IFFR 2026

Ritual, Landscape and Emotional Cartography

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Itonje Søimer Guttormsen’s work exemplifies a filmmaking approach that blends experimental, ethnographic, and hybrid storytelling techniques, reflecting a curatorial interest in films as experiential encounters rather than traditional narratives. With Butterfly, she deepens her exploration of non-actors and ritualistic performance, positioning her within contemporary trends that prioritize sensory immersion and community engagement.

In conversation with Kinopear, Guttormsen reflects on authorship, funding risk, and the evolving relationship between filmmaker, community, and audience.

Milani Perera: Butterfly feels deeply intimate while resisting conventional narrative resolution. How did the film first take shape, and how does it connect to Gritt?

Itonje Søimer Guttormsen: The idea for Butterfly actually appeared during my final year at film school. The image of two sisters, their mother, and the island came to me very intuitively. I became particularly interested in the emotional contrasts between the sisters and how their relationship could reveal deeper psychological tensions.

However, I soon realised the project required more artistic and practical experience. That led me to develop Gritt, which took eleven years to complete. Although Butterfly was conceived first, Gritt fundamentally shaped how I later approached storytelling, especially my interest in working with real environments and real people.

Initially, Butterfly was entirely fictional. But when I travelled repeatedly to Gran Canaria and conducted fieldwork, I encountered spiritual communities and local practices that gradually transformed the film’s identity. The narrative evolved through lived observation rather than remaining purely constructed.

MP: Your films often blur fiction and documentary textures. What draws you toward working with real communities?

ISG: The emotional starting point was my own reflections on sisterhood. While the characters are fictional, sibling relationships often hold our earliest and most complex emotional negotiations.

Beyond that, I am deeply interested in entering unfamiliar environments, almost like an anthropological exploration. Gran Canaria fascinated me as a cultural meeting point, particularly as a destination strongly connected to Scandinavian migration and tourism.

The island carries layers of history — colonial traces, spiritual communities, and transient populations searching for reinvention. I wanted the film to capture how individuals attempt to construct a sense of belonging in spaces shaped by displacement and transformation.

MP: You integrate non-actors into carefully structured narrative arcs. How do you maintain authenticity without losing dramaturgical clarity?

ISG: The narrative structure was always clearly written. The character journeys and emotional trajectories were established before production began.

However, when I encountered people living on the island, their practices influenced how scenes unfolded. I avoided traditional scripts for non-actors. Instead, I explained the emotional purpose of each situation. When filming rituals, the practitioners performed genuine ceremonies, while the actors remained within their fictional framework.

Interestingly, the final film stays very close to the script, but the performances carry an unpredictability that creates emotional authenticity.

MP. The performances feel spontaneous yet emotionally precise. How did you guide actors through this hybrid process?

ISG: The actors understood their characters and the narrative structure thoroughly. They were aware of emotional intentions and dialogue direction, but were encouraged to respond organically to the environment.

Working alongside real communities introduced unpredictability, which helped actors remain emotionally present. That balance between preparation and openness became essential to maintaining both narrative cohesion and lived authenticity.

MP: Many festival programmers gravitate toward films that challenge form while maintaining emotional accessibility. Do you consider festival spectatorship when developing your projects?

ISG: Not consciously. My primary responsibility is to remain honest toward the film itself. I often describe my role as allowing the film to pass through me — protecting its integrity rather than shaping it around expectations.

Of course, I hope audiences connect with the work. I was genuinely surprised by where Butterfly premiered because I felt it existed between experimental and narrative traditions. I was grateful that festivals recognised that in-between space.

MP: Financing formally unconventional cinema often requires strong producer alliances. How did you navigate funding structures for Butterfly?

ISG: Norway currently has a strong institutional respect for arthouse cinema, largely due to filmmakers who expanded artistic boundaries over decades.

My producer was central to the process. She is extremely courageous and highly skilled in building international networks. While Butterfly is not overtly experimental, its narrative approach challenges conventional expectations, which can create hesitation among financiers.

Fortunately, Norwegian film culture still maintains a tradition of trusting directors with creative authority, and I am very grateful to work within that system.

MP: Did the budget scale introduce creative compromises compared to your earlier work?

ISG: Yes, inevitably. When a project involves larger funding structures, more voices enter the conversation. Some questioned the inclusion of spiritual elements or the use of non-professional performers.

As a director, maintaining a connection to your internal rhythm is crucial. At the same time, this film had a larger budget, which created a sense of responsibility toward the investment. I tried to ensure that any compromises strengthened audience accessibility without weakening the film’s emotional core.

MP: Your cinema has a distinct sensory and emotional signature. Do you foresee a stylistic shift in your upcoming work?

ISG: Every filmmaker evolves, but it is difficult to separate oneself from personal visual and emotional sensibilities. My future work will inevitably carry that foundation.

However, I feel my next project may explore a slightly different tonal direction — perhaps reflecting a more mature phase of my voice. It is still in a very early conceptual stage, more like an initial creative impulse rather than a fully formed narrative.

MP: From a filmmaker’s perspective, what curatorial risks do you hope festivals continue to embrace?

ISG: Festivals play a crucial role in protecting cinematic diversity. I hope they continue supporting films that are deeply personal and formally adventurous.

