sad piano and desaturating the imagery. It’s about kids who don’t know they’re working class, because when I grew up, I didn’t know I was working class until I left Dewsbury, and when you’re a kid, it doesn’t matter.

A lot of stories about working class people are obsessed with this idea of social realism, which is very external. What we don’t see is how people see the world around them, especially kids. When you’re a kid, your point of view of the world is so different to what we’ve seen on screen previously and Rocket Fuel is literally about that. Why can’t working class stories be cinematic in the sense that they pay tribute to great movies? For me, that’s what it’s about. It starts as a social realism, then it goes into a completely different world.

When you think of realism, the core of it, the start of it, was made by people who couldn’t first-hand relate to estate life.

We’ve all come to expect a certain look and feel from films about estates but you come in bright and bold and using special brew as fuel, which is very refreshing.

I loved growing up on an estate. For me, it’s like a badge of honour, it’s not something to be ashamed of. Growing up in a working class area, people know you’ve worked, you’ve lived. I were working from being 10 years old and it definitely builds your character. I always laugh at social realisms, they’re always dead bleak and quite often not made by people who are working class themselves. You know what makes me laugh? Someone sat in a colour grade and made it greyer, made that sky bleaker. Then someone’s actually gone in a garden, tipped a wheelie bin up and poured loads of crap all over because they’ve got a point of view on an estate. Where we shot were lovely!

People’s references of Northern life and estate life and working class life are from films that were made back in the ’60s by middle class to upper class directors. So when you think of realism, the core of it, the start of it, was made by people who couldn’t first-hand relate to estate life. Growing up there were films that obviously blew me away, especially when I first saw Kes. I had a mate that was just like Billy Casper, he always had a green jacket on, out in the woods and stuff like that. Then as I got a bit older, I saw This Is England, which was a massive one where you felt the authenticity. But also, when my family first sat down to watch the first couple of seasons of Shameless, before it went off in a different direction, I thought they were amazing. When I first saw Lip Gallagher, I was like, “This is a young lad that’s aspirational, he’s intelligent, but he’s on a council estate,” and it really connected with me. But I don’t think we see enough of it. I think we’re always too sympathetic to working class life and what we need to do is to represent from within. Working class filmmakers represent themselves.

I’ve done it myself when I made Suicide Kelly, which is a film I’m really proud of – the first feature I ever did made on a budget of £10K. I was watching a lot of Mike Lee, Ken Loach, even John Cassavetes and Vittorio De Sica, and so I was thinking if you’re doing working class characters, it’s got to be really stripped back, raw, almost documentary style, desaturated. I watched Naked by Mike Lee about 50 times when I were doing it. You can see them seeds of the films that I’m making now in Suicide Kelly but also I remember watching it back and as much as I love it, it doesn’t didn’t have enough of my point of view, my sense of humour, the way that I see life to be absurd. It has elements of those and it is a very optimistic film in the end, but I wanted more of that. That to me was me finding my style and I’ve pushed it with every film. Each of my films have become more colourful and even more my own style, but they’ll always have those tributes to realism. Just don’t get bogged down by it, there’s enough Shane Meadows knock-offs – you’ve got to be yourself.

Definitely! Audiences can feel it when you are being honest, they know when you’re bullshitting them.

I’m almost 38, and people would see it a mile off if all I did was just write what I think a kid’s life is today and put that on screen. Whereas people come to me and they praise me for my authentic dialogue. Yeah, because I nick it off the kids that I’m working with and I take all the credit for it! They’re your first-hand research. That’s why if you’re casting an estate kid role, that kid’s probably not in drama school and so maybe a kid who is in drama school isn’t the right person to play that character. Obviously, when you’re casting adults and they’ve been through training, that’s a completely different kettle of fish. For me, I’ve always just gone and tried to find the kid.

A contained abrasive film fuelled by wings and beer from Brent Michal, Ponytailhead is an eccentric contemporary glimpse into a somewhat endearing yet mostly five-alarm manipulative relationship. Within the walls of a low-lit flat where a guy is called over to remove a bug from his ex’s place, Ponytailhead offers a 9 minute concoction of loving, hating and a hell of a lot of raw emotion between two individuals who can’t seem to quit one another but probably should…immediately. Co-written with and co-starring alongside Piper Verbrick, and shot in fittingly gonzo style by “little sensei on the camera” DP Jaxon Ray, Michal’s situationship short will have you thinking, “Damn is this what love looks like nowadays?” – if it doesn’t, we suggest you ask the nearest sane adult to pull the relationship ripcord for you! Watch Ponytailhead below, after which Michal takes us through the circuitous route the project took to completion, the ins and outs of its evolution along the way and how he took the classic shouty couple argument scenario to the next level.

To get started, I want to hear more about the beginnings of Ponytailhead. You’ve mentioned it was originally a scene from a feature. What is the process like for you going from a singular scene to its own text entirely?

Initially, I had the idea for the scene to fit into a darknightofthesoul, After Hours style feature I was cookin on. Though that seed never bloomed, I couldn’t get the ending of that one scene – the ending of the short – out of my nugget. Then my lady, Piper Verbrick, and I were spending a weekend in podunk ass Georgia – watching old screwball comedies, and the idea popped back up. We stayed up late eating grapes, and sippin tequila, and typing the script up on a Nakajima WPT-150 typewriter in our undies. We were writing the characters like two boxers with no defense. I hit you. You hit me. Who can get hit harder and not fall over? Then we folded the script up and it sat in the bottom of my bookbag for a month or so.

We were writing the characters like two boxers with no defense. I hit you. You hit me. Who can get hit harder and not fall over.

Fast forward a month or so – we’re housesitting for Pip’s mom at her sexy little Park Slope apartment, auditioning and writing, and we pull out the Ponytailhead script. We start revising it / slowing the pace down, and by playing the banter and one-up-manship straight (without the Tracy & Hepburn smirk or mugging), the characters’ stabs at wit played more like insecure attempts to either connect or hurt each other. Then we kept calling it a One-Act and thought maybe we’d try to put it on its feet at a short play festival in the city. Ultimately tho, we decided to shoot it in said sexy ass apartment.

Tell us about crewing up for this gonzoesque production and how you then went about shooting and editing the thing?

I called up this kid Jaxon Ray from another podunk ass town in Georgia, who I thought was a little sensei with the camera, and said get ur ass up to NY. He caught a buddy pass up to NY 2 days later. Then Pip called her college roommate Aidan Hamell up and he agreed to run sound. In the 2 days leading up – we rehearsed in the park. We bought a wig. We bought the wine. We borrowed a recorder and boom mic. Then day of – we gathered in the evening, talked it all out, we clapped for slates, we used lamps and a ring light (pointed at the vaulted ceiling) for light, I’m pretty sure only Pip and I read the script which I think led to the camera / sound having a seeking verite quality that I love.

We broke it into beats and shot each segment only 2 or 3 times and I knew I was gonna cut it with no sense of continuity – just focusing on the most interesting image at any time, so Jaxon – shooting on a Canon EOS M with adapted CCTV camera lens – had a lot of freedom to search within the scene. We shot the whole thing in 4 hours, including a couple bookend sequences (that were eventually cut) of me on the Citi Bike. Then we spent the rest of our 80 dollar budget on wings and beer.

I cut that bitch the next day. It was 13 minutes long. We screened it for some friends and then I threw it away. Months later I was scrubbing through hard drives. Found the film. Popped it into a timeline. Cut the bookend sequences and jumpcut through the meat and potatoes. Recorded the phone call at the beginning with Piper. Then it was 9 minutes. We screened it for friends again and decided to share it!

How was it behind the scenes acting alongside your co-writer and partner? What did your established relationship bring to the energy of the writing/shoot and the edges you could push beyond with the characters?

That’s my bb, and making fuckoffs and viddys is what we live for. I remember we laughed a bunch writing it, and we debated a bunch rehearsing it, and we sweated a bunch shooting it. We knew our affection for one another would go a long way, so we leaned more into the being shitty part.

We gathered in the evening, talked it all out, we clapped for slates, we used lamps and a ring light (pointed at the vaulted ceiling) for light, I’m pretty sure only Pip and I read the script which I think led to the camera / sound having a seeking verite quality that I love.

Ponytailhead is quite a lo-fi project – one day of filming, minimal crew, low budget – and that aesthetic matches the film’s narrative so well. Were there any issues you faced with this “ny-hustler-nobudget-cassavetes-diy-fuckshit spirit” filmmaking approach and how did you turn those into benefits?

The spirit and attitude is the benefit. If you have 80 bucks you may as well have a million. When your focus is on the people in the frame and the story you’re telling – look and tone come easy as breathing.

I’m also interested in the equipment you and Jaxon used, especially the CCTV lens adapted on the Canon EOS M. What were your thoughts behind that addition?

Yeah I sent Jaxon a bunch of old Nan Goldin photos and Davide Sorrenti pics – intimate shots where the subject is king and the background is a dreamy wash and he picked up a 30 dollar lens and a couple adapters to get that warped bokeh and shallow DOF. This was the first film he DP’d. He’s gonna be a little sensei with the camera one day, I promise ya.

