The setting, the place where the film was shot, seems to be of fundamental importance. Indeed, the map of the region hanging in the protagonist’s flat is a detail to which the film returns on several occasions.
When I began thinking about the film’s material elements, my primary aim was to map out the location in some way, to come to understand it through the characters’ movements (something that almost always obsesses me and which no doubt stems from my connection with Rohmer). The same applies to certain significant elements of the set design, such as postcards or maps themselves, which play a role in the film but which, for various reasons, ultimately took on a less prominent role than I had initially imagined.
I was also thinking about the way these elements function in films such as Le Pont du Nord (Jacques Rivette, 1981), for example, where they become the keys to a little game that allows the narrative to shift towards a structure closer to that of genre cinema, in the same way that the introduction of a prop with strong iconography – a revolver, for example – can alter the course of a narrative.
But to return to the heart of your question, for me, working on location and the conception of the film always represent the initial creative impulse: the discovery of a space and the relationship one forms with it. That is the primary desire, the driving force behind the narrative. In this particular case, it is the backdrop of a tourist and seaside resort that still retains certain rural characteristics, intermingled with an industrial past marked by the tall brick chimneys of the ‘telleiras’ (tile factories) – a heritage that is relatively little known, even to those who live nearby.
I discovered this place thanks to the Galician sculptor Pablo Barreiro, a native of the region, who at one point had his studio in the very spot we see in the film.
The initial impetus therefore stems from something concrete and real – a place, a person – but it acts as a catalyst, since my aim was to incorporate this context into a work of fiction. The idea of an off-season tourist landscape, conducive to strolling and wandering, was a defining factor from the very earliest stages of the project. In fact, my co-writer, the filmmaker Pablo García Canga, and I spent less time sitting down to write dialogue and more time walking or driving around the region, letting ourselves be guided by the discoveries and narrative impulses that these places stirred within us.
The film can also be seen as a clash between two contrasting relationships ,those of the characters, to the same place. How did you approach this relationship between the characters and the setting, both in the writing and in the direction?
I think that, initially, I wanted to explore this character’s absence: what happens to a place once he leaves it. How would the viewer perceive it, and of course that other character – the woman – who appears later in the story? What resonance would these spaces have for her?
Later, during the editing process, I realised that this bore a striking resemblance to something I’d already explored in my first feature film, even though I hadn’t realised it until this stage of editing.
Then there’s the work on the narrative structure, which is also fundamental right from the conception stage, almost before we even know what story we’re telling. The aim is to propose a strong structure that imposes its own rules, opens up a dialectical and narrative interplay, and ultimately becomes a commentary on the film itself. Not only on the characters’ story, but also on the cinematic expression of this idea. In this case, it took the form of a structure comprising two solo sequences and a central duo.
Whilst writing, Pablo and I began to systematise each sequence more carefully, observing the resonances created when the same location reappears at least twice in the film, even though the truly significant spaces recur across all three parts.
We also looked at how they change: for example, a place or an object can gradually take on new meaning and add new layers of interpretation to the film.
In my view, the protagonist’s profession places the film within the tradition of certain novels or films about artists, in which the creative process takes on a symbolic dimension that lends itself to crisis. Do you feel that the film engages, in some way, with this sub-genre?
I suppose that artistic activity, in and of itself, encourages a certain degree of self-reflection, both on one’s immediate reality and on oneself. It is, at its core, a profound endeavour, fraught with contradictions. In the film industry, we see this all the time: whether it’s managing a budget, the vast number of decisions involved in a shoot, or even promotional work at festivals with its sometimes overwhelming level of exposure… in this context, the slightest gesture becomes a political decision, of varying significance.
I’ve always been interested in the relationship between all this and craftsmanship, manual labour, as well as the way these practices interact with the industry. Working from an artistic perspective makes certain political questions inevitable, as well as interpretations linked to social class, privilege, and so on. Even if these questions remain at a deep, barely visible level within the film, they are present in some way.