The most meaningful cinema often emerges from individual and unpredictable perspectives. Festivals should remain curious and courageous — allowing space for films that expand aesthetic and emotional boundaries.

With Butterfly, Guttormsen contributes to a growing body of contemporary cinema that resists binary categorisation between fiction and documentary, authorship and collaboration, narrative and experience. Her work reflects an emerging curatorial trend prioritising sensory immersion and ethnographic sensitivity over conventional dramaturgy.

Guttormsen’s filmmaking philosophy, rooted in fieldwork, trust, and emotional observation, exemplifies a shift toward authentic, community-based storytelling. Her work challenges traditional notions of authorship, favoring encounter and collaboration over imposed structure, aligning with current trends in experimental and documentary cinema that prioritize sensory immersion and ethnographic sensitivity.

For curators and programmers, her cinema exemplifies a broader shift toward films that operate as cultural dialogues rather than narrative objects, inviting audiences to inhabit environments rather than simply observe them.

POFF 2025, Tallinn Black Night Film Festival

Tallinn 2025 interview: Golshifteh Farahani – The Dragon Within

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When Golshifteh Farahani walks into a room, she carries with her more than fame. She carries the weight of an entire cinematic tradition, the still-burning fire of exile, and the quiet strength of a woman who has rebuilt herself in multiple countries, languages, and artistic worlds. PÖFF has welcomed its share of icons, but this year one of the brightest presences belonged to a woman in her forties — luminous, restless, and utterly alive.

Farahani remains one of world cinema’s most compelling figures — a performer shaped by exile, sharpened by experience, and sustained by an unyielding artistic hunger. In Oh, What Happy Days! she delivers a performance born from instinct rather than preparation, chaos rather than control — a rare reminder of what cinema can reveal when the actor steps aside and something deeper speaks through them.

Below is a conversation between Farahani and Milani Perera at the 29th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival — an intimate drift across memory, identity, exile, and the unpredictable alchemy of performance.

MP: This is your first visit to Tallinn, despite many invitations over the years. How did it feel coming to the festival at last?

GF: It felt like finally arriving in a place I was meant to visit years ago. I’ve been invited many times, but filmmaking always intervened. Being here now, walking through the festival atmosphere, feels like meeting a memory I never lived — something familiar yet completely new.

MP: Your upbringing was deeply artistic — a home of painters, actors, writers, musicians. How did this constellation shape the performer you became?

GF: In my family, art was not a profession. It was a way of existing. Being an artist was the highest expression of being human. Yet acting was the one thing they tried to protect me from. They knew its sacrifices, its uncertainties, and in Iran, its dangers. I was trained as a pianist and nearly moved to Vienna. But cinema found me early — when I was fourteen — and something irreversible happened. From that point on, film became my second language.

MP: Your first major award came at 14 — a historic moment. How did that recognition echo within your family?

GF: My parents were furious while I was shooting that film. My father wasn’t speaking to me; my mother was crying, convinced I would abandon music. But the night of the award changed everything. I remember Tehran covered in snow, my father and me running across a bridge toward the Opera House. For the first time, I saw pride break through his resistance. It was as if that moment revealed a truth to both of us — that cinema had claimed me, whether we had planned it or not.

MP: There’s a long-standing debate among cinephiles: do actors choose their roles, or do roles choose them? Where do you stand?

GF: I think it’s a dialogue between the two. When you look across an actor’s career, you often see a gravitational pull — certain themes that keep returning, as if the universe is handing them back in new forms. For me, after leaving Iran, I found myself drawn toward characters in states of emancipation, transformation, defiance. Later I stepped into warrior figures — women in combat, both literal and metaphorical. Now… I feel life pushing me toward comedy, toward a lighter rebellion. Perhaps that is the current the universe is sending back to me.

MP: You’ve spoken openly about your exile. For many artists, exile becomes both a wound and a studio. What did it become for you?

GF: Exile became a limb I lost — and a limb I learned to live without. When Ridley Scott cast me, sanctions stopped the contract, and suddenly I became a political suspect. My passport was taken. Interrogations, uncertainty, fear — it lasted months. Eventually I left. And exile… Exile is an invisible scar that becomes part of your identity. You become a handicapped soul — but handicapped souls can still become champions. Eighteen years later, I feel strangely at home everywhere. Perhaps that is the final shape of exile — to belong to the world as opposed to one place.

MP: Your new film Oh, What Happy Days! brought together actors from inside Iran and actors in exile — something nearly impossible. What drew you to this project?

GF: It felt like a call I couldn’t refuse. To stand on the same screen with compatriots inside Iran — after so many years away — was a gift. I didn’t even finish the script before filming. I was discovering the story as the camera rolled. At one point, something wild erupted — a dragon; a range of emotions I didn’t anticipate: laughter, rage, chaos, release. I struck the table so hard I injured my hands. But it felt honest, instinctive, necessary — like a truth coming out of hiding.

MP: Was this experience shaped by your collaboration with director Homayoun Ghanizadeh?

GF: Absolutely. Homayoun builds spaces that disarm the actor — spaces where ego, preparation, and control fall away. He wanted presence, not performance. Because of that, I could react without thinking, feel without shaping, fall without fear. He created the platform, and the dragon walked out.

MP: As programmers, we were struck by the film’s formal disorientation — its chaotic conversations, tonal fractures, sudden shifts. Yet that dissonance becomes the point. Do you see this as a step toward comedy for you?