Ponytailhead has had a lot of evolution along the way to the point where the film could have turned out a lot different. We’d love to hear more about the process of working free of continuity constraints and how you ultimately honed the film to what it is now.

Yeah when we wrote it we thought it was gonna be the cutest little screwball com – all rat-a-tat Howard Hawks shit, but as me and Pippi developed it and rehearsed it in the park every day, we started taking breaths between barbs, and honing in on the truth of this relationship. Also, there was continuity in performance and intention. I don’t know how to shoot 12 pages in 5 hours without being locked the fuck in as actors, but in shooting and editing the only continuity that matters is emotional continuity. Polished edits are for detergent commercials.

As me and Pippi developed it and rehearsed it in the park every day, we started taking breaths between barbs, and honing in on the truth of this relationship.

The ending! How the hell did that come about? It was unexpected, to say the least!

Nothing will make me tune out of a film like a couple actors yelling at each other, so we knocked around different physical/visual ideas to convey that heightened emotional state at the climax – jerking into your ex old lady’s shoe and choppin her locks seemed most fitting. In the script I was gonna shoot into her trash can, which I still love. There’s a metaphor or a laugh in there somewhere, but if you got a pink Croc on set and you don’t blow a load of vani cream face wash into it – are you even making movies?

Are there any new projects we can look forward to seeing from you soon?

We gotta wild little feature script ready to go. Looking for a sugar daddy or mama to give me 20k. Will send dick and feet and butthole pics.

Told from the point of view of children playing seemingly innocent games in the woods, Jack King’s new BFI Network supported dark, suburban slice-of-life tale Predators takes viewers on a disquieting journey of questionable morality. King has crafted a narrative that delves into profound questions about cruelty, care, and the uncomfortable grey areas between mercy and malice. By centring the narrative on the perspectives of the children and deliberately limiting adult presence, Predators houses a self-contained world where young characters must navigate complex ethical terrain without guidance. At its thematic core, Predators examines the duality of human nature through a compelling metaphor: are we inherently nurturing beings or heartless monsters? King refuses to provide a simple categorisation, instead asking viewers to consider how circumstances and choices push individuals toward kindness or cruelty. As the short makes its online premiere with DN, we speak to King about sinking his teeth into the moral grey areas of this story, working with hardy kids who were able to deal with the big topics at hand and needing to construct a cut which was very different to the script’s structure.

I believe Predators was inspired by an article you read.

There was a news story about exotic snakes being found abandoned on wasteland and fields in my local area. These snakes had been abandoned, unclear whether they’d been left to be rescued or hidden to die by their owners. I wondered about the moral distinction; was it an act of deliberate cruelty by an abuser, or an act of mercy by an otherwise caring animal lover in the face of no alternative? It got me thinking about the duality of kindness and cruelty and the delicate and complex responsibility of care.

It’s challenging when they are children, because the assumption is that really, deep down the parents or carers are responsible in some way.

The duality of kindness and cruelty is central to your concept – how did you work to maintain moral ambiguity rather than clear-cut villainy, especially when focusing on the story from a child’s point of view and their supposed innate innocence?

I think the ambiguity is what interests me – it’s the muddy grey area that gives the story and characters depth and complexity I can sink my teeth into. I enjoy being forced to understand flawed and unlikeable characters and try to see them from inside and out at the same time. It’s challenging when they are children, because the assumption is that, really deep down, the parents or carers are responsible in some way. The kids get off easy. There is a bit of that with Tegan and the fact that she is in foster care. Is she really responsible? Wherein lies the moral blame for her actions? I hope that some people will sympathise with her, but I also hope that some people will absolutely not.

The adults are almost completely removed from the narrative and are blind to what is occurring.

I wanted to keep it centred on the kids. It was important the film play out from Tegan’s POV as much as possible and not to frame her actions or behaviour to fit the adult understanding of it. However, it was important to briefly see where these kids come from and the adults who are around them, because I want to invite the question of how their home lives and circumstances might be related to their actions.

You boldly chose to work with children and animals – two more unpredictable elements in any film production and the performances are impressive. How did you work with the young cast to embody such dark and mature themes within the framing of kids being kids?

We got hardy kids! They weren’t sensitive at all, and they were all smart enough to understand the complexity of it and where the nastiness was coming from so we could be sure we weren’t going to inflict any mild trauma on them! I didn’t fully believe they wouldn’t all run off screaming when we started introducing snakes into it but they couldn’t get enough. Although Liam Mpholle, who plays Reece, bless him, liked the snakes but was understandably less keen on having an 8ft one wrapped around him in a muddy ditch. Luckily, we’d anticipated he might change his mind and had a dummy on standby.

It was important to briefly see where these kids come from and the adults who are around them.

How did wanting to approach the film as a dark, suburban slice-of-life influence your visual choices, and how did you weave that into the mysterious and more ethereal elements with images of the forest and the abandoned dump site?

This just feels like where I live to be honest! Bradford is a weird mix of hills and woods and moor dotted around colourful and grotty urban spaces. I go for a run in my local woods a few times a week and on most days there’s a nice big fresh mountain of crap that’s been tipped into the middle of a closed country road or over the wall into the woods. It’s like evil Santa has been. It’s obviously disgusting behaviour but I get excited sometimes at the sight of it, cos it’s creepy and surreal. (Some of the roads are actually closed due to how much fly-tipping there used to be, so it’s all kind of re-wilded a bit. Looks like a mini Chernobyl in places). So really, those elements you’re referring to – it’s real!

I definitely wanted to exaggerate and heighten it though, and the music really helped achieve that. A lot also came from Robbie Bryant’s cinematography; he thoroughly threw himself into the look of this and just made everything drip with colour and a beautiful but off-kilter sense of cinematic discord and unease. I think I’m also a bit influenced by Eerie, Indiana a kids’ show from the 90s, I’d love to do a dark adult take on that one day, set in Yorkshire.

I love the moment Tegan is chasing Reece into the forest and the way you hide him from us – talk us through the shooting of that scene.

All I can remember is we were filming this scene and Liam (Reece) was getting so into it and scared of Tegan that he didn’t stop running even when me and the whole crew were calling cut at the top of our lungs. Then we heard a massive, heart-stopping scream booming through the trees. It was the scariest moment ever. I thought he’d lost an eye to a stray branch, and we were obviously gonna lose the end of the film with it. Luckily, he’d just had a little trip and was doing what all great actors do and dramatising it. It took about 10 minutes for my heart rate to go back to normal and then he was running around again, although with someone on the other end to grab him. That’s how he was the whole time, he believed it. So we just shot a lot in a way that would make him forget the camera was there.

I think cutting it this way just helped us feel the strangeness and unreliability of Tegan’s POV.

With such an intense storyline and so much that could have gone wrong, were there any big changes that came from the shoot?

It was a learning curve. I cut the script as we shot it, but it just lacked something. It was our producer Hollie Bryan who actually re-wrote it on the spot because I think we were both a bit panicked about the fact that, after all the pain and hard work, the film wasn’t as good as we thought it was gonna be! It was a bit of a mad puzzle to solve because of continuity and things suddenly falling apart but we ended up with a cut that you see. I think cutting it this way just helped us feel the strangeness and unreliability of Tegan’s POV, whereas before it played out a bit more procedurally and predictably. I still don’t know why it worked in the script though and not in the film…very worrying…I need to properly investigate that.

What else are you working on now?

We’ve got a couple more festivals with the Ceremony before the release in August, so I’d love to urge anyone reading this to come and see it in a cinema and please support proper grass-roots indie-cinema in the brief window it’s gonna be on! Other than that, me and Hollie are trying to find finance and support for my second feature Sunburn but I’ve got a slate of other projects in development alongside that. I’m trying to write more scripts and spin as many plates as humanly possible outside working, as there is absolutely no way to predict or harness the whims of industry so I think it’s the only way I’m going to stay sane!

We all remember the miner strikes and some of the classic films that cover that topic, but what about the ‘Mimer Strikes’? James Nicholas Green’s debut narrative short, Victory To The Mimers, is a clever, quick-witted personal ode to the old classics that look at the struggles of England’s working-class and the families affected by a right-wing government hell-bent on tearing apart their communities and implementing brutal funding cuts. Co-written by and starring comedian/actor Steve Furst, Victory To The Mimers focuses on two estranged brothers played by Furst and Lee Ingleby – one a mimer passing on the artform,s rich and proud history to his daughter, and the other who fell out of love with the movement – as they overcome individual differences in order to empower themselves and their fellow mimers. Green harnesses the power of family, love and solidarity to capture the iconic themes of political films with a deftly absurd comedic tone, whilst simultaneously adding unique cinematic techniques to not only accompany this atmosphere, but add an entirely fresh take on it all. Victory To The Mimers is jam-packed with symbolic costumes, aesthetics and themes, and we invited Green to joins us for a discussion about his journey as a TVC and music video creator turned short film director, dealing with social issues within his work, and most importantly, the art behind choreographing the film’s beautiful and elegant miming sequence.

