FRED Film Radio - English Channel

Director Jan-Eric Mack and co-writer and actress Anna Schinz met us during the 60th Karlovy Vary Film Festival (July 3-11, 2026) to talk about the former’s first solo feature, A Happy Family, the first ever Swiss film to run for the prestigious Crystal Globe.

This story of a struggling single mother, covered in debts and juggling several menial jobs which distract her from properly taking care of her two children despite her best efforts, which then leads social services to entrust the kids to a temporary foster family on the other side of the country, owed Anna Schinz the Best Actress Award at the closing ceremony.

On the origins of the project, Jan-Eric Mack: “It came by just by chance actually. We started doing research after we had seen, during the covid pandemic, people queueing up for food in Switzerland, which is really an image we hadn’t seen before. It’s not something you see very often there, poverty on the street, because it’s something which is mainly hidden, and that’s why we got into this topic, to find out who is affected and why.”

J.-E. M.: “For us, it was important not to have that title be cynical, but to think about what is a happy family and ask if that image of a perfect happy family really exists, because we firmly believe everybody has a different view on this topic, and there is no family without trouble or a second layer.”

Anna Schinz: “We tried to like capture the whole complexity of this subject, including on the side of the authorities – their work and what they do. It’s not about black or white, it’s not about good or bad, it’s not about blaming anybody: it’s about life, and people, human beings, making mistakes.”

J.-E. M.: “It was important that she realised that she is part of the solution in the end, after she brings her own child into a big conflict of loyalty by overstepping all these borders just to be close to them. We understand her need to be close to them, but at the same time, it’s kind of a selfish act. We always tried to understand and ask ourselves: ‘What would I do? Could I just stay at home and do nothing?'”

“But actually we found out, doing our research, that everybody was searching for their kids, always! That’s what the officials told us, and even if it means becoming a criminal, they just want to have their kids back.”

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Serbian director Miroslav Terzić has just premiered his third feature, 3 Weeks After, in the Crystal Globe Competition of the Karlovy Vary Film Festival 2026.

This relentlessly cruel story about bullying, at once fascinating and hard to watch, implacable and extremely layered, deeply anchored in reality and allegorical in its very striking and masterful aesthetics, garnered the Europa Cinemas Label.

The jury, unanimously “captivated right from the first shot and until the very end”, was impressed by the “remarkably strong and authentic performance” delivered by the ensemble cast, the choice of portraying the lives of “adolescents today through their own eyes, allowing their voices and perspectives to shape the narrative in a genuine and convincing way,” and found “Miroslav Terzić’s filmmaking stunning in every aspect of its craft.”

“The film,” the jury concluded, “urges us to truly hear young people, be there for them and not look away!”

The project, Terzić explains, started over ten years ago, when Branislav Trifunović, the producer of the film (and actor, in the role of the maths teacher supervising the school trip next to the head teacher played by Tihana Lazović), and Vladimir Arsenijević, the screenwriter, started to work on this script about peer violence and called him.

“We decided not to make some kind of docu story on one specific case,” says the director. Within the research material, he remembers, there was one sentence, from the mother of a boy who committed suicide, who said that the class went on an excursion three weeks after the fact, so “we tried to imagine what that excursion would look like.”

However, continues Miroslav Terzić, “as we tried to find the best way to tell the story, we realised it was not just about peer violence, but about a violent society, about violence, and we live in that society. When you turn around, watch TV or Internet or whatever, there is violence all around us, and we were struck by that normalisation of violence.”

“So we tried to show the audience that they are in the fire too – which is why there is a fire in the beginning, but no one is doing anything to prevent it –, that we are in the fire right now, at this very moment, but we are turning our heads [the other way].”

If the film certainly includes a commentary on the current young generation present in the film, it also suggests that the responsibility lies with the grown-ups, and with society as a whole: “They have grown up with the Internet, their phone is like a new organ for them, and they see the world through that, and what we serve them through that is disturbing, so we cannot expect… Somehow, empathy […] is slowly fading away from this society, [it’s almost] extinct, so I think that that we must teach them to feel again, not to be afraid to have real feelings.”

“They are protected by their phones and live some kind of alternative life, so we must teach them to see violence and to stand up against it, even if it’s hard, and help whoever needs help. Because in every story about bullying, there are three sides, not two: there is the bully, there is the victim, and there is a third side, and it is the biggest one, which is that of the spectators, the people who are watching and do not interfere. It is them who let the bullies have all the power.”