GF: Comedy has always existed on the edge of tragedy. Perhaps after years of playing women in battle, it is time to laugh — not in dismissal, but in defiance. Sometimes laughter is the last honest weapon. If this film is a doorway into comedic work, I’m ready.

MP: Golshifteh, thank you for this conversation — and for the rawness and clarity you bring to cinema. Tallinn already feels different with you in it.

GF: Thank you. I feel the butterflies — and now I must run to the press conference!

As she rushed toward the waiting press conference, the energy she left in the room lingered: the sense that some artists do not merely act in films — they live entire histories within them.

(c) Photo copyright: Liis Reimann 

Originally appeared in The International Cinephile Society

POFF 2025, Tallinn Black Night Film Festival

Tallinn 2025 interview: Richard Hawkins & Sarah Cunningham

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On a quiet Tallinn afternoon, just hours after the world premiere of Think of England at the 29th Tallinn Black Nights Festival, I sat down with director Richard Hawkins and cinematographer Sarah Cunningham — a duo whose working chemistry is as vivid as the cinematic worlds they construct. The conversation unfolded like the film itself: brave, playful, and delightfully unpredictable.

MP: Before we get to the premiere, Richard — how do you see yourself as a filmmaker, and as an individual?

RH: Honestly? Badly defined. But the truth is simpler: I’m an adventurer. As a person and as a filmmaker, I love adventures. I don’t think I can say it any better than that.

SC: And that’s not just talk. One of the first things Richard told me was, “Be brave.” Every morning, he reminded me — if there are two choices, take the brave one. That set the tone for everything we did.

MP: Sarah, what is it like to work with a director whose instinct is to “be brave”? How did that shape your own identity as a cinematographer?

SC: It was liberating — and energising. Filmmaking is full of pressure: money, time, a big machine around you constantly asking, “Are you sure?” Richard protected a space where instinct mattered more than fear. I’ve always had an adventurer’s core — moving to unfamiliar countries, throwing myself into unknown environments — but as a cinematographer, especially as a woman, you’re often expected to be the safe pair of hands. Working with Richard allowed that adventurousness to come forward again. It wasn’t him “giving” me freedom — it was a collaboration, a shared authorship. We built the film’s grammar together.

MP: Richard, you mentioned bravery. On set, what does bravery look like in practice?

RH: The default instinct in filmmaking is to defend. You think you’re there to protect money, time, and reputation. But real filmmaking is the opposite — you must attack. You have to stay on the offensive creatively. And that is exhausting, but that’s where the life of the film is.

MP: Let’s talk about your working relationship. How would you describe the director–cinematographer partnership on this film?

RH: A director may pretend his closest relationship is with the actors. But in truth, the closest relationship is with the cinematographer. It’s a double act — like tennis doubles. If the communication breaks, everything collapses.

SC: We met first thing in the morning, last thing at night. It really did feel like a battle at times — but the kind where your ally is right beside you, matching your energy. That connection kept the film alive.

MP: How did your creative process begin? How did you build the film’s visual language together?

SC: Funnily enough, we discovered we live seventeen minutes apart in rural England. We’d sit with pencil and paper, sketching camera plans. Watch a clip from a 1940s film. Take a walk. Return to the table, re-draw everything. Eat iced buns. Then repeat. It was wonderfully old-school — and it allowed the visual language to emerge through conversation rather than prescription.

RH: Exactly. None of this was about executing a predetermined plan. We didn’t know exactly where we’d end up. That uncertainty was part of the design.

MP: The film shifts between stiff, classical black-and-white and intimate handheld sequences in colour. Why did you choose this dual grammar?

SC: From the start, we held the option to “jump the line” — to cross from the technicians’ perspective into the actors’ inner world. When we crossed it, everything changed: the camera’s rhythm, its grammar, its emotional texture. In black and white, we used the formal stiffness of 1940s cinema. In colour, we leaned into handheld vulnerability.

RH: It’s everything film school tells you not to do. Hard cuts between aesthetic worlds. Sudden emotional displacement. It feels “incorrect.” But that jarring leap is the emotional truth of the moment.

MP: Sarah, the 1940s aesthetic is unusually authentic. Tell me about the lighting choices.

SC: I limited myself to only direct lighting — no soft lights. Cinematographers in the 1940s worked with tungsten lamps and shadows, not infinite correction tools. Modern cinematography fears shadows, but shadows give images depth. So I embraced them — front lighting, direct lighting, sculptural lighting. It was radical, restrictive, and incredibly exciting. I wanted to work with the bravery of that era, not recreate it politely.

RH: What Sarah created is a true homage — not nostalgia, not imitation, but a reinvention of that period grammar.

MP: Editing such a film must have been a battlefield. What happened in the edit suite?

RH: Our editor is brilliant — and horrified. A lot of our material simply didn’t fit his trained sense of “correct editing.” Entire sections he initially removed were, for us, essential. So the edit became a negotiation: his conventional logic versus our deliberate anarchy.

SC: Editors guard comprehension, but life is full of things we don’t fully comprehend. Some mystery, some disorientation — that’s where cinema breathes.

MP: Now, Richard — why this story? Where is your journey in this film?