Your film grew out of a project shared with you by Steve Furst, who co-wrote and stars in Victory To The Mimers. Could you share with us how the script evolved and headed towards production? What drove your passion for this specific project?

I was instantly drawn to the project after reading Steve’s early draft, then titled The Mimers. I was already eager to move beyond music videos and TVCs into narrative work, especially comedy, and this felt like the perfect opportunity. Once Steve gave me the green light to expand it, I jumped in. At the time, I was juggling full-time work and the mental gymnastics of the pandemic, so the rewrite became a slow burn. It took around two years before I felt the script was truly ready, though I still didn’t know if it would ever make it to production. Fortunately, I reconnected with producer Kabir Malik, who I’d known from my TV days. He immediately got the tone, aligned with the message, and shared the drive to make more shorts, so we teamed up and pushed it into production.

The idea of “form follows function” stuck with me, and I’ve always aimed to create work that has something to say, not just creating something for the sake of on-trend aesthetics.

You’ve mentioned that your previous work also dealt with social issues. What is the creative process for you as a director to take a relevant social problem and develop a story full of comedy and satire?

My design degree often felt more like a crash course in advertising, and paired with years of writing quick-turnaround TV promos at MTV, it really honed my ability to make complex ideas feel accessible, usually with irreverent humour, quick wit or visual gags doing the heavy lifting. The idea of “form follows function” stuck with me, and I’ve always aimed to create work that has something to say, not just creating something for the sake of on-trend aesthetics. When I tackle social issues, I lean into satire and tongue-in-cheek humour, even if that means being a little on-the-nose to make the point land. I’m not an Oxford-trained writer with family contacts; I was state-schooled, from a council house in a regional town, raised on a mix of comedy across TV and film. That upbringing gave me a taste for humour with broad appeal, and I’ve always believed that even the silliest stories could say something meaningful.

How did you adjust to creating this as your debut short film?

A few of my early music videos were essentially silent films; ambitious, multi-location shoots with layered narratives and performance-led storytelling, all on tight budgets. At MTV, I also wrote and directed TVCs that often felt like short-form comedy sketches. That mix of DIY filmmaking and structured broadcast experience gave me solid training in resourcefulness, cross-department collaboration, visual storytelling and comic timing. Looking back, I’m glad I waited so long to make my first short. I feel I came to it with more experience, a stronger creative voice, and a clearer sense of what I wanted to say.

In pre-production, I was lucky to be able to pause freelance work and fully commit to the project. I’m meticulous by nature and have always taken “fail to prepare, prepare to fail” to heart. With such a specific visual language and a high volume of setups, I storyboarded every shot and mapped out blocking in advance. It meant we could solve problems early, leave room for new ideas on set, and let the performances breathe.

Victory To The Mimers is an ode to classic British mining strike films. It touches on the same themes but takes an entirely different approach. Was this an instant amendment for you? How did the twist develop?

The parallels with the Strikes became clear to me early on, and I knew I wanted to lean into those references in a way that felt affectionate rather than heavy-handed or pastiche. There’s something unmistakably warm and quintessentially British about films like Billy Elliot and Brassed Off, and I hoped that by playfully nodding to their tone and style, our film might subtly tap into that legacy, allowing the political twist to land in a more natural, even subconscious way. I also didn’t want the film to feel overly modern. I’ve always been drawn to more nostalgic visual styles, and this project felt like the perfect opportunity to explore that in a way that supported the story first and foremost.

The cast’s ‘play it straight’ performances really makes the comedy effective throughout.

When it came to performances, my aim was to play everything completely straight. The premise is already quite absurd, so it felt much funnier to ground it in sincerity, to have characters who take their world entirely seriously. The comedy hits harder when no one in the film is in on the joke. I never wanted things to feel over-the-top or deliberately ‘silly’. In this universe, being a ‘Mimer’ is a legitimate trade, an art form they’ve spent decades fighting to preserve. For them, every gesture, every tiny detail, carries meaning. Even something as ridiculous as miming a horse ride in the Grand National is performed with full conviction.

Deepening the family dynamics made the story feel more personal and grounded. It gave emotional weight to an otherwise surreal premise.

In regards to the actual plot of the film, there are strong family dynamics underpinning the political satire – between the father and daughter, and brother to brother – was this there from the beginning or did these develop through subsequent story revisions?

The original script featured the two estranged brothers, but I was keen to expand on their relationship, particularly the reasons behind their falling out and the circumstances that bring them back together. Harriet, Ernie’s daughter, was a new addition. I wanted to introduce a younger voice and offer a different perspective on the strike. She represents generational friction and what it means for a child to be expected to follow in their parents’ footsteps without question. Deepening the family dynamics made the story feel more personal and grounded. It gave emotional weight to an otherwise surreal premise and, I hope, helped raise the stakes in a way that audiences can connect with the film.

I think aesthetically that Victory To The Mimers works so well. You’ve nailed replicating working class England, but at the same time created a delightfully absurd fictional version. What were some of the creative choices you made to achieve this?

The visual style grew from my influences and my preference for gritty, lived-in imagery. Something more retro than polished. Coming from a working-class background, I’ve always felt disconnected from portrayals that fetishize working-class life. Too often, it’s reduced to shallow, clichéd tropes. I wanted to show a humble lifestyle honestly, without pity or negativity. The cinematography played a key role in shaping the film’s surreal world. I aimed for visuals that felt slightly uncanny, recognisable but subtly off. Static frames, planimetric angles, and symmetry combined with our stylised art direction and costumes to create a grounded yet surreal atmosphere.

Locations were also crucial. I avoided sleek, modern spaces in favour of real, familiar settings like the family’s mid-century bungalow, the community hall, and the 1970s coach the Mimers use. Finding locations that fit the vision and worked practically was a challenge, but those constraints ultimately reinforced the authenticity we were going for.

I aimed for visuals that felt slightly uncanny, recognisable but subtly off. Static frames, planimetric angles, and symmetry combined with our stylised art direction and costumes to create a grounded yet surreal atmosphere.

We’ve briefly discussed how the mimers theme and theatrical nature of your short transcends the storyline. How did you integrate these concepts into the visual aspects of the film?

Traditional depictions of Pierrot and mimes often use a classic palette of white, black, and red. We tried to incorporate these colours throughout the film, whether in set dressing, props, costumes, or background details. I wanted the world to feel tangible despite its surreal premise, and the art department played a big part in this. We added subtle Easter eggs, like mime props, family photos, fake posters, awards, and certificates, to hint at the characters’ histories and the world they live in. Theatre also influenced our decision to shoot in a 4:3 aspect ratio. It emphasised the uncanny tone and framed the action as though it were unfolding on a stage, especially with the static shots. The aspect ratio was also a quiet nod to the silent film era, which shares some similarities with the mime tradition.

The two brothers’ final miming routine is an impressive climax to the film and a cathartic resolution of their relationship. Could you talk us through the process of developing the choreography and working with your actors to achieve it?

This sequence was a lot of fun to work on! While the final performance was always scripted, I wasn’t sure how we’d pull it off until later in the process. Fortunately, we brought on mime consultant Richard Knight, whose expertise helped bring it to life. We held a workshop with our lead actors, Steve Furst and Lee Ingleby, where they received basic mime training and we shaped the routine together. The challenge was balancing the brothers’ bond and the humour of the narrative while ensuring the movements felt achievable, authentic, and emotionally resonant.

Steve and Lee already knew each other, which worked to our advantage. Their energy and physicality allowed us to improvise on the day, whilst their natural chemistry shaped the action, adding much-needed spontaneity to the performance. We deliberately shot this scene towards the end, which allowed the emotional stakes to feel fully earned, also giving us a fun, heartfelt way to close out the story and the shoot.

The challenge was balancing the brothers’ bond and the humour of the narrative while ensuring the movements felt achievable, authentic, and emotionally resonant.

We would love to hear about any upcoming projects you have in the works.

I’ve written another short film, which is ready to go; it’s just a matter of figuring out the funding (classic). It’s a dark comedy about a desperate understudy who dreams of replacing an insufferable lead actor. The plot unfolds as a ridiculously silly revenge story, loosely riffing on Macbeth in a playful, meta way. If anyone wants to collaborate, particularly producers, I’d love to chat! I also just completed a feature film screenplay, a comedy thriller, which I’m really excited about. I’m awaiting industry feedback and plan to re-draft it before sending it to producers with the aim of directing it eventually.

Next up, I’m working on a Christmas comedy feature, a rom-com, and a few comedy sketches and TV sitcom pilots. Lots of ideas in the works, I’m just giving them the time they need to grow. My goal over the next year is to secure representation, whether it’s an agent, manager, or rep, for both directing and writing. I feel ready to elevate my work to the next level and build long-term industry relationships to bring these projects to life.