“[…] We gave them that power by not protecting the weak, the people who need help. […] I’m blaming society, because when tragedies happen, everyone talks about it and after three days, everyone forgets and continues on with their life, but this is not enough time to deal with that tragedy, [and it means we are not doing] anything to prevent a new tragedy.”

The striking aesthetics of 3 Weeks After also takes the subject to another, more abstract or allegorical dimension, beyond the Balkans angle or the generational and societal comment.

“We wanted to tackle this topic from many different angles,” Terzić points out, “and leave it to the audience to decide how they choose to approach it. […] There are a lot of underlying layers and a lot of metaphorical and allegorical elements, and we break the fourth wall too, three times, in the movie.”

We also discuss the moral reflection stemmed by the “they made me do it” argument, the animality the group reverts to, the implications of the inherent gregariousness of humans, the purifying symbolism of the cave where the guilt-ridden victim finds a refuge, and the longing for connection and embrace expressed in the magnificent ending.

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Eight years after the premiere of Pause, her debut feature (after several internationally acclaimed shorts, followed by a few more after Pause), at the Karlovy Vary Film Festival (East of the West Competition), Tonia Mishiali was back at the Czech event 2026 with her second feature-length movie, The Lion at My Back, this time vying for the Crystal Globe, and was awarded the Grand Prize of the Ecumenical Jury.

We met the Cypriot director to discuss further this work, announced as the second instalment of a trilogy exploring the role of women in modern-day society, where the thoughtful mise en scène and the splendid, impactful cinematography actively accompany, in the many spaces where the action of this Cyprus-set story unfolds, the two female protagonists.

A forty something local with a past who is fighting for the custody of her daughter and a young migrant who finds herself outside the door of the home where she was living on her 18th birthday – compellingly embodied, with all their nuances and contradictions, by Elena Kallinikou and Sokhna Diallo – as they struggle to find their place, and gradually develop a moving bond which ends feeling like home.

On the background of the story, Mishiali explains that the idea to pair an ode to the mother-daughter relationship with the depiction of the situation of a young immigrant came from her personal attachment to both themes (being a mother and “a refugee in [her] my own country”), and was further fuelled by her encounter with women, mostly African, seeking asylum in Cyprus.

We also talk about the way the film combines intimate close ups with an interesting treatment of space, or rather spaces (from safe to hostile, open to claustrophobic, inhumane to warm), including “the space that is contained within them”, which the director approached instinctively, with an awareness of her characters’ need to breathe, too.

On the choice to shoot on 16mm: “I first met Manu Tilinski, my cinematographer, in Athens, because I wanted to work with a new cinematographer and so I met a few, and in my mind, even before I met him, was the sense that I had to do this film on 16 mm, and because there’s always budget restrictions and all that, I thought it was never going to happen, and I had no experience with film – I have only worked with digital –, so I thought if I am going to do that, I have to work with a cinematographer who has this experience.”

“And I didn’t say anything to him and as soon as we met, as he had read the script, he went, ‘You know we have to shoot on 16 mm, right?’ and I said, ‘Thank you!’ Because the idea is that the film is quite raw, and rough, so I think this roughness that comes from film, the grain, that feels more organic.”

Tonia Mishiali explains how she went about choosing her actresses, and how Sokhna Diallo joined the project as a professional actress when the first actor Mishiali had in mind, a Somalian non professional, had to suddenly leave Cyprus for safety reasons.

She also give us more details on how they found the right chemistry to give a sensitive depiction of the bond between Stella and Mariama, and evokes the male characters in the film.

On the third instalment of her trilogy, Maya, already in the works: “So the trilogy is really about women living on the sidelines and trying to find themselves and establish themselves in the world, and enjoy their rights and be prominent and be out there and be respectful – to themselves first, and towards each other – and get respect from others. So in general, it’s really about women rebelling […]. So I started with Stella in Pause, a 50-year-old woman who was oppressed and tried to find a way out… […]”

“And then the third one is called Maya and it’s about a 30-year-old woman, so I’m going down in age, and again it’s similar – she feels different, she’s trying to fit in, etc. –, but it’s actually a genre film, it’s a fantasy film. So I am using another genre but again, it’s character-based, so it’s really about her finding herself as she inherits a house in the countryside and leaves the city to go there, and enters a patriarchal world of hunters in the woods, killing lots of animals, and finds herself attracted to this world, and meets goblins in the forest.”