RH: I was drawn to the idea of collective identity — people who paused their former lives and became something else temporarily. COVID made me think about that: how we all gave up our previous selves for a strange suspended moment. The war was similar. These characters all come from previous lives put on hold. So the film became a collective story, not a personal one.

MP: And what finally convinces you — both of you — that the film’s bravery holds together?

RH: Being lost is part of any adventure that matters. If everything is safe and predictable, you may as well take the bus.

SC: Exposure is where the art is. Once you strip away modern armour — the soft lights, the safe choices — you’re vulnerable. But that vulnerability is exactly what makes the film breathe.

Think of England emerges as a work of bravery, dualities, risk, and deep creative kinship — a film born from instinctive trust, formal disruption, and a shared commitment to stepping across cinematic lines. It is, in every sense, an adventure — one undertaken together.

Originally appeared in The International Cinephile Society.

(c) Image copyright: Erlend Štaub

POFF 2025, Tallinn Black Night Film Festival

Tallinn 2025 interview: Eeva Mägi (Mo Papa)

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Before the winners of the 29th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival were announced, I spoke with filmmaker Eeva Mägi, whose Mo Papa would later receive a Special Jury Mention. Even without knowing the result, it was clear her film came from a place beyond craft — a place of intuition, emotional instinct, and an almost bodily understanding of storytelling.

Mägi works with fragments, impulses, and sensations rather than strict design. She speaks of filmmaking as a shared emotional current, shaped in deep collaboration with her actor Jarmo Reha and her DoP Sten-Johan Lill, and guided by the mythic frameworks of Joseph Campbell. The result is cinema that feels lived rather than constructed — a film that breathes.

What follows is a conversation where Mägi’s reflections deepen the quiet emotional power of Mo Papa.

MP: Let’s begin with Mo Papa. What moved you to tell a story this personal, this emotionally exposed?

EM: I didn’t aim for bravery — just honesty. Some stories grow so insistently inside you that eventually they need form. Mo Papa came from fragments: emotions, gestures, memories that wouldn’t rest. When something shapes you deeply, you try to understand it — and cinema becomes the safest distance from which to do that. It allowed me to look without flinching.

MP: Your filmmaking is known for its observational sensitivity. How did your documentary background shape this film?

EM: The documentary teaches you how to listen — not superficially, but with full attention. It trains you to notice the breath before the sentence, the tension in a room, the weight of a silence. When I moved into fiction, I carried that training with me. I didn’t want to polish reality — I wanted to honour it. Mo Papa is fiction, yes, but made with a documentary heart: patient, attentive, open to the unexpected.

MP: You’ve spoken about intuition being central to your process. How did intuition guide this film?

EM: Intuition led everything. I don’t begin with structure or theory — I begin with a feeling in my body. Something precognitive. I sense the rhythm before I know the story. With Mo Papa, intuition guided me to the moments that mattered: where to hold a shot, when to move, when to withdraw. And my collaborators trusted that instinctual drive. That trust was essential.

MP: Your collaboration with the actor and cinematographer feels particularly intimate on screen. How did you build that dynamic?

EM: We created an environment where vulnerability was safe. The actors weren’t performing; they were allowing themselves to be seen. And the DoP wasn’t merely capturing an image — she was entering the emotional space with them. We followed each other’s impulses. Sometimes the camera moved because the actor’s breath shifted. Sometimes an actor reacted because the camera lingered. It was a loop of presence and responsiveness. That is why the film breathes — because we were breathing together.

MP: Your films often explore bodily memory, grief, and the weight of unspoken emotion. Do you see Mo Papa as a continuation of these themes?

EM: Yes. All my films ask the same question: what do we carry without knowing it? Trauma, love, silence — they settle into the body. In earlier works, I approached these themes through form, through hybrid techniques. With Mo Papa I came closer to the source. It is more direct, more exposed, but still driven by the same pulse.

MP: How do you navigate working with such personal material while maintaining artistic distance?

EM: By remembering that film is not therapy. It’s art. The emotions are real, but the moment they become cinema, they belong to something larger than myself. I shape them, but I don’t unload them. That distance prevents the work from becoming self-serving. Cinema needs generosity, not confession.

MP: You mentioned being inspired by Joseph Campbell. How did his ideas inform your creative process?

EM: Campbell helped me understand that personal stories can hold archetypal weight. That what feels intimate can resonate universally. When I was shaping the film, his ideas reminded me to follow the emotional truth rather than a narrative formula. The mythic structure wasn’t a blueprint — it was a reminder that our private wounds often mirror collective ones.

MP: Tallinn feels like an emotional landscape in the film, not just a backdrop. How do you see the city?

EM: Tallinn is layered — historically, emotionally. I filmed it the way I experience it: comforting one moment, wounding the next. Not the postcard version, but the lived one. In Mo Papa, the city becomes another presence in the family — holding what the characters cannot say.

MP: And after Mo Papa, where is your intuition leading you next?

EM: To two projects: Mo Amor and Mo Hunt. Mo Amor continues the emotional movement of Mo Papa — not as a sequel, but as another chapter in exploring identity, love, and the echoes of self. Mo Hunt goes deeper into darkness: a ballerina, a surrogate, a man in a crisis of faith. It’s psychological, visceral. Both projects scare me in different ways. And that’s why I need to make them.