In her unflinching short film Watering Hole, writer/director Eva Blackwell-Rogelj transforms the sticky floors, dim lights and lecherous men of UK pub culture into a visceral exploration of female adolescence. Scribbled observations evolved into a nuanced examination of how young women navigate the treacherous waters of objectification and seduction whilst keeping a grip on their autonomy. The narrative backbone of Watering Hole comes from a fascinating character construction of two protagonists with contrasting perspectives, one who embraces the performance of seduction as empowerment and another who rejects it entirely. Blackwell-Rogelj examines the internal conflicts many women experience and most certainly recognise, and Watering Hole is an assured vision from a female filmmaker determined to dive deep into the opaquely murky waters of female sexuality. Accompanying today’s premiere on Directors Notes, we spoke to Blackwell-Rogelj about balancing the opposing perceptions of her young protagonists, emulating that giddy joy of a night out in her lighting and grade, and the challenges of shooting nightlife scenes amongst the rowdy pub goers of North London.

Watering Hole draws heavily from real experiences shared between you and your friends. How did you navigate turning these communal memories into a cohesive narrative while preserving their authentic emotional texture?

When working in pubs, I became transfixed by the sober exhibit of sexual uncertainty and sloppy subtext. As I watched regulars attempt to flirt with girls half their age I’d catch girls accepting drinks and turning to each other with downturned smiles. Even though I felt pity for the men, I completely understood the girls’ crave to take control of their objectification. It took me back so viscerally to the excitement and savagery of first going out as a girl and that omnipotent feeling of getting whatever you want. Understanding the exchange of drinks as such a microcosm of gendered power dynamics and performance in the modern world, I wrote a poem from the girls’ perspective and nurtured it into an experimental microshort Hyena using my camcorder archives. This birthed the narrative for Watering Hole.

I have these little black journals that I take with me everywhere. I scribble, sketch and scrawl fleeting images, desperate to capture a stranger’s story, juxtaposing visuals or girly memories from my past. When constructing the narrative, I flicked through drawings from communal memories between me and my mates and selected the strongest, then slowly compressed them into a structured narrative. A man leaving a voice note, furious you didn’t go home with him, saving money on drinks by nominating a mate to flirt herself off, a night out ruined because a mate won’t stop checking her phone for a boyfriend’s text, the taxi driver nightmare. Once I established the two protagonists with contrasting backstories and goals, I decorated their dialogue with the smaller moments I found. Doing your makeup on the bus after crying, blurting out trauma to a mate with manic laughter. I think a lot of the authenticity comes from these little moments. It’s all a concoction of communal memories from our female adolescence in the trial by fire to navigate UK nightlife.

I’m fascinated by the juxtaposition of them going out to reclaim their power but looking for men to buy drinks and the whole push and pull of being young and wanting the attention, but it getting too much.

When looking at my writing in prep for the shoot, I began to separate the two girls very obviously when I realised they mirrored each other as a kind of split psyche of the female brain. Liv’s dramatic enactment in her seduction is constantly shadowed by Ana’s disgust at her friend’s manic performance. As Ana watches Liv, to me, it emulates the split of one’s own consciousness rolling its eyes at your inauthenticity. I can trace this feeling back to my reading of Irigarayian philosophy where she frames the mirror as a polemical weapon of seduction that splits the female psyche between herself and another who will walk forward as a weapon of seduction in her place. Hence the intense use of the camera as a mirror in the toilet scenes.

It’s with the very different physical intrusions of two men onto the girls that smashes them out of their rigid ideologies.

When I understood my script in this way it was easy for me to balance the opposing perceptions prevalent in young girls by assigning the characters deeply contrasting morals. Liv celebrates her performance of seduction as a reclaiming of her power, framing her stealing from men as a proxy revenge for all the pain men have caused her. Ana doesn’t care for the attention of men and craves the love of her boyfriend. She just wants a mate to talk to and dismisses Liv’s manic slips of suffering because she’s never experienced sexual trauma herself. Then it’s with the very different physical intrusions of two men onto the girls that smashes them out of their rigid ideologies, exposing them to the perception of the other.

How did you move into production once the idea was locked?

From the initial concept and first draft, pre-production took about a year, mainly because my DOP Ravi Doubleday and I were both working different assistant jobs on TV shows. In that time, I just kept trying to get people on board and asking for script feedback from young girls and older men I was working with in the industry. We applied to different short film funds but managed to fundraise £5000 on Kickstarter – that was mental. It was also so interesting because lots of our backers reached out to me with completely different stances on girls stealing free drinks. Older men were saying these women need to be outed and girls were commenting things like “lol so me”. Then we shot it in my old local The Prince Edward who let us shoot for free as long as we came in past closing. We did a rough three night shoot in the depths of December, with days split between outside and inside scenes (7pm-6am). All the crew of about 30 worked on it for free (except the actors) and I genuinely couldn’t believe they all stuck around.

I’m fascinated by the feedback you were getting from backers as you were raising the funds. Did any of that affect or alter the approach you took and how did you feel hearing this, as you knew what you wanted to say with the film?

I was thrilled with the feedback when fundraising. The initial display of media discourse where women were tagging their friends saying “us” and men were celebrating “finally” the exposure of manipulative women told me I was onto something. I was excited to expose, to both sides, the futility of this proxy revenge and the humanity of these men.

I was unsettled by the constant reminders of female sexualisation.

It was only when I got to the shoot that my mind was slightly changed. There were some horrible moments of sexism from older men (pubgoers we used as extras on set) who were referring to the actresses as ‘the sluts’. Even the man at the end turning to stare at Liv – he wasn’t an extra – he was just a random man checking her out! While this added incredibly to the film’s exposure of gendered power dynamics, I was unsettled by the constant reminders of female sexualisation. And I felt a deep responsibility for the actresses and by this point, even their characters. Because of this, for the rest of the shoot and the edit, I decided to focus more deeply on the girls than previously prepared for. It became a story to expose men to women’s realities and validate women with the complexities of objectification.

Peter York’s performance as Ant leans so perfectly into the norms of a creepy man, out hoping to pull.

With a craving to delve the viewer into Liv and Ana’s perspectives, I wanted Ant to become a sort of caricature, a concoction of the forward and assuming men whose advances decorated those memories of my adolescence. Both his boldness and his cluelessness were essential in injecting snippets of comedy into the film and in heightening the status of the girls as they cackle behind his back. It was important for me that he lacked any sense of seduction that could send the girls off track. The girls see him purely as their prey and that’s what’s so tragic.

We worked together to bring out a sort of hyper performance that Ant leans on to hide his class struggle and loneliness.

I met Peter York on a Gordon Ramsay commercial we were both working on (he was Gordon’s stand-in). We connected well on set and he had this great London accent. I chose him for the role and we worked together to bring out a sort of hyper performance that Ant leans on to hide his class struggle and loneliness. Of course, he’s sitting in the pub waiting for someone to speak to – he’s all alone up in a new city grafting to send money to his kid. And when these two lively girls turn up, he can’t believe his luck and falls into this hyper masculine dance only to make a fool out of himself.

How did you work with Ravi to visually capture the duality of the magic of the pub, but also the sad, uncomfortable undertone we all know?

The pub setting always excited me. Sticky tables, deep red carpets, open crisp packets that look like treasure. As a teenage girl, entering an old man’s pub felt like this magical unknown kingdom. But then you’d get stared at and suddenly feel naked under the bright, sweaty lights. I always knew I wanted it to be handheld so it feels like we’re going on the night out with the girls. Ravi did an incredible job with an Arri and a stabiliser, moving to the rhythm of the scene and really keeping up that energy of the constantly moving night out.

In terms of colour, my lighting and grade references consisted of flash rave photos captured on disposable cameras I’d collected from me and my mates. I wanted to emulate the bright, energetic snapshots, high contrast and vibrant colours of an ephemeral night out tainted with a tipsy joy. The pool table scenes really lean into that vibrant digital magicism, whereas when the girls first enter, Ravi kept it slightly softer to evoke the awkward adjusting phase of feeling suddenly watched. When the girls finally split up and Liv starts coming down to the tour of Ant’s camera roll, we had the lights bright and harsh to evoke that sudden urgency and exposure to reality – the sickening realisation of potential danger as a girl is left out on her own.

I wanted to emulate the bright energetic snapshots, high contrast and vibrant colours of an ephemeral night out tainted with a tipsy joy.

I’d say a lot of the uncomfortable undertone comes from the stark lighting and exposing composition of the toilet scenes. As the secret sacred female space where we get to hear what the girls really think, we wanted the toilet scenes to feel bright, exposing the girls stripped from their shyness and seduction. While it starts off pink and cuddly with fur coats and shared lipgloss, as the girls prepare to go their separate ways the mirror scenes feel awkward, claustrophobic, cold and sweaty. What really helped with this was the tension in the performance due to our obligation to get each scene in one shot. Cheated in a mate’s bathroom, we had no cutaway options. No shots of the girls sat in cubicles, the sink, the non-existent mirror. So getting the timing right was difficult but by the final toilet scene, this really added to the jagged awkwardness of their clashing views.

The images in the taxi are haunting and incredibly tense. What approach did you take to fully capture the horror of the situation, even though we don’t see anything?

