You speak of the dream of a film as the impetus for your project. Is this an element of the script? How did the film come about?
The film began to take shape in my mind the first time I travelled to Berlin. There was something about the city—its relationship with animals like foxes and crows, the way it merges with the forest—that moved me deeply. I truly had a dream that I couldn’t remember, but I had taken some notes about it, and that became the starting point for the film. The idea was to try to follow those traces in an attempt to reconstruct the dream. That’s where the phrase that appears in the film comes from: to make a film in order to remember a dream.
Interviews with scientists run throughout the film. At what point in the writing process did they become involved? How did you select the research areas?
At first, I intended for no humans to appear in the film. I wanted to film institutions and animals. But during the research phase, I began reading quite a lot about animal behaviour, philosophy of science, and biology, and I came across studies that affected me deeply—like discovering that, in a physics lab in Buenos Aires, researchers were listening to the dreams and nightmares of a bird.
Although this is my first feature film, I’ve been working for many years around listening and dreaming in various kinds of works. So, I decided to interview a few scientists I found particularly compelling, but initially I thought of it simply as part of the research process. I filmed the interviews just in case, without being sure they’d end up in the film. It was also a way to get closer to the world of scientists, to gain access to their working environments, their ecosystems, their laboratories.
I also didn’t plan on appearing in the film myself. That only emerged in the later years of editing working with Manuel Embalse, when a more personal thread appeared. We began incorporating my own diaries— both written and video—none of which had been recorded specifically for the film, but were instead used as footage material. Even though it’s personal, we use it as an archive.
You film animal life in different ways. How did you reflect on its presence in the film, and in what progression?
In a way, I think the structure of the film ended up mirroring the very process of discovery and experimentation I went through while making it. Something I find compelling in scientific processes is that, in order for a paper to make sense, it has to describe the experiment’s process, not just the result. The film begins with a more observational perspective—closer to essay, with what one could call a scientific gaze—but gradually it transforms and begins to let go of control.
The personal diary emerges, and with it an attempt to approach something more animal. In that sense, the representation of the animals shifts: from a more scientific or clinical perspective at the beginning, we move toward fugitive animals that inhabit the city, or that appear through handheld, moving images. Until we found ourselves asking whether it was possible for the animals themselves to take over the means of production.
Your presence is indicated by supertitles like a diary. Why did you choose a form of silence rather than voice-over?
There are several reasons why the text in the film appears written rather than spoken as voice-over. One is that, even though the film explores themes like animal life, science, and dreams, on a deeper level I think it’s ultimately a film about language, about how, as a species, we relate to words.
The texts that appear in the film are drawn from my personal diaries. They were born out of writing, and I’m very interested in that boundary between the written and the oral, between what is said, what is read, and what is heard. I wanted to preserve that distinction. I also work closely with books, and I’m deeply drawn to the perceptual experience of reading. I’ve always been fascinated by films that function almost like expanded books; books that open out into sound and image.
And finally—perhaps most importantly—I believe that a silent voice-over, like the one in Los Cruces, creates space for listening. I wanted to work with language without letting it dominate the entire sonic space. I wanted the viewer to be able to hear the soundscapes, the animals, the cities, without imposing the sound of my own voice.
I also think it leaves room for imagination. Because when we read, we also hear in our minds. And that creates a kind of juxtaposition between what sounds in the film—out there—and what resonates inside us.
Alongside your thoughts, words regularly appear as slogans or alerts. Why this choice?
As I mentioned earlier, I came to realize over time that this was also a film about language. And in that sense, the words that appear on screen began to shift in meaning. On one hand, I always carry small notebooks in my pocket, and many of those words came from my notes. As I wrote about certain topics, those words began to reappear in the interviews with scientists, almost as if they marked chapters or turning points.
Later, when the memory experiment appears in the film, the relationship with words takes on another dimension. In the original study—a real experiment—researchers worked with images, music, and words. We couldn’t show the original experiment for ethical and procedural reasons, but we were interested in replicating it in a more poetic or metaphorical way.
I like to think of the film itself as an experiment—an experiment in perception and memory—, in which the viewer—the listener—, is also a participant. It’s not only about observing what happens on screen, but about inhabiting a perceptual experience, about being exposed to certain stimuli, associations, resonances.
The sound treatment comprises various levels, including musical compositions that replace the intradiegetic sound. How did you go about designing the soundtrack? According to what principles? What were the challenges involved in assembling these heterogeneous materials?
Designing the film’s sound was a major challenge, because I come from a background in music composition and sound design, so listening was essential from the very beginning. That sensitivity was present from the script to the shoot: we carefully thought about microphone placement, and often it was the sound that guided—or even created—certain images.
I like to think of these films as Listening Films, playing a bit with the idea of observational cinema. Of course, the image carries great weight—just as the word does—but it’s the sound that traces the path, acting as a kind of sensitive guide. In that sense, working on the sound design and music during editing and post-production felt quite natural, because the film had its sonic identity from the start.
As for the music, there are compositions of mine in the film, but I also chose to include pieces by colleagues and composers I deeply admire, some of whom I regularly collaborate with.
Interview by Claire Lasolle