Speaking with Eeva Mägi reveals a filmmaker who trusts her instincts more than convention, who builds cinema from breath, silence, and emotional presence. Mo Papa may have received its Special Jury Mention after this interview, but its power was already evident — a film assembled from fragments of truth, shaped through intuitive collaboration, and grounded in a rare emotional intelligence.

First Appeared in the International Cinephile Society

photo credit Sohvi Viik- Kalluste

POFF 2025, Tallinn Black Night Film Festival

Tallinn 2025 interview: Hugo Diego Garcia & Lorenzo Bentivoglio (Vache Folle)

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Milani Perera sat down with Hugo Diego Garcia and Lorenzo Bentivoglio at the 29th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, where their debut feature premiered in the festival’s “Rebels With a Cause” section. Only a few hours after that world premiere, Vache Folle travelled across the ocean for its Latin American premiere at the Mar del Plata International Film Festival, where it went on to win both the Astor Piazzolla Award for Best Actor and the Astor Piazzolla Special Jury Award — a remarkable feat for two self-taught outsiders who built their film from scratch.

What follows is a conversation with two debut directors who entered filmmaking not through institutions or permission, but through necessity. Hugo and Lorenzo are the kind of underdog artists who turn rejection into propulsion — filmmakers who rely on instinct rather than formal training, and who refuse to let industry walls define the scope of their imagination. Hugo and Lorenzo are not simply debut filmmakers; they are architects of their own cinematic language. With Vache Folle, they’ve announced themselves — loudly, defiantly — as rebels who refuse to wait for permission. The world is now watching. And they are just getting started. In this conversation, they revisit the beginnings of their creative partnership, the self-forged process behind the film, the making of their visceral protagonist Cédric, and what lies ahead for their cinematic universe.

MP: What first stirred the desire to become storytellers?

HG: Storytelling wasn’t a dream — it was refuge. I grew up in a village where filmmaking didn’t exist. My parents were in business and human resources. Cinema belonged to another universe. My brother and I watched films obsessively; we performed scenes, I drew manga. But we never imagined it as a profession. Later, I studied law, boxed, and tried my hand at theatre. Nothing aligned. The world kept saying “no,” so I learned to say “yes” to myself.

LB: I was like a child possessed by imagination — copying movies, reenacting battles. School wasn’t for me, acting school even less. I understood early on that I learn through experience, simply by doing something. So I filmed, I failed, I knew. Meeting Hugo sealed it — we recognised the same hunger.

MP: Without film school, how did you build your craft?

LB: Curiosity and survival. We shot scenes on cheap cameras. Edited for months. Devoured films. Observed people. Mistake after mistake — until the mistakes became style.

HG: When you have no money, you replace resources with instinct. We learned cinematography because no one else could shoot. We learned editing because no one else could cut. Everything we failed at became something we understood deeply.

MP: How did your partnership evolve into co-directing?

HG: I cast Lorenzo in a short about my father’s life. He wasn’t just acting — he was shaping the film. He saw angles that I didn’t. By the second short, he was doing cinematography and co-creating scenes with me. So when Vache Folle came, it was obvious — we should merge visions.

LB: Hugo is the origin and architecture. I am instinct and motion. I direct through emotion — through feeling the pulse of a scene. Together, we form the same heartbeat.

MP: How did you create Cédric — this beaten, tender, violent anti-hero?

HG: He’s a displaced version of me. Same age, same landscape, but pushed down harder by life. I borrowed my own mistakes and turned the volume up. We wanted a character shaped by love and violence at once — a poetic Rambo in a French realist world.

LB: I know Hugo. Working with him is like directing the part of myself I never speak about. Cédric came from that fusion — two emotional worlds merging into one man. He’s fragile and dangerous, innocent and flawed. He’s us.

MP: Why did you choose to make him a former soldier abandoned by the state?

HG: Because it’s a universal wound. A soldier is trained to serve — and then discarded. It’s not politics, but humanity. Someone built for intensity but returned to a world where intensity has no place. Narrative-wise, it creates stakes: trauma, competence, danger. Artistically, it anchors him in a tragic paradox.

LB: He’s a guy trying his best — but society moves too fast. He becomes a criminal because there’s no other road left open. That’s the real tragedy.

MP: Take me into the creation of the film. How did Vache Folle begin?

HG: COVID, a breakup, and no money. I moved from LA back to a mountain cabin with Lorenzo, my brother Malo, and our friend David. We trained like boxers during the day, created like possessed artists at night. I wrote the script fast — a month of pure emotion. One night, I asked: “Shall we make a feature?“, and they all said yes; the next morning, we bought a camera. That was our film school.

LB: We had nothing but desire. Out-of-focus frames, wrong lenses — we corrected, improved, and refined. We grew as the film grew.

MP: The edit took years. What finally brought the film to completion?

HG: We almost killed it, almost turned it into a music video. We almost abandoned it, but Lorenzo refused to surrender. Then, slowly, we found allies — mentors, producers, people who saw our raw cut and said, “There is cinema here. Don’t stop.” The editor of Titane, Jean-Christophe Bouzy, gave us crucial guidance. Suddenly, the film could breathe again.

MP: Where do you stand now, after this journey?

LB: Hugo builds the universe, I give it movement and heartbeat. I act, I shoot, I direct with him — it’s symbiosis.