Ravi and I had a long think about lights and darks and what’s seen and not seen. From a perspective point of view, not seeing what’s coming makes sense as Ana is asleep. But, without being too conspicuous, I wanted to slowly build that tension as we rolled towards the film’s climax. The sound design helped massively here. I wanted to elevate the natural sounds of the moving car with an escalating rhythm. We played with the churning wheels of the car, distorting it into this monotonous, eerie swirling. Paired with the strokes of streetlights gliding across her body as an allusion to the taxi driver’s glared scheming, I wanted the visuals and sound to subtly imply a future of assault whilst also being easily shrugged off as Ana’s nauseating holding down of sick as the taxi bumps along. In a desire not to lead the audience, it’s interesting to see different expectations of this part. I’ve had a lot of women saying they saw it coming as soon as she got in the cab, and a lot of men feeling like it came out of nowhere. Story-wise, it really does just slap you in the face when you least expect it. But, tragically, that is often reality.

So much of the power relies on the pacing.

I’m quite particular about pace, maybe because I’m so used to editing my own microshorts. A lot of our tweaks were almost frame by frame. It was important to play around to find the rhythm between the scenes to keep that nightlife energy high. The greatest challenge in post was editing around the pub sounds. By the second and third night shoot we had to flip our planned hours and shoot in the pub 7-12, then shoot outside for the rest of the night. That meant pub goers were specifically North London locals. In what was meant to feel like Manchester that was difficult to work around. Especially when every time we called action, people on the other side of the pub would cheers! It was tragically hilarious in the most stressful three nights of my life. If you crank the volume up I’m sure you’ll hear this gorgeous cockney girl begging our actor (the bartender) three times for a “tequila rose”!

By psychologically flipping the narrative, there’s a particular manic craving to take as much as we can almost as a compensation.

Why did you, as a female filmmaker, find yourself drawn to these stories and why are they also important to tell?

I wrote this story to expose the trauma behind Liv’s thieving ideology. Whether it’s being groped or attacked or shouted at, girls hold this constant awareness of their objectification. And I’m fascinated by the ways we counter this. There’s a specific hyper-performance to take control of one’s objectification and enjoy the perks that get handed to us in return for being objectified. By psychologically flipping the narrative, there’s a particular manic craving to take as much as we can almost as a compensation. But I’ve never found much investigation into the effects of this – whether it’s on the girl objectifying herself, the men being used or the friends cast aside feeling rejected. I wanted to investigate the traumatised psychology behind this particular seduction and the dangers of putting yourself into that situation. Yes, Liv succeeds in her attempt at a proxy revenge, but at what cost?

What are you working on next?

My next short Baba Yaga is a psychological digital thriller that blends together witchcraft and algorithms in a concoction of anti-ageing objectification and relationships in a world of echo chambers. We’re hoping to shoot in October of this year.

Joining the impressive roster of National Film and Television School (NFTS) students whose films have screened at Cannes and have also joined us on DN for interviews in recent years – including Killing Boris Johnson, Bunnyhood and Other Half – on the 21st of May Vida Skerk’s Ether will have its world premiere as part of Cannes’ La Cinef selection. Skerk stands unique with her nuanced and profoundly complex dive into fragile power dynamics, the subtle tremors of interpersonal tension and consent being the only NFTS first-year project to be accepted to the festival. Skerk approached her production with a clear comprehension of restrained filmmaking, where every frame is carefully calibrated to explore the complex psychological terrain between two characters through their faces, shifts in body language and carefully constructed negative spaces. Ether is a delicate dance of writing, performance and directorial vision, and Skerk navigates a challenging terrain between realism and her innate surrealist sensibilities, creating a short film that feels simultaneously intimate and unnerving. As she prepares for her Cannes premiere next week, we took some time with Skerk to talk about learning how to apply her directorial voice to a narrative she hadn’t written whilst respecting the writer’s script and intentions, needing to shoot a one hit wonder for a crucial scene as the very last shot of production and having her actors run down hills as emotional prep for a static dramatic exchange.

At what point did you become involved with the project and did you have any part in shaping the narrative as the script was written?

From the very start, Niky Pasolini’s treatment included the crucial elements of the story: its complexity, subtlety, and nuance. Both producer Dora Galosi and myself were involved in the writing process from the start. During this time, I tried my best to protect Niky’s voice and her intent, while also creating a directorial vision in my mind that stayed true to my own voice. It can be quite overwhelming to get so many differing notes from different people during the development stage, and you can get lost along the way. What helped in making sure we didn’t lose a sense of direction was that all three of us had a clear common vision from the start of what we emotionally wanted to convey. Niky is a great writer, and we trusted her voice – she delivered majestically. This film is not really the type of film I usually make. I mostly make surreal, eerie films that leave realism behind. So this was an interesting challenge for me – finding a way to express my instinctual eeriness within a script that is rooted in realism.

This is a wholly absorbing yet highly sensitive topic conveyed with a powerful subtlety. How did you go about leaning into the right direction across the various components of the production to facilitate that?

Subtlety came quite naturally; it was something everyone on the team, and the actors, felt was at the core of the film, because it was so clearly dictated by the script. I chose a restrained directing style that foregrounds the actors’ performances and enhances them with an overall sense of unease in the atmosphere, or should I say, in the ether. The actors brought this vision to life with extraordinary nuance. Intentional and precise simplicity was needed to keep the focus on the relationship. And when you notice a shift in the camerawork, because everything is so subtle, you know it’s intentional, and you know it’s signalling something important.

Even minute facial movements needed to be read as important shifts in their dynamic.

I knew that I had to leave room for moments of silent tension. My DOP Adenike Oke and I were not afraid of close-ups when they were needed, as even minute facial movements needed to be read as important shifts in their dynamic. We also wanted to accentuate the claustrophobia that the main character starts to feel as the film progresses – and there’s nowhere you can escape when you’re in a close-up.

What motivated your choice for shooting on 16mm and how do you feel the textural qualities of celluloid enhanced the story’s exploration of intimacy and claustrophobia?

Shooting this on 16mm film was a requirement for the First-Year-Film module at the NFTS. But I think this fits the story perfectly. The texture of 16mm film, with its specific graininess and the presence of small mistakes that film inherently has helps to put us in the main character’s headspace. Her vision of the relationship and her view of the world are muddied and uncertain, so why would the audience see this story in a perfectly clear, super sharp, digital 6K image? Her world is messy, and the texture of 16mm film to me has a beautiful, material, human messiness to it as well.

Tell us about casting, building the chemistry between your actors and ensuring you kept true to the delicate balance of power between them, which is almost like a dance.

Our casting director was Jonny Boutwood, and he fully understood what kind of actors we were looking for. He found Billy Bolt for us, and when I saw him auditioning, I knew he’d be the right fit. There was a jitteriness to his performance that I think is crucial to his character. He showed a great ability to hide the character’s feelings under layers of defensiveness – yet you can still feel the insecurity looming underneath. In real life, he’s the loveliest person, I have to say! And so is Laura Kaliger! I’ve known her since my BA studies in Croatia. We both studied at the Academy of Dramatic Art in Zagreb, and I knew she had since moved to London. We hadn’t worked together before, but I remembered her incredible ability to play subtly while keeping the audience engaged. Something in her acting makes her stand out as incredibly authentic and makes me empathize with her so much every time I see her on screen. She has a potent delicacy to her demeanour that makes her the perfect choice for this role.

We had one day of rehearsals before the shoot, and on set, we spent as much time as possible rehearsing. The AD team took great care of the actors and made sure to give us ample time to rehearse. George Graham, Fallon Parker, Tessa Hemmings, and Lily Bennett – ADs are the backbone of any shoot, and these guys deserve all the praise! Having an intimacy coordinator during the rehearsal and on set was also crucial. Stella Moss was our main IC, with Alexandra Healy also jumping on board. They created a safe working environment for everyone involved. During the rehearsals, Stella introduced amazing improv exercises that helped the actors get comfortable in each other’s proximity, and all four of us created the choreography of the more intimate scenes together.

Back home in Croatia I was heavily involved in the movement against sexual harassment and violence within the film industry and academic circles. So themes like consent and power imbalances have been occupying my mind for a long time – I’m grateful I was given the chance to explore them in a film. It felt cathartic, in a way.

You mention that Ether diverges from your usual surrealist style. How did you balance your natural inclination toward the surreal with the realism demanded by the script?

In the beginning, I set out to make a fully realistic film as Niky wrote it. It’s an exceptionally strong script for which I had the utmost respect, so I was obsessed with honoring it and doing it justice. At first, I wrongly thought that meant I largely had to leave my surrealist tendencies and sensibilities behind. But then I realized that directing someone else’s script doesn’t mean you have to suppress your own voice. Instead, it’s about finding a way to include both Niky’s and my creative authorship. You have to do both: respect the script and its writer, and your own voice, too. That’s what filmmaking is, in the end – it’s never one person’s film, it’s a collaborative art form at its core. It’s about making something together and making sure every collaborator sees themselves in the film. I think Niky and I had a great collaboration because we both respected each other’s voices. Maria Luiza Munhoz, the editor, was also crucial in capturing this eerie essence – our collaboration often focused on how to make the eeriness shine through without losing focus on the relationship.

I realized that directing someone else’s script doesn’t mean you have to suppress your own voice.