From a strictly narrative point of view, we did not want the protagonist’s work to take on a symbolic dimension that would reflect a tormented expression of his creator. Rather, we were seeking a more subtle and abstract connection with his own concerns, as well as with his relationship to the world he inhabits and reflects upon through his work.
This is also due to the fact that the pieces we see in the film belong to Pablo Barreiro’s own body of work as a sculptor. They possess particular characteristics that were already steering the film in a certain direction, with a specific tone: we are not here in a setting where we could film a sculptor working at a potter’s wheel, which would be visually much more expressive. On the contrary, it is a more conceptual practice, which reflects on his environment and the creative process – a dimension that I admire and find particularly stimulating.
Furthermore, we did indeed return to certain film clips where artistic work plays an important role, though sometimes with a more practical concern: where does a particular filmmaker position their camera? How do they show the process of ‘thinking through’ the character’s next move in relation to their work?
In my view, ceramics also play another role: that of a metaphor for filmmaking, its transformations and its eventual decline. Do you consider this level of interpretation to be important in the film?
Indeed, there is a layer of interpretation that points in this direction — when the ceramist character speaks of being part of a more industrial creative system, of being part of a production line, of letting go of one’s own ego and of the beauty that lies in that — which seems clearer to me now, even though I don’t think it was obvious from the outset.
This is a wonderful insight on the part of Pablo García Canga, which, at a certain point, crystallised into this analogy. It struck us as capturing the character’s innermost feelings; indeed, it is one of the rare moments when he truly speaks, expressing his ideas on ceramics.
At a certain stage in the writing process, alongside other projects of varying scales, we developed what was to become Pablo’s first feature film, Las tierras del cielo, which we shot shortly afterwards under extremely limited production conditions (practically the entire shoot was carried out by the two of us as the sole technical crew, which is rather absurd for a fiction film featuring nine actors).
In this film, Pablo imagined another possible film: a Japanese film from the 1940s or 1950s, inspired by the cinema of Naruse, Shimizu and other filmmakers. I suppose part of this reflection also stems from there – from that deep understanding of a body of work by filmmakers, writers and actors put at the service of a film.
When I began to put my ideas down on paper, my own conflict probably had more to do with seeking an analogy between carrying out ‘manual’ work and the abstract nature of film production today, in a context where everything has become extremely structured and subject to an industrial logic. But it was also about the relationship each of us has with our own creative drive, which inevitably leads us to ask, at every stage, whether it is still necessary to continue down this path, given the difficulty and the immense challenge that making a film represents today, and whether this effort is worth it.
I suppose Pablo managed to capture this still-elusive conflict and reflect it through that extraordinary machinery that was the studio system, which enabled the existence of much of the cinema to which we remain emotionally attached.
I find the actors’ performances particularly impressive.
They come from different backgrounds. Denis Gómez has had a longer career in film and television. He came to be in the film thanks to a very close friend, the director Marta Pazos, to whom I always submit my projects so that she can suggest names and leads. There was no casting process. We met in a café, had a chat, and it was decided on the spot that Denis would be part of the film.
We didn’t really know each other, but we immediately sensed that he was the one. Over time, we discovered that Denis actually shares many traits with the character of Pablo, even though he is usually cast in very different roles, in which he is asked to express his emotions more openly rather than working with restraint and subtlety.
Violeta’s case is different. We’ve known each other since the release of my previous film, Las altas presiones, in 2014, as Itsaso Arana, who starred in the film, was her co-star in the theatre company La Tristura. I admired their work and had already hoped to involve both of them in this project, although, in the end, only Itsaso took part, in what was her first film.
From that moment on, we became friends and have bumped into each other regularly over the years, despite the fact that I live in Galicia and they live in Madrid.
At a very early stage of the writing process, when the character of Andrea was still only vaguely defined, I began to think of Violeta as the person to embody her. She was living in Iowa at the time, had just published her first collection of poetry, and suddenly this image – along with these words – connected with that of the character I was in the process of inventing. From that point on, the character became more real, thanks to this projection, and began to develop from her – or rather, from the idea I had of her.