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This year at the Karlovy Vary Film Festival 2026, not only was Ivan Ostrochovský selected in the main competition with Only Beautiful Things to Look At, his third fiction feature after Goat (2015) and Servants (2020, chosen as the Slovak candidate for the Oscars), but he also world-premiered, amongst the Special screenings of the Classics section, his new documentary, Igor and After, dedicated to visionary Czechoslovak cinematographer Igor Luther (who worked with Juraj Jakubisko, Volker Schlöndorff on his Palme d’or winner The Tin Drum, and Andrzej Wajda on Danton, amongst others).

He also produced the winner of the Special Mention of the Proxima Competition, Anna and Šimon Domček’s 33 Steps.

Only Beautiful Things to Look At, the suggestive title of which is all the more intriguing that the film deals with the State-funded sterilisation of Roma women in Czechoslovakia in the 1980s, ended up earning Ostrochovský the FIPRESCI Award of the Crystal Globe Competition.

This bodes well for the US remake of the film (focusing on the forced sterilisation of almost half of the Native American women which was conducted across the pond between the 1970s and the 1980s) he has already started working on, with the help of his regular producer Katarína Tomková.

FRED met with her and the prolific filmmaker on a balcony of the famous Thermal Hotel to discuss the very unique angle he chose, in his KVIFF critics’ favourite, to tackle a sordid issue through images and situations often beaming with serene harmony and human connection.

On the choice of approaching the subject of enforced sterilisation through the eyes of a female doctor who sees sterilisation as a compassionate procedure: “I met a lot of doctors from the 80s, and the problem is that some of them really thought it was helpful to these Roma women, that having three kids instead of ten would make their lives easier. […] So the law says yes, and in context, it seems okay, but morally it’s not, and this is a problem for all times, not only the communist era.”

“There was forced sterilisation in the US, in Norway, in Australia, in Canada: it’s not limited to the eighties in Czechoslovakia, it has also happened in democratic countries. […] This is also related to the desire to have a nice, comfortable life. These doctors think that if you only have two kids, you life will be easier: you can go on vacation, have a car. [This notion] of a nice life is how you end up having sterilisation.”

On the bond which develops between Ingrid, the doctor played by Aňa Geislerová, and Agata, the Roma nurse who tries to hide her origins, and on the complexity of both characters, Ostrochovský says that he found interesting to understand how the doctor thinks, but also wanted to find a way to make her change and see things differently, which he did by introducing this young girl who is a victim, ie. using the victim to confront the person responsible.

On the choice of Simona Boledovičová to play Agata: “She had never played in a movie. It took a lot of time to find her, also because we wanted her to be half Roma – so many films with gypsies have been made before that [if you work from a set of stereotypes] about gypsies, you’re not interesting.”

“Also, if it [forced sterilisation] happens to a woman who is only half Roma, it’s a short way away from happening to Slovak women with social problems […] and the idea of cleaning social problems in this manner. [If you show] it as a problem which affects not only gypsies, but also poor people, our hope is that in this way, we can get under the skin of people holding stereotypes.”

On the beautiful, serene aesthetics of this superbly lit and sunny film, interspersed with oneiric scenes showing an almost magical nature as well as moments of tenderness and laughter: “The topic is already tough, so we did not want to push it further visually. We wanted to find nice places, since these people want a nice life for the gypsies, and so visually we wanted [everything to be beautiful] and then to have [darker] things hiding in these nice visuals, and then slowly amp it up.”

“Because if the film is nice visually and thus goes against the topic, maybe it is more scary than if you show an ugly socialist hospital and ugly places and bad cars. Visually, [we wanted to represent] Ingrid’s idea of a nice life – she wants a nice life for everybody, and she destroys many lives.”

Katarína Tomková on the challenges of the production of a film with such rich visuals and interesting locations: “It was a bit challenging because for example when it came to the architecture, we were looking, not for the typical communist architecture, but for a turn-of-the-century architecture which I would call Habsburg, from the end of the imperial era – buildings which of course, in the 80s, were a little bit rundown –, because these buildings do exist, but now they have been reconstructed, they have plastic windows, etc.”

“So it was tough to find this one complex place in one location. The hospital, I think, was shot in six or seven different locations spread around the Czech Republic, Slovakia and Hungary. […] But Ivan had a specific idea of the visual aspect he wanted.”