Directing is about interpreting a text, not just recreating it. As a director, your perspective on life and the world around you inevitably influences everything you do. I think my experience of being alive often feels anxious and eerie to the point of feeling surreal, and I can’t direct differently from how I see the world. So my sense of the eerie bled into the film naturally and inevitably, and there were definitely points in the script that allowed it to happen and invited the surrealist elements into it.

For me, a major shift comes through at the 8-minute mark when she is peeling the apple and states, “I want to go to the lake” you really hone in more on their faces and those aforementioned minute facial movements.

I’m glad you caught that! We thought a lot about how, for that scene, the shots need to stay simple, yet a shift must be perceived. There’s a shift of the negative space in their respective shots at a crucial turning point of the scene. Laura’s crucial close-up in that scene was, due to circumstances beyond my control, the last thing we shot. I mean it – the last, last thing. It was the end of the last shoot day. We were running out of time. The sun was setting, and in a forest, you lose light even quicker. We also barely had any film left – possibly not even enough to run the whole take. She had to do a one-hit wonder. We started rolling, it was going nicely, but my knees were trembling. I was focused on the performance, but, meanwhile, so I’ve been told, everyone around me was giving me looks, trying to send me signals to call cut, stress-sweating as they were looking at the numbers on the counter, dramatically running out of film.

Laura managed to act it all out, without feeling rushed, nailing all the beats in the right tempo. When I finally called cut, we literally had only ONE FRAME left. I should’ve asked for that one frame. I should’ve framed it somewhere. I had promised Dora, the producer, that we would not be using any ’emergency rolls’ we’d have to beg the school for if we ran into trouble. I am glad we delivered on that promise. We shot this film on 8 rolls of film – or should I say: 8 rolls, minus one frame. I don’t know why, but when I realised we shot the film exactly in what was given to us – with one frame left, I think that was one of the proudest moments of my life. I know it’s stupid, but I was euphoric. We used all the resources we were given until the very last frame. That is something that everyone on the crew deserves praise for. I’d like to specifically praise Gabrielle Scobie, our 1st AC. I imagine being the focus-puller when shooting on limited rolls of film must have been quite stressful, but she nailed it!

When I finally called cut, we literally had only ONE FRAME left. I should’ve asked for that one frame. I should’ve framed it somewhere.

What challenges did you face filming and editing the car scene, as he really leans into his toxicity, which is an incredibly powerful point in the film?

We did quite a lot of improv and explored different iterations of the scene, leaning into the playfulness that rehearsals can have. The first memory that comes to my mind is how we prepared for the climactic moment of the film, and the characters’ most difficult conversation. In it, Lee, the male character, explodes defensively, while Eva, the main character, tries to defend herself, but is incredibly hurt and vulnerable. She wants to escape. He’s not willing to let her go. I wanted the actors to feel that physically, before trapping them inside the car where the scene actually happens. We were shooting on a hill, so the actors and I stepped out of the car, and I made them rush down the hill, with him trying to catch up to her while they said their lines. They enacted physically what would then be, when actually shooting, expressed only in words. I think that helped. We discovered the true extent of that dramatic moment, which they then had to contain inside the car.

I’d love to know a bit more about the references you leaned into with Ade.

The conversations between Ade and myself centered around how to present the shifts in the characters’ dynamic in a visual way. We opted for a retrained style that keeps the actors’ performances in the forefront, yet subtly comments on the gear changes within the narrative. We also discussed how nature needs to feel like a third character in the film – so on set, it was important to stay present and observant of our surroundings and catch those interesting, fleeting moments that nature gifted to us. Ade had a great eye for spotting intriguing details in nature that fit the tone we were going for.

We discussed Luca Guadagnino’s and Sayombhu Mukdeeprom’s Call Me by Your Name and kept that as a reference for a subtle, yet effective and precise camera work that focuses on the relationship. The script and our vision for the film had a Romanticism feel to it, so we leaned into that. By Romanticism, I don’t mean joyously romantic but as in: Caspar-David-Friedrich-style, sublime romanticism, where humans feel intoxicated by nature’s overwhelming power over us. There are a few hints of that in the film, especially in a shot at the beginning of the film of Eva from behind as she looks at the lake. So is the shot of the lake on its own, and the details of nature that are crucial to the film’s eeriness. Ade had a great eye for those and was amazing at finding them on the spot, as you can’t plan ahead too much when it comes to what nature is going to look like on the day. There’s a bit of John Everett Millais in the film as well, but less elevated and more real. I had printed out an image of his Ophelia painting, and that was the first page of my working notebook for this film. I think that character is a bit like how the main character in our film feels. I think Laura Kaliger could play a great, strong Ophelia one day. I hope she gets to play that, and I hope I get to see it.

If I had to describe my experience so far at the NFTS in two words, it’s passionate determination.

We are continually impressed by the talent produced by the NFTS. Tell us about the process of forming your team and what studying there has taught you and influenced you as a filmmaker?

We got teamed up by the school for First-Year-Film. I am really glad with everyone who was on our team – you learn so much from your collaborators! I think the school is both helping me solidify who I am as a filmmaker and pushing me outside of my comfort zone, which is also useful, as it helps me discover what my voice is like when put in a different context. A lot of people, including myself, have sacrificed a lot to be here – so I think it makes us all try as hard as we can and make the best out of every opportunity. If I had to describe my experience so far at the NFTS in two words, it’s passionate determination. We’re all doing our absolute best, and I think it shows.

It would be remiss of me to ask how you feel about screening at Cannes.

It’s a dream come true, of course – but also, a dream I never really dared to dream, out of fear I’d just end up being delusional. So it feels crazy, especially because it’s our First-Year-Film, and no First-Year-Film has ever been selected before. When they called me and told me the good news, I first thought it must be a scam. It took me months to accept that it was real and I think it still hasn’t fully hit me yet. It’ll probably fully hit me once I’m in Cannes – I hope I won’t suddenly faint on the red carpet.

And finally, what’s next for you?

Dora and I are currently developing our grad film. It’s a ghost story about a steel factory shutting down and how that impacts, realistically and supernaturally, the local community. We’re also thinking of extending it into a feature script. I am also finishing the post-production on another film I made at the school. This one is about how alienating it feels when you move abroad, taken to the extreme: it’s very uncanny and dreamy, and all the local people in the film are literally faceless. Luckily, I personally do see faces in the UK, and I am starting to feel at home in England. I’m actually enjoying it a lot. After I graduate, I strongly hope I’ll get to develop my career further in the UK, but I am also keen on keeping my eyes open for any opportunities back in the EU.

In the crumbling dreamscape of Blackpool’s forgotten glory, Olivier Richomme’s short Mush materialises as an unsettling hallucination, a surrealist meditation on monstrosity that transforms English seaside banality into something profoundly unnerving. Richomme’s vision deliberately fractures conventional narrative, creating a disorienting tapestry of sensory experiences which only pull us deeper into his protagonist’s fractured perception of reality. By structuring Mush as a series of disconnected vignettes rather than following narrative convention, Richomme’s snapshots of quintessential British seaside life create a viewing experience more akin to a dream, where meaning emerges from mood and feeling rather than plot. Mush offers no easy answers instead, it invites repeated viewings to unravel its disquietingly alluring tapestry. It creates a reality where the conventional tools of storytelling no longer apply, leaving viewers beautifully bewildered in its hypnotic wake. DN is delighted to premiere Mush today, and we invited Richomme to recall the first alluring draw he felt to the town which inspired his short, how he built an uneasy, mysterious, restless ambience without any direct violence or altercations and working with actor Bryony Miller, who masterfully embodies the captivating lead.

Blackpool isn’t necessarily somewhere that immediately strikes me as inspirational for such a dreamlike reverie.

The concept of the film took a fair amount of gestation before I ended up with something I was happy with. I knew I wanted to make a film in Blackpool from the start. There is something about this town that has attracted me from the moment I came to the UK, and the more I got under the skin of the city and the more people I met, the more I knew it was the perfect backdrop for an eerie and surreal film. I knew the locations I wanted to shoot before I knew what my story was. I’ve been walking up and down the Blackpool pier with a camera for years, taking portraits and chatting to people, and I have always felt this intense feeling, a mix of fascination and dread.

Everyone I met had a story to tell filled with nostalgia and pride but there is an inherent sadness and pain behind everyone’s eyes. So I drew on all that experience to come up with a story that conjured up my feelings about the place. And it’s this bittersweet, unsettled feeling that brought to life the idea of a confused monster, an unwilling beast, stuck in a seaside town, trying to fit in despite its lust for blood and flesh. I spent a lot of time with our location manager, Jacob Dowdle, knocking on doors and trying to get access to the locations we were looking for. There were so many stories around that, so many mad places stuck in time. Blackpool really is an incredible place when you start knocking on doors.

What came out of that time with people was often a surreal feeling of a place suspended in time, a kind of fevered dream full of loss and isolation.

How did your years of photography and conversations in the town shape the film and lead you to this surreal story?