HG: And Cédric is us. I wrote him from my contradictions; Lorenzo shaped him from his instincts. It’s collaboration at its most intimate.

MP: What comes next for you both?

HG: Even with awards, we remain outsiders. No agent, no distributor, no system behind us. But festivals opened a door. As actors, we have upcoming projects. Together, we co-produced a gritty police short directed by FGKO. And we’re developing our next feature — in the same universe as Vache Folle. Our goal now is to sharpen our signature — a blend of violence and tenderness, realism and myth.

LB: We’ll keep breaking rules. Keep filming. Keep fighting. This is only the beginning.

First appeared in the International Cinephile Society

Kalvory vary Film Festival, KIIFF 2025

Karlovy Vary 2025 review: Renovation (Gabrielė Urbonaitė)

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Its intelligent and captivating use of visual storytelling, along with nuanced performances, elevates it beyond a simple rom-com

Even the most meticulous plans can’t avoid life’s interjections. In Renovation, the title itself serves as a metaphor for the unexpected disruptions that can occur in life, much like a renovation that alters the familiar structure of a space. Gabrielė Urbonaitė’s debut feature, premiering in Karlovy Vary’s Proxima competition, is a charming yet incisive exploration of life’s unpredictable disruptions. What sets this film apart is Urbonaitė’s unique perspective on this universal theme, challenging conventional notions of control and self-discovery.

The film introduces us to Ilona (Žygimantė Elena Jakštaitė), a meticulous 29-year-old journalist whose life and career are equally meticulously charted. Her carefully curated existence in a new apartment, alongside her seemingly ideal partner Matas (Šarūnas Zenkevičius), is abruptly upended by the building’s unexpected renovation. What begins as an unwelcome disruption gradually evolves into an unforeseen connection with Oleg (Roman Lutskyi), one of the construction workers, who reveals a surprising depth of understanding. As the physical discomfort of her apartment’s transformation mounts, parallel cracks begin to appear in Ilona’s carefully constructed aspirations, forcing a reevaluation of her life’s trajectory.

Urbonaitė, in collaboration with production designer Sigita Jonaitytė, masterfully crafts a physical space that serves as a profound visual metaphor for Ilona’s internal landscape. The film opens with the protagonist’s impeccably organized, color-coordinated apartment, featuring a lone bonsai plant by the window. This window and bonsai tree subtly evolve into silent narrators of Ilona’s journey; much like the bonsai, her life is carefully controlled until circumstances compel her to relinquish that grip. The apartment’s renovation ceases to be mere background noise, instead becoming a visceral siren, echoing the internal fissures that demand attention and resolution within Ilona herself. While the narrative occasionally brushes against familiar romantic drama tropes – where a female protagonist finds liberation through a supportive male figure – Urbonaitė deftly maintains a grounded, humanistic realism. This commitment to authenticity ensures an ending that feels genuinely liberating, steering clear of the often narcissistic self-assurance typical of female leads in such narratives.

Cinematographer Vytautas Katkus, known for his work on Toxic and whose own feature debut The Visitor also premiered at Karlovy Vary, lends Renovation a distinctive visual language. Under his acute cinematic eye, Ilona is shown within the apartment’s spatial boundaries. The tight, almost claustrophobic framing emphasizes her perceived sense of control and, inversely, her mental stagnation. This visual imprisonment is powerfully broken only in the film’s culminating moments, as the character steps beyond her static, limited space into the liberating expanse of the outside world, mirroring her profound personal transformation.

Renovation ultimately shines as a compelling character study, presenting a narrative of forced introspection and growth. Its intelligent and captivating use of visual storytelling, along with nuanced performances, elevates it beyond a simple rom-com, inviting audiences to consider the liberating potential of life’s unexpected disturbances. It’s a promising debut that asserts Urbonaitė’s unique voice in contemporary Lithuanian cinema.

Busan International Festival

Without Permission ( Hassan Nazer, 2025)

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At the centre of Without Permission, Hassan Nazer’s quietly radical piece of docu-fiction that straddles protest and poetry, is an exiled Iranian filmmaker (Behrouz Sebt Rasoul), stripped of official approval, yet unwilling to relinquish the camera. With his assistant director (Setareh Fakhari) by his side, they drive the sun-scorched backroads of Iran that snake through rugged mountain terrain, capturing unsanctioned moments and unscripted lives. It’s part fiction, part vérité, held together by a filmmaker’s relentless desire to create despite censorship. But perhaps the most poignant voices come from children, wide-eyed, unfiltered, and disarmingly honest. In dimly lit underground rooms they speak of dreams, clothes they wish they could wear, friendships across gender lines, and their early, confused grasp of social restrictions. These interviews, captured with tender restraint by cinematographer Ali Mohammad Ghasemi, are the soul of the film. His use of backlight creates gentle halos around the young faces, visually echoing the vulnerability and fading innocence of growing up under surveillance.

However, while Without Permission breathes originality and urgency, it occasionally stumbles under the weight of homage. The film opens with a nod to Abbas Kiarostami – a revered name in Iranian and global cinema both. And while the comparison is understandable, it feels slightly forced. Nazer has already established his own voice with works like Winners (2022) and Utopia (2015). By invoking Kiarostami so directly, Without Permission risks positioning itself in someone else’s cinematic shadow rather than standing entirely on its own. The reference feels less like a tribute and more like an unnecessary framing device, especially for a film that thrives on its individuality.