“[…] So in those terms, yes it was a little bit challenging to have the production happen across three countries, with crew from three countries and cast from three countries, and also we shot across three summers – which had a lot to do with filming [the doc] Photophobia the first summer, because the film was reacting to the situation in Ukraine.”

“But I think that we had an amazing cast and crew, and our partners and coproducers all understood and followed Ivan’s vision, so I feel like we all formed a coherent team, which eventually got us to this wonderful premiere here in Karlovy Vary.”

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Kristina Grozeva and Petar Valchanov bring their fifth feature film to the main competition of the Karlovy Vary Film Festival 2026, where they won the Crystal Globe for The Father in 2019. With Black Money for White Nights, the Bulgarian directing duo, also known for their ‘newspaper clippings’ trilogy, which started with their internationally acclaimed debut 2014 The Lesson (followed by Glory in 2016 and completed with “Triumph” in 2024), they offer the type of cruel social satire they have become known for – paired with a moral tale where money plays a major role, and a breathless race from one hurdle to the next, all the while running with scissors.

At the centre of the film is the plight of a nearly retired married couple (played by Tanya Shahova and Ivan Savov), who have become infected by a lifetime spent living in a corrupt society where deceit is part of daily life, and keep carrying outdated values inherited from the communist era into an indifferent capitalist world where they still get crushed by the old mechanisms they help perpetuate (by continuously scratching their backs, so to speak).

On the strange sense of balance suggested by the title of the film, “it was very important for us to build this contradiction in the title,” says Grozeva, “because we hoped that this would reflect the mood of the whole movie. I think this contradiction contains both the tragedy and the comedy, the low and the sublime.” “The creative process behind the title was very important” and a key foundation on which to build the film, adds Valchanov, who points out that it is a distortion of the Bulgarian version of the phrase “saving money for a rainy day”, which talks about “saving money for a black day.”

On deceit and retribution, Kristina Grozeva explains: “They live in lies all the time and they pretend that everything is OK, but this way of living has a price, somehow, and they have to pay it.” As her partner-in-crime reveals, the way they balance the diverse set of values from which they operate was inspired by many people in real life. The film, he says, “is about this generation who has made it a part of their life during the communist period and then, after it, in the democratic period.”

“This system doesn’t allow you to have a dignity,” Grozeva points out, prompting Valchanov to also underline the fact that the couple at the centre of their film “are also victims of themselves.” “They mostly suffer because of their own decisions,” adds Grozeva. “We wanted to dig into the topic of corruption, but not only the corruption in the political or social sense – [we also wanted to talk about] this kind of inner corruption that puts black spots in our souls. Somehow, it felt very important to capture this moment when you corrupt your intimate world: your dreams, your marriage, even your relationship with God, everything.”

On the well-roundedness and the many nuances of the characters, the directing duo insists that they “did not want to build clichés, or characters who are superficial. We wanted to build deep human beings with contradictions, and that is why we wanted to create this couple, so that they would be capable of love and tenderness, and at the same time of manipulation and deception.”

On the relentless succession of catastrophic events depicted in the film: “It was very important for us to create this rhythm and build this sense of tension. We wanted the audience to feel their feelings.”

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Danish director Mads Mengel‘s debut feature, The Guest, was more than well received at the Karlovy Vary Film Festival 2026. This sensitive and psychologically nuanced account of an initially jolly family reunion for a newborn baby’s naming ceremony, suddenly tainted by the arrival of an unwanted guest, the mentally unstable, unpredictable mother (a part in which Trine Dyrholm delivers a captivating performance) of the young father (a distraught Simon Bennebjerg with whom the viewer cannot help empathising, as we see him unravel) was awarded the Special Jury Prize, and earned Mengel the Best Director Award. We spoke to the filmmaker – and co-writer of the film with Christian Bengtson, with whom Mengel is already working on a new project –, which says his approach of this family’s conundrum was very much informed by this quote from poet David Whyte: “To forgive is to assume a larger identity than the person who was first hurt.”

On going against the grain of what one would expect of a Danish film on a disrupted family reunion turning tense: “I think the film, at its core, is about forgiveness and trying to take the first steps towards being able to mend old wounds. We wanted to give the audience a feeling that it’s never too late to change some dynamics which may seem like they are forever set in stone.”

On mental illness and acceptance: “When you have a loved one who is suffering from mental illness or struggling in any way, there will always be longing in you for it to not be so, and I think accepting the situation – in Karl’s case, accepting that this is his mother, good and bad – is what can open him up to maybe forgiving some of the things that have been hard on him.”