I think there’s something fascinating about UK seaside towns. I was aware of Martin Parr’s book The Last Resort when I first came to this country, and was very quickly drawn to the small corners of the South Coast around Brighton and Margate. But when I moved up North and discovered Blackpool, it was a bit of a love at first sight kind of story. It’s the English version of Coney Island. A place with a glorious past that has fallen into decay. I think it’s also misunderstood as most people think it’s a bit of a shithole but it’s full of brilliantly mad characters with amazing stories to tell. Often about how good Blackpool used to be back in the day! What came out of that time with people was often a surreal feeling of a place suspended in time, a kind of fevered dream full of loss and isolation. And so I felt like placing a character that is lost and confused, a victim of its own dark and monstrous makeup, inside the surreal and dreamlike world of a nameless seaside town was the perfect mix.

What drew you to the more grotesque, horror-fuelled aspects of the story?

Once I knew that, I developed the character further into this runaway, man-eating sort of monster. But I’m much more interested in what isn’t said in this film. I have an idea of who my character is but I don’t really want to say too much, as I think the film’s intent is much more about its atmosphere and what the viewer makes of it.

How did you use the juxtaposition of the mundane (mountains of chips, an apprentice waiter listing breakfast choices) with the surreal to convey the desired unsettling feeling in your audience?

The drive for the whole film was to create unease and horror without any gore or violence, so each conversation is awkward and unresolved. And I used food as a tool to create grotesque moments that intentionally make the viewer feel queasy and uncomfortable. There’s also something about the perspective of the main character. To her, nothing of the real world makes sense. She’s trying to fit in but it’s all completely absurd to her. I wanted the freak to be the real world and not her, so choices of cast, locations, props, colours and tone were all an attempt to present the world through her eyes. Confusing, absurd, misunderstood.

Working closely with my cinematographer James Killeen to really craft a specific look to the film was also very important. We spent a long time in each location prior to the shoot trying to be as economical as possible with each shot and creating a very unique look for each scene.

What specific qualities did you see in Bryony Miller that convinced you she could embody this unique character?

I enlisted the help of an incredible casting director, Claire Bleasdale, who was instrumental in finding Bryony Miller as the central cast for the film. Bryony’s understanding of the character and her performance brought to life the subtleties I was looking for. The approach to storytelling is purposely mysterious and unclear but Bryony was able to tell a lot with very little and really captured the emotions I wanted to express. And beyond that, the rest of the cast was quite literally found around the streets of Blackpool which I was particularly keen to do. All the people I had met along the way had formed my impression of the place and I really wanted to bring that to the screen.

Because so much is left unsaid and there is almost no dialogue from her, it’s a much more visceral and physical performance.

Her character fascinates me – how did you direct her to convey complex emotions with sparse dialogue, no explicit storytelling and minimal movement?

I think Bryony understood the role from the start. She has an incredible presence and an ability to say a lot while doing very little. From our initial conversations I could see she understood the film deeply and while shooting, I really didn’t have to guide her very much at all. She brought her own version of the character and it completely matched what I wanted from her. Even when it meant eating copious amounts of dried-up cold chips or laying half naked on wet blocks of concrete in the freezing cold. Because so much is left unsaid and there is almost no dialogue from her, it’s a much more visceral and physical performance, and I’m unbelievably grateful to have been able to work with such a talented artist. It could be that her version of the character is different to mine but that really doesn’t matter to me.

Now we have to talk about that incredible dance scene, it’s so brilliant!

Thanks! Again, I can’t take too much credit for the dance. This was Bryony’s take on the character. The intention is that she’s trying to look normal, to do what humans do but also driven by emotions and feelings she doesn’t quite understand. So it needed to be awkward and uncertain and clumsy. I think she nailed it.

On that scene it’s worth mentioning Bobby’s dance too. I found Bobby in the streets of Blackpool and he mentioned he could be interested in joining. Then through all sorts of reasons, I lost his number. We had someone else in mind for the part who didn’t own a phone and was supposed to meet us in a pub that morning but he never showed. I then found Bobby’s number through some small miracle as we were about to shoot the scene. I called him and he was literally down the road. He thought it was a scam and that I was trying to con him into coming to this random Catholic club. But when he came in and saw all the lights and cameras and crew he realised it was all real. He had never been in front of a camera in his life and what you see on screen happened within half an hour of him arriving on set. He was thrown in at the deep end to say the least but I think the awkwardness and unease of his performance is absolutely perfect.

Did you have a particular approach to post production to hone in on the tone you had in mind?

Once it came to the edit, it became clear to me that I had to refrain from traditional storytelling and make the storyline as unclear and confused as our central character. So we ended up with something that’s almost suspended in time and a series of vignettes rather than a linear or logical storyline. It took a lot of stripping away and being rigorous in our approach to end up with something I was happy with.

We created the folly from scratch and this brought exactly the sort of surreal atmosphere I wanted.

The final touch was the sound design which was completely built from scratch and really pushed the surreal character of the piece and helped detach the story from any form of relatable reality. I worked closely and at length with sound designer Marco Battimelli to strike the right balance and create the perfect soundscape. Working with Marco came quite late in the process. I had the film fully cut but I felt that it lacked something and I didn’t quite have the atmosphere I wanted. So we created the folly from scratch and this brought exactly the sort of surreal atmosphere I wanted. Again, I wanted the horror and violence to be insinuated rather than in your face and the overall intention around sound design followed that philosophy. It was a real collaborative process and having Marco bring his own take on the atmosphere of the film really pushed it further.

I’m going to leave the ending for everyone to decipher but I would love to know about audience reactions during your festival run to this.

I think overall people were definitely perplexed and left with more questions than answers! And certainly a few gasps during the chip scene! I grew up with the films of David Lynch and Dario Argento and I think this film shouldn’t be read with the conventional tools of storytelling. It’s more of an experience borne out of moments that appeared in my head rather than the need to tell a specific story. I’ve always loved the quote of Steven Soderbergh at the start of Schizopolis where he walks on stage and says: “In the event that you find certain sequences or ideas confusing, please bear in mind that this is your fault, not ours. You will need to see this picture again and again until you understand everything.”

What can we expect next from you?

I’ve written a new film and am currently trying to bring it to life. It’s a much more narrative thing with sex and violence and isolation at its core, so it’ll be pretty dark! I’m really excited about it and will hopefully be shooting it in the coming weeks.

VERSUS are, as well as being so much more, a directorial duo comprising Tanya Babić and Jason Sukadana who excel in reconciling the conventions of high-concept, commercial visuals with the authenticity of modern-day narrative and whose work we’ve revelled in for years here at DN. Their latest dynamic boundary-breaking short, commissioned by the iconic Sydney Opera House, occupies precisely such an intersection. Oleum is neither traditional opera nor conventional cinema, but rather a bold experiment that extracts the emotional intensity of the former and filters it through the visual language of the latter. This three-act visual symphony doesn’t just re-imagine what opera might look like on screen, it questions what happens when Opera’s grandeur is transposed into the grittier, more universal corners of contemporary Sydney. Oleum plunges us into the city’s industrial underbelly, garage spaces bathed in harsh light, dreamlike transitions through liminal urban spaces, and the quiet intimacy of a neighbourhood café. Through these settings, the film presents a fated romance, a tragedy worth the label Opera. The film’s visual grammar evolves across its triptych structure, beginning with stylised violence rendered with breathtaking elegance, transitioning through fever dream abstraction before finally settling into raw emotional realism. Light is both weapon and balm, creating compositions where shadows and highlights become characters in their own right. By assembling a diverse collective of Sydney’s creative voices VERSUS honour opera’s tradition as a total artwork while simultaneously democratising it, with the resulting piece speaking to universal themes of isolation and connection through a distinct Sydney vernacular. Returning for another in-depth look into their collaborative filmmaking approach, VERSUS talk to us about keeping their narrative rooted in a real Sydney while invoking the rich history of the stage.

Your work celebrates Sydney in all its glory and nothing is more symbolic of the city than the Opera House.

We have been fortunate enough to work with the Sydney Opera House for close to 12 years and like any great relationship, it has continued to strengthen over time. Being given the opportunity to conceive a work that is both an homage to the city we love and to one of the most significant cultural institutions in the world has been a dream come true. The legacy of Opera is evident in the House’s title but Opera is largely inaccessible to contemporary audiences for myriad reasons. We wanted to bring Opera, or at least the essence of Opera, to new audiences in a bold reimagining of the art form for screen.

Opera is typically a total work of art. There is a creative symbiosis at play which is what makes it such a remarkable art form. Similarly, film is one of the most genuine expressions of creative collaboration. This project is as much about the creatives involved as it is about the output. Sydney is woven into the fabric of this very special project. A Sydney Opera, Oleum, is a love letter to our city and the creatives which form its beating heart. Oleum reflects our commitment to crafting high-concept, culturally relevant and enduring work – and to highlighting a breadth of new perspectives.

There must be so much trust built over such an established relationship. How much creative freedom did you have for this project?