The real work then consisted of convincing Violeta to take part in the film, to make her want to do it. She is much more used to working behind the scenes than to acting, let alone in front of a film camera.
I’m telling you all this because I don’t believe there was, strictly speaking, any direction of the actors in the traditional sense of the term. Of course, there are always instructions, conversations and agreements between the actors and me. But what matters more is a prior intention, a choice, a connection.
If Violeta comes across so authentically in the film, it is because the character springs partly from her own being and because there is a shared set of references between us — literary, artistic, life experiences — which serve as a foundation and remind us why we do this: cinema, literature, whatever.
In a way, certain scenes exist precisely because there is this trust, this certainty of knowing who is on the other side and that they will naturally receive this material and make it their own.
It’s also worth noting that, as it took a particularly long time to secure funding – as is often the case with this sort of low-budget production – we made a short film together back in 2021, Así vendrá la noche, which served both as a teaser and a prequel to the feature film.
That shoot allowed us to put ourselves to the test, even though the two actors weren’t yet actually working together. In particular, Denis was able to meet Pablo Barreiro, the sculptor who inspired the film’s starting point, spend time with him and observe him in his studio. This allowed us to work together to find the right tone for the film, in an extremely low-key set-up with just three people on the technical crew, and to see how we connected through this process.
After that, it was mainly a matter of building trust. Despite a short and demanding shoot, we took the time to be together, to rehearse on location, to share moments and to get to know each other better.
I also believe it is worth highlighting just how well their respective experiences and personalities complemented one another in the making of the film. Denis brought his technical expertise to Violeta, whilst she gave him the opportunity to perform in a way that was very different from what is usually required of him in other productions.
The film’s mysterious or symbolic dimension is emphasised by at least three aspects: the significance of the night — right from the title —, of dreams, and of the demonic character of the campsite warden (another superb performance).
Like much of the creative process, these are elements that emerge intuitively – from a poetic source, if you like – before being subjected to a more structured process that is more dependent on narrative requirements.
For me, the idea of night evoked a whole world of the spectral – that moment when thoughts wander more freely and we enter a more liminal state. That is where I situated the reflections that Pablo’s character never directly expressed, but which I sensed were present within him. That is where the film was born.
The project also emerged from certain as yet vague images of desire — the headlights of a car travelling along a back road in the middle of the night — which, even when they were not ultimately filmed, fuelled our imagination as we constructed the narrative.
The title came to me very early on too, when I still only had a handful of notes. I was watching a film by Man Ray, Les Mystères du Château du Dé, when the phrase ‘Thus came the night’ appeared as an intertitle. It produced one of those marvellous effects unique to silent cinema: thanks to a simple cut, the appearance of the intertitle and an ellipsis marking the transition from day to night, something deeply moving emerged.
I had the feeling that there was something there that resonated with those scattered notes I carried within me, for no other reason than intuition. I believe that mystery is essential when developing a film, especially for oneself: one must preserve it, safeguard that space which allows desire to remain alive amidst processes that are often very hostile to intuition.
And it is from the night that this campsite warden also emerges, like a sort of conscience giving voice to some of the characters’ fears. Without wishing to make him a strictly symbolic figure, we quickly realised that he too had to occupy a boundary, between reality and another realm.
This character — directly inspired by Roberto Bolaño and some of his protagonists — helped us shift a film that could easily have fallen into a fairly conventional form of naturalism — that of a couple’s story set against a holiday backdrop — towards a more ambiguous, perhaps more unexpected tone. Thanks to him, the film could incorporate narrative elements that bordered on the mysterious, with imagery at times reminiscent of a Western or even a detective film.
All this stems from the fact that the narrative hinges on a central situation—the disappearance of the main character—which could not be approached from a purely realistic angle without becoming a problem of a different nature: more concrete, less cinematic.
Interviewed by Manuel Asín