On the tension deriving from the ambiguity of the mother’s effervescent behaviour, and on Trine Dyrholm’s turn in this constantly borderline role: “We wanted to convey that experience to the audience as well, because that’s what her kids in the film have grown up with, always not knowing what’s gonna happen next. […] I think Trine captured that tension perfectly. I think she’s the greatest actor we have in Denmark, so we couldn’t believe our luck when she said yes. That was a dream come true for all of us, especially for me.”

On the film’s nuanced approach and finding that balance in the script: “I think we wrote sixteen drafts of the script. We went back and forth with the actors, each time using the actors’ notes to rewrite. We [also] shot an 18-minute pilot, over two days, to figure out who these characters were and how they talked to each other, and then went back to the writing room. It was very important to us that the viewer would have sympathy for all the characters, in the end, but also that their sympathy would switch sides, maybe from scene to scene [and that they] would understand everyone, in some way. […] We didn’t want a clear hero or a clear villain. Everyone should be to blame a little bit, because I think that is a reflection of real life, especially within the context of a family. There’s a lot of complexities and nuances. […] Nothing in the world is really black-and-white, there is always a bunch of grey nuances and I think you can have two feelings which are polar opposites rising at the same time, and both of them can be true at the same time.”

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David Boreanaz is one of the prominent actors participating in the Italian Global Series 2026, in Riccione. Our conversation was recorded to explore his reflections on acting, character development, and his perspective on one of his most iconic roles as Angel in “Buffy The Vampire Slayer“ during the festival’s second edition.

Boreanaz emphasizes the significance of ongoing education and self-reflection in his career. He reflects on the past year, noting that it’s essential to be patient with oneself and understand that the work invested today will bear fruit over time. His approach involves constantly nurturing his craft, seeking growth through repetition and new avenues, which prevent his from feeling trapped in a single role or character.

During the interview, Boreanaz discusses the importance of seizing opportunities, emphasizing that preparation is crucial. He explains that readiness arises from diligent work, allowing actors to take advantage of chances when they arise. He also touches on his portrayal of Angel in “Buffy the Vampire Slayer“, indicating that playing a long-term character isn’t a trap but a chance to explore new facets and grow. About the worldwide success of the TV series, he says: “All characters were a sort of superheroes for the audience”.

Boreanaz expresses admiration for filmmakers like Chloe Zhao, noting her understanding of storytelling through renewal and rebirth, resonating with Joseph Campbell’s ideas. He also discusses his admiration for cinematic imagery, citing his experience watching “Hamnet“ and being captivated by the symbolism intertwined within the film’s scenes. He appreciates storytelling that dives into deep, metaphysical themes, such as transformation and connection to Mother Earth, reflecting the festival’s focus on meaningful and innovative narratives.

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Lithuanian filmmaker Arnas Balčiūnas arrives at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival 2026 with Past the Hill of Napoleon’s Hat, one of the ten short films showcased in Future Frames, the European Film Promotion initiative that introduces Europe’s most promising young directors to the international film industry through screenings, masterclasses and networking opportunities. Rather than offering a conventional family drama, Balčiūnas builds an intimate and restrained portrait of emotional distance, where silence speaks louder than confrontation.

Set on a single early spring day, the short film follows Martynas as he picks up his father from a psychiatric hospital and drives him to visit his grandparents in rural Lithuania. Along the journey, familiar landscapes awaken memories that neither father nor son can fully articulate, exposing wounds that have remained buried across generations.

The emotional core of the film originated in a conversation with the director’s own father, who once reflected on his difficult relationship with his abusive parent and the discomfort of seeing his father’s physical features reflected in himself. That confession became the foundation for a story about inherited trauma and the invisible threads connecting different generations. “There’s a lineage here of what I would see as generational trauma.” Rather than recreating his own family’s history, Balčiūnas transformed those emotions into fiction, exploring how unresolved pain can quietly shape relationships long after the original events have passed.

One of the film’s most striking qualities is its refusal to divide its characters into victims and villains. The father is fragile, emotionally distant and difficult to understand, yet the film consistently resists judging him. For Balčiūnas, the real tragedy lies elsewhere. “The saddest thing is the inability to talk about these things.” Instead of explaining every detail of the family’s past, he focuses on the present moment, observing people who continue trying, however imperfectly, to repair broken relationships. That choice allows empathy to emerge naturally, without relying on melodrama or easy resolutions.