We were lucky enough to be given a somewhat open brief by the Opera House to create something for their new screen program. When the Opera House was first built, it had a cinema inside, and after many years of that space being repurposed as another stage, they have recently brought back the cinema. We were offered the opportunity to create something new and challenging for the screen program, and we came up with the idea of A Sydney Opera. A film work that at once reframes the perception of Opera, and also global perceptions of Sydney. Opera is considered to be a Gesamtkunstwerk, or a total work of art. In that every creative role is of equal importance and spotlighted as such. We wanted to bring this concept to the film by pulling together our favourite artists and creatives in this city to all collaborate on the project. The performers, the composer, the wardrobe designers, the production designers, the cinematographer, etc., all being heroed in the film. So the curation of these artists was a huge part of the project.

We wanted to show another kind of Sydney story. Utilising the people and places of Sydney that international audiences aren’t often privy to.

Importantly, this is the first time an Opera House commission has been shot entirely outside the grounds of the famed building. Obviously, it is an incredible architectural marvel, so the opportunity to film there is always taken when available. But we wanted to show another kind of Sydney story. Utilising the people and places of Sydney that international audiences aren’t often privy to. We moved away from the harbour and the beaches and kept the story rooted in the kind of Sydney that many of us grew up in.

In crafting the narrative we wanted to maintain a level of experimentation, whilst also referencing traditional Operatic tropes. Hence the overt 3 act structure. The simple story of boy yearning for girl. The opening on high drama and violence. The odd side character encounters. But adding our twist to all of these concepts. The project took over a year from inception. But much of that was early stages of refining the concept and locking in our artists. Corin and Maina Doe collaborated to write the final song for a period so there was a sketch before filming began.

This is a lengthy piece from conception. How did your idea develop over that period and how did you distil the essence of an Opera and negotiate experimental storytelling within this classical framework?

We’ve always had a clear vision of what we wanted to achieve, grounded in an ethos of experimentation. Whether it influences what ultimately appears on screen or shapes our collaborative process, experimentation is central to how we craft our work. From the beginning, we saw the idea of reimagining opera for the screen as inherently experimental, not as a direct translation of the art form – but as an opportunity to rethink how its elements and tropes could be interpreted. It also challenged us to explore new, collaborative approaches with the diverse artists involved.

Opera is an art form more traditionally associated with grandeur and excess but you have used it as a lens to explore intimacy and disaffection in contemporary Sydney. Were you worried this might alienate some more conventional audiences?

We didn’t set out to alienate any lovers of opera – quite the opposite. We hoped it would make opera fans find something else to love about it, whilst engaging completely new audiences at the same time. But also, we were absolutely intent on subverting certain aspects of opera and the idea of a Sydney Opera felt like an opportunity to reframe both the art form and the city itself through a fresh lens. It was important to us to tell an opera story rooted in working-class experiences, not to exclude traditional opera fans, but to include those who often feel excluded by the art form. At the same time, it gave us a chance to showcase a side of Sydney that audiences, especially international ones, rarely see. Portraying a Sydney far removed from the beaches and harbour has always been central to our work. Like in many global cities, some of the most compelling creatives come from migrant and working-class backgrounds, and we grounded both our story and our artist selection in that reality. It was a perspective that deeply resonated with all the artists involved.

We were absolutely intent on subverting certain aspects of opera and the idea of a Sydney Opera felt like an opportunity to reframe both the art form and the city itself through a fresh lens.

Your previous work, Latitudes and music videos for Party Dozen, both show an obvious love and passion for the multi-cultural and modern Sydney, and this shines exceptionally brightly in Oleum. Tell us about the curation of artists and who you know would be right, and how you approached them for such a non-traditional piece of work and then aligned them to a singular vision.

From a curatorial perspective, this project was a no-brainer. We had a clear sense of the kind of artists we wanted to involve, so we put together a list of our favourites, some we’d worked with before, others we simply admired from afar. Bringing people on board was surprisingly easy; everyone was genuinely excited about the concept and the collaborative process. Sydney can feel like a big city, but in creative circles, it often feels like a small town. So while we were focused on assembling incredibly talented artists, we also prioritised working with good people – those who bring positive energy to a project. Through past collaborations or trusted word of mouth, we knew everyone we invited was not only exceptionally talented but also a legend to work with, which made the close collaboration all the more rewarding.

The term Gesamtkunstwerk implies total artistic equality. How did you curate and balance the contributions of performers, composers, designers, and technicians to honour this ideal?

Explaining our collaborative process is difficult, perhaps because it feels so instinctive to us. As a director/creative duo, collaboration is at the core of everything we do – it’s second nature. This project unfolded very organically. Each artist was given the freedom to contribute as much or as little as they felt comfortable with, and that autonomy was fully respected. There was no hierarchy; the environment remained open, creative, and genuinely collaborative throughout. For us, this process was just as important as the final outcome, the film itself. We were interested in experimenting with the idea of a Gesamtkunstwerk – a total work of art – created through a process where every artist stood on equal footing.

The opening act in the garage, as well as being violent and panic-inducing, also looks like the set for a high-end car advert. Why did you want to open up such violence with a shine and modernity you wouldn’t expect?

We loved the idea of opening with violence and tension, as it felt like a direct and immediate reference to many operas we know and love. We also wanted to nod to the stage, so the art direction and performances incorporate classic stage tropes. At the same time, we aimed to keep the tone distinctly VERSUS, a blend of dark polish and a beautifully gritty aesthetic.

Through all of the acts you use light in its darkest, flashiest and most obtrusive form which creates shadows, highlights and hides dark corners. Did you need lots of equipment and extra lighting to build these atmospheres?

Yes, we had a crap tonne of gear! And we were fortunate to receive a lot of support from our gear partners at Panvision, who helped ensure we had everything we needed to bring our vision to life. We also had an incredible crew who were deeply invested in the project. Despite the micro budget, the commitment from everyone involved was immense. We worked closely with DOP Tyson Perkins from the very beginning, sharing and refining the vision together. We feel incredibly lucky to have had him on board for this very special project.

How did you work with long time collaborator Tyson Perkins, who essentially captured three films with three colour palettes but united by a shared language?

We’ve been fortunate to work with Tyson for many years now. Much like our directing partnership, we’ve developed a shorthand with him that makes collaboration seamless. It doesn’t take much for all of us to get on the same page. We all brought in a wealth of ideas and references. It was a process of distilling the vision together to create something we all truly wanted to bring to life. And that was a lot of fun!

Alongside the recurring references to cars and oil, the film serves as an allegory for how vast and disconnected Sydney is in so many ways.

The tone shifts dramatically in the third act as he enters the cafe; it is much more grounded and real compared to the previous fever dream, but you build up stunningly to Maina Doe’s voice and what feels like our mechanic’s swan song. Why this contrast to the first two acts?

We wanted the first two acts to feel as if they were unfolding in a death-induced fever dream or perhaps in a state of purgatory. The third act, however, is intentionally grounded in reality. It’s the first time we truly see how much our protagonist craves a simple moment of connection, and just how far out of reach that is for him. Alongside the recurring references to cars and oil, the film serves as an allegory for how vast and disconnected Sydney is in so many ways. By the time Kevin reaches the café in Act 3, he’s too late for that final, fleeting connection he’s been trying to attain. It needed to feel heavy, sad, and real. So Maina Doe’s aria transitions from soft, intimate humming to a cappella, gradually building into a fever dream-like sequence, mirroring the first two acts as Kevin begins to experience the throes of death.

Corin Ileto’s score is pure genius. How did you brief her to bridge operatic tradition with contemporary experimentation?

Yes, Corin Ileto is undeniably a genius. We’ve worked with her before and have long been huge fans of her groundbreaking work — there’s truly no one else making music like her. We chose Corin as the composer because her sound carries something inherently operatic, and we knew she’d find a way to reference traditional operatic tropes while completely subverting them to create something modern and extraordinary. And of course, she more than delivered. We absolutely love the score. The collaboration between Corin and Maina Doe was incredible — two artists from entirely different genres and backgrounds coming together to take an idea and turn it into something unique and deeply affecting. It was a beautiful thing to witness and be part of.

Oleum feels like a manifesto for collaborative art and challenges the institution to embrace more radical work. What do you hope its legacy will be, for Sydney’s creative community, for opera’s evolution or for future Sydney Opera House commissions

Sydney Opera House’s Stuart Buchanan, who commissioned Oleum, has long been a champion of radical and groundbreaking work. So we’re excited to see more work like Oleum created with and by SOH in future. And we’d love to continue creating more Sydney Operas, working with the incredible Sydney Opera House team to commission other film directors and creatives to make the concept their own. The possibilities feel endless, with countless opportunities to create remarkable films and foster unexpected collaborations. For us, directing the first iteration wasn’t about flexing, but about showing other creatives what’s possible. We hope that, if we get the chance to create more, they will surpass Oleum in scale and impact. Additionally, we want to encourage other institutions and commissioning bodies to recognise that there’s a strong appetite for experimental work like this. Sydney is home to a wealth of talented creatives, and it’s time for the city to embrace more opportunities like this one.

Can’t wait to find out what you are working on next.

We can’t wait to share some of our upcoming projects with you. We have some real bangers in the works. Thanks always for the support. We have a lot of love for the DN fam!