The narrative also weaves in a fictional subplot: the assistant director’s domestic conflict and impending court case. While it adds thematic weight – mirroring the larger tension between freedom and control – it occasionally distracts from the raw immediacy of the children’s interviews. The film is at its strongest when it lingers in the unscripted moments, in the raw silence between questions, in the eyes of a child who isn’t quite sure what’s safe to say. Still, there is an undeniable tenderness in how Nazer handles these layers – balancing children’s voices with adult anxieties, threading issues of immigration and repression into the background without cinematic noise. He doesn’t preach. He listens. Visually, the film is minimalist yet evocative. There’s a tactile sense of place – the grit of unpaved roads, the muted palette of dusty towns, the claustrophobia of dim interiors. The sound design is subtle, almost austere, mirroring the restraint of a film that knows too much noise would betray its message.

Nazer doesn’t ask for your permission to tell this story. He simply tells it – quietly, bravely, and with extraordinary grace. Despite its missteps in homage, Nazer’s film ultimately proves that when you’re not allowed to speak, sometimes the only way forward is to film in secret and hope the world is listening. Without Permission is a deeply personal story about filmmaking under constraint, told by a director who knows that silence is often a louder act than shouting. It’s a film that doesn’t yell, but hums with defiance.

First published in The International Cinephile Society

POFF 2024, Tallinn Black Night Film Festival

Film Review: Little Jaffna (2024) by Lawrence Valin

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Little Jaffna is a gripping crime drama that offers a colourful and insightful perspective on the French Tamil diaspora.

“Little Jaffna“, Lawrence Valin‘s stunning directorial debut, is a gripping crime drama that offers a colourful and insightful perspective on the French Tamil diaspora. Premiering at the prestigious Venice Critics’ Week, this film quickly grabbed international cinephines’ attention for its daring voice and naïve cinematic expression. It was also screened at the Toronto Film Festival and is set to be screened at Tallinn Black Night’s Film Festival under the Best of The Fest banner.

At the film’s heart is Michael (portrayed by Valin himself), a young police officer thrust into a morally ambiguous mission. Tasked with infiltrating a local gang, he faces the daunting challenge of reconciling his duty as an officer with his deep-rooted cultural heritage and personal connections. This internal struggle forms the film’s crux, as Valin masterfully intertwines personal dilemmas with broader sociopolitical themes, highlighting the clash between personal, cultural and historical identities.

The film’s setting in La Chapelle, or Little Jaffna, named after the capital of the Northern province of Sri Lanka, brings a plethora of cultural nuances to the narrative. This vibrant neighbourhood serves as a microcosm of the Tamil experience in France, where cultural memories are alive, and the weight of political history is palpable. Valin’s representation of this community is enriched by his heritage, allowing for a depth of emotion often lacking in narratives about the diaspora produced in France. “Little Jaffna” is intimate and sociopolitical. By keeping the exact calendar year and month rather ambiguous, Valin plays on the influence of political struggle in Sri Lanka and the perpetual French and Tamil cultural differences as a carving on a stone in shaping the lives of Little Jaffna inhabitants.

Valin is not a newcomer to directing or acting; his two short films, “Little Jaffna (2017)” and “The Loyal Man(2020)” are his first ventures into cinema and seeds that grew into a flourishing tree as “Little Jaffna” in 2024. Valin received the ADAMI award for “The Loyal Man” for his stunning performance. He brings the same brilliance to this film, further facilitated by the young and vibrant dynamism of the young gangsters. The new frontrunners like Vela Ramamoorthy and Puviraj Ravindran, whose naive brilliance and seasoned performances by famous stars like Radhika Sarathkumar create a memorable cinematic experience.

“Little Jaffna” is visually captivating and blends the flavour of South Indian mainstream cinema with the city-scape film language of modern French cinema. The cinematographer Maxence Lemonnier, in perfect harmony with Valin, brings a unique visual style to the film. This hybridized visual language evokes the emotional weight of Kollywood films, incorporates surrealism and poignant imagery, and will captivate the audience’s nostalgia and even challenge it. It’s a celebration of both cultures, creating a rich tapestry that enhances the storytelling and leaves the audience visually stimulated.

Raw yet subtle, robust and engaging, “Little Jaffna” has already left a unique stamp on international cinema.

First appeared in the Asian Movie Pulse.

POFF 2024, Tallinn Black Night Film Festival

Film Review: Empire of the Rabbits (2024) by Seyfettin Tokmak

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A Heartbreaking Tale of Childhood and Exploitation

“Empire of the Rabbits” is a haunting exploration of childhood innocence lost to poverty and exploitation. Premiering at the 28th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, the film is a powerful, slow-burning drama that explores the harsh realities faced by children trapped in a world they cannot escape.


Set in a nameless, desolate countryside, the film follows young Musa (Alpay Kaya) and his father, Beko (Sermet Yesil). After his wife’s accidental death, Beko struggles to survive. With few options left, he decides to exploit his son to gain a government disability pension. To do so, his son must pretend to be disabled. His teacher in this tragic game is Nergis (Perla Palamutcuogulları), a girl of his age also forced to mimic disability. Together, they form a bond in their shared suffering, creating a fantasy world to escape their grim reality. 