The Lithuanian countryside becomes an extension of the characters’ emotional state. The familiar post-Soviet houses and quiet rural spaces are not simply realistic settings, but subtle reminders that personal trauma is often inseparable from broader historical experiences. Balčiūnas explains that the emotional patterns portrayed in the film can be found in many Lithuanian families and across the post-Soviet region, where political history has left deep marks on private lives. Rather than making this connection explicit, he allows the environment itself to suggest the weight of a collective past.

Being part of Future Frames has also allowed the young director to encounter fellow emerging filmmakers at a crucial stage of their careers. He describes the programme less as an immediate professional breakthrough than as the beginning of relationships that may shape future collaborations while offering a broader perspective beyond the national context of film school. Reflecting on today’s film landscape, Balčiūnas acknowledges that young directors face increasing pressure to define a recognisable artistic identity early in their careers. With an overwhelming number of films constantly available, he believes the greatest challenge is not finding a visual style but discovering themes that genuinely belong to one’s own life and cultural background, rather than following existing trends.

Although he recently premiered another short film at the Cannes Film Festival and is already developing his next project, Balčiūnas continues to embrace the short format as the space where his storytelling feels most natural. “I also like the impressionistic nature of short films. It’s something that suits my storytelling style.” He sees short films as works that can be almost entirely imagined before production begins, allowing filmmakers to refine every choice while preserving ambiguity. Rather than offering definitive answers, they invite audiences to continue thinking after the final frame, completing the emotional journey themselves.

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For Hae-Sup Sin, Half-moon is not simply a story about reunion. It is about everything that remains unresolved once that reunion finally happens. Presented at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival 2026 within Future Frames, the European Film Promotion initiative showcasing emerging European filmmakers, the short film follows a Swiss adoptive mother and her son as they travel to South Korea to meet his biological mother for the first time. Set almost entirely within a traditional Korean restaurant, Half-moon explores identity, belonging, and motherhood through restrained performances, quiet observation, and the emotions that emerge when words are no longer enough.

The film was inspired by a brief Swiss television documentary about a young Korean girl adopted in Switzerland whose biological mother unexpectedly managed to find her. What fascinated Sin was not the reunion itself, but the adoptive mother’s emotional position. “Usually adoptees search for their biological parents,” he explains. “In this case, the biological mother found the child. I became curious about how the Swiss mother would feel, understanding that another woman could also say, ‘She is my daughter.'” Rather than adapting that true story, Sin used it as the starting point for an original screenplay exploring the emotional space shared by two women connected by the same child.

Almost the entire film unfolds inside a traditional Korean restaurant, a deliberate choice that carries both dramatic and symbolic meaning. In Korean culture, these restaurants are often where couples introduce their parents before marriage. Sin found it an appropriate setting for two mothers meeting for the first time instead. “I thought it was quite ironic,” he says. “The two mothers face each other there for the first time.” The confined setting also reflects his interest in chamber pieces, in which emotional tension builds through small gestures rather than dramatic action. Food itself becomes another language. “Eating behaviour tells you so much about people and culture,” he explains. “That was another reason I chose the restaurant.”

Language barriers shape every interaction in Half-moon. Characters speak different languages, rely on translation and frequently struggle to express what they truly feel. Rather than treating this as an obstacle, Sin embraced silence as one of the film’s central narrative tools. “Silence is one of the most universal languages,” he says. Throughout the film, glances, pauses, and body language communicate emotions that dialogue cannot fully translate. The director also credits his cast for bringing those moments to life. “I relied on the actresses’ instincts,” he explains. “The screenplay was there, but how we interpreted it remained completely open.”

Sin also appears in Half-moon as Joel, marking his first experience as an actor. The decision presented unexpected challenges. Unable to judge his own performance objectively, he relied heavily on his cinematographer and producer, both of whom watched the monitor throughout filming and offered constant feedback. The experience has already influenced the way he approaches directing. “Before, I was very controlling,” he admits. “Being in front of the camera made me realise that sometimes it’s better to give simple directions and trust what happens inside the actors.” It is a lesson he intends to carry into future projects.

The original Korean title, Ban Dal, comes from a children’s song heard after the end credits, where a half moon becomes a boat travelling westward. Only later did Sin realise how deeply the title reflected the film itself. For him, the half moon represents Joel’s incomplete search for identity, as well as the acceptance that motherhood does not have to belong to one person alone.