Musa’s dream is to build a rabbit empire, a refuge for rabbits he saves from traps and hound races. This empire is more than a child’s fantasy—it becomes their only escape from the adult world that seeks to control and use them. The film is a poignant tale of resistance, showing how two children use imagination to fight against a system that exploits them.

The narrative of “Empire of the Rabbits” is slow-paced, with few dialogues and mostly “dumb” silence of protagonist that is sharply contrasted with adults’ manipulative and exploitive harsh words. In a film where the narrative development blends well with semiotics, compositions and cinematography, the sparse use of dialogue is refreshing and respectful towards the audience. Spectators can take their own time to think and absorb the feature that unfolds before their eyes.

From the very opening scene, the director brings a sense of uneasiness that expands into gloom throughout the film. The plot is poignantly painted with skilful use of semiotics. The innocence and helplessness of rabbits are compared to all the children in the movie who are forced to adopt a life of handicappedness. Not only the rabbits but the hounds are also victims; their defiance and vagrancy are punished with death. It brings ominous foreshadowing of an unexpected ending.

The cinematography by Claudia Becerril Bulos perfectly complements the film’s tone. Long, wide shots of barren landscapes fill the screen, emphasizing the desolation surrounding the characters. The empty, skeletal trees are a visual metaphor for the children—both have potential for life but are stifled by their environment. The use of a greenish-yellow filter amplifies the film’s somber mood, heightening the sense of decay and hopelessness.

Alpay Kaya’s performance as Musa is a standout. His portrayal of the quiet, burdened boy is powerful. Kaya conveys a deep sense of emotional weight through his expressions, showing the internal conflict of a child caught between fantasy and the harshness of reality. His eyes, filled with pain, communicate far more than words ever could. Kaya’s mature performance adds a level of authenticity to the film, making Musa’s struggle feel all the more real.

Tokmak’s direction is sensitive and empathetic, particularly toward the child actors. His handling of their emotions is delicate, capturing both their vulnerability and resilience. The director is known for addressing social issues affecting children, and this film is no exception. It serves as a potent commentary on child exploitation, the cycle of poverty, and the way society often abandons its most vulnerable members.

“Empire of the Rabbits” is a must-see for anyone interested slow and meditative cinema that is socially conscious. Tokmak’s direction and Kaya’s performance elevate this film into something truly special—a poignant, sobering reflection on the exploitation of children and the loss of innocence.

First appeared in the Asian Movie Pulse.

POFF 2024, Tallinn Black Night Film Festival

Film Review: Pyre (2024) by Vinod Kapri

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A poignant ballad of love and hope, the movie delves deep into its characters’ emotional landscapes, inviting the audience to connect and empathize.

Vinod Kapri, renowned for his powerful portrayal of society’s overlooked individuals, returns with a profound meditation on love, loss, and isolation in “Pyre“. Kapri’s latest work shines with a poignant intensity that echoes his impactful films “1232 KMs” (2015) and “Pihu” (2016). Premiering at the 28th Black Night’s Film Festival, “Pyre” is a moving exploration of an elderly couple’s fragile existence in a remote Himalayan village, delving deep into the depths of their love and the weight of their loss.

Padam Singh (Padam Singh) and Tulsi (Heera Devi), an 80-year-old couple, remain in a world that the younger generation has abandoned. Their days pass in quiet routines, their loneliness masked by fleeting moments of humour. Haunted by the absence of their son, their hope is reignited by a letter promising his return. When he finally arrives, the reunion shatters their expectations, leading them into a painful new reality. The film’s devastating climax evokes a deep, emotional response, leaving the audience with a profound empathy.

Kapri’s mastery lies in his ability to cast non-professional actors, capturing raw emotion in every frame. Despite their inexperience with the camera, the performers bring a heartwarming authenticity to their roles. The film’s pacing and direction guide them through delicate emotional landscapes, creating an international resonance that transcends cultural barriers. The finely crafted script draws the viewer in, keeping them emotionally tethered to the couple’s journey. As the final scene unfolds, the audience is left teary-eyed, the sadness lingering long after the credits roll.

The film’s beauty is amplified by the artistry of Manash Bhattacharya, the director of photography. His sweeping shots of the Himalayan landscape mirror the couple’s isolation, the vast, winding trails offering space for the audience to reflect. The close-ups of the characters—though unpolished in their acting—capture the rawness of their lives and struggles. At times, the expansive mountains seem to dwarf them. At the same time, in other moments, the crumbling, dilapidated spaces echo their emotional decay. Bhattacharya’s careful use of light adds a realistic touch, grounding the story in the simplicity of the couple’s world.

The music, composed by Mychael Danna’s “Life of Pi”, “Moneyball”, and Amritha Vaz (twice nominated for the Annie Award), gently elevates the emotional weight of the film. At times, the music swells to underscore the story’s sadness. Still, the sweeping grandeur of nature around the characters ultimately steals the show. Like the couple’s love, the landscape speaks volumes in its quiet majesty. The soft undercurrent music amplifies the emotional journey, enveloping the audience in a cocoon of tenderness and heartbreak.

It is a haunting, beautiful story that resonates deeply, leaving a lasting impact that lingers long after the screen fades to black. It is a film that speaks to the heart, capturing the fragility of life and the resilience of love in a world that is slowly fading away.

First appeared in the Asian Movie Pulse.