After Half-moon, Hae-Sup Sin is developing his first feature film, Some Korean Summer, a romance between a young Swiss woman and a Korean man set in the rural South Korean countryside. The project is currently in development with a Swiss production company. Far from feeling intimidated by the transition to feature filmmaking, the director says his greatest concern is securing financing. “I’m more excited than scared,” he says. “I love the process of making films, working with actors and seeing something you’ve written come to life.”

His experience at Future Frames has only reinforced that enthusiasm. Beyond presenting his work to international audiences, the programme allowed him to build lasting relationships with fellow emerging filmmakers from across Europe. “We immediately became really good friends,” he says. “Seeing so many different perspectives was inspiring, but leaving with new friends is probably what I’ll remember most.”

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Selected for Future Frames at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival 2026, Júlia Coldwell Serra brings Nobody Barks, a darkly comic short that explores guilt, family ties and emotional avoidance through an increasingly absurd premise. Presented as her final master’s project, the film follows Candela, a middle-aged woman who accidentally runs over her young nephew’s dog. Unable to tell him the truth, she invents an extraordinary story: the dog has left on a pilgrimage to a sacred tree, and together they set out to find it.

The premise is both humorous and unsettling, allowing the director to examine why people lie, especially when deception is motivated by love rather than selfishness. “There is something very human about lying because it is so closely connected to guilt,” Coldwell Serra explains. “We usually lie because we have good intentions and we don’t want other people to get hurt.” As Candela’s invention grows beyond her control, the film gradually shifts between comedy, melancholy and emotional tension, refusing to settle into a single emotional register.

Rather than pursuing strict realism, Coldwell Serra embraces absurdity to reach emotional truth. For her, humour is not simply entertainment but a narrative tool that expands the possibilities of storytelling. A non-naturalistic approach allows her to establish the film’s own internal rules, creating space to address grief, guilt and responsibility without becoming didactic. “I wanted the tone to oscillate,” she says. “You don’t really know whether you should laugh, worry or cry, because life is like that. Tragedies and beautiful things don’t arrive in a convenient order.” The comedy of Nobody Barks rarely comes from punchlines. Instead, it emerges from discomfort, awkwardness and the increasingly impossible situation Candela creates for herself. Coldwell Serra also admits that humour reflects her own way of dealing with difficult moments. “Humour has always been a coping mechanism for me,” she says. “It felt like the most honest way to tell this story.”

The filmmaker deliberately chose to set the story in the region where she grew up. Beginning with a place she knew intimately gave her a solid emotional foundation before she allowed herself to move into more imaginative territory. She believes that authenticity comes from embracing the local rather than trying to make stories universally recognisable from the outset. The international journey of Nobody Barks has only reinforced that conviction. “The more local and the more specific you become,” she reflects, “the more universal the film can be.” Instead of smoothing away cultural details, she trusted that honesty would resonate beyond geographical boundaries.

The role of Candela was written specifically for Laia Cabrera, whom Coldwell Serra had met while working on another production. Even before the screenplay was completed, she knew she wanted the actress to embody the character. What fascinated her was not only Cabrera’s talent, but the quiet mystery of her screen presence. “There is something about her face that makes you start asking questions beyond what is happening in the film,” the director explains. That ambiguity proved essential for a protagonist whose motivations remain deliberately difficult to define. Candela’s guilt, tenderness and desperation coexist throughout the film without ever being fully explained, giving the audience space to interpret her actions.

Looking back on the journey of Nobody Barks, Coldwell Serra admits she never expected the short to travel so widely after waiting nearly a year for its first premiere. Its success ultimately confirmed something she had suspected while making it: originality comes from trusting instinct rather than trying to anticipate expectations. Many readers of the screenplay struggled to imagine the unusual tone she had in mind, but she chose to follow her own vision rather than make it more conventional. “I learned not to be afraid of taking risks,” she says. “It was the most authentic film I could make.” That lesson is one she hopes to carry into her future work.

For Coldwell Serra, being selected for Future Frames has been both an educational and deeply personal experience. Sharing the programme with nine emerging filmmakers from across Europe, attending masterclasses and exchanging ideas about filmmaking has strengthened her optimism about the future of European cinema.”We really bonded as a group,” she says. “It’s inspiring to meet so many people who are trying to make films with the same passion. It gives me hope for the future of cinema.”

The post “Nobody Barks”, interview with director Júlia Coldwell Serra appeared first on Fred Film Radio.