”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
The Yellow Tie is a rich, wondrous and intimate journey into a life dedicated to music, it is a film made by a son about his father, by a storyteller about a legendary musician, bearing the soul and craft of Sergiu Celibidache. It is not just a musical biopic, it transcends genres and makes it universally relatable. Born in Neamț, Romania, and brought up in Iași, Sergiu Celibidache dreamed of becoming a musician and he went out into the world to fulfill his dream, even if he had to sacrifice what he held dearest, his family. This film encourages you to dream, to believe in yourself and in your destiny. Director Serge Celibidachi captures an entirely new and unexpected voice (even to those familiar to maestro Celibidache’s work), that of an innovative and experimental musician, a powerful personality and a conflicting human being, brought to life by two intense and extraordinary performances from Ben Schnetzer and John Malkovich, who play Sergiu Celibidache at different stages of his life. There are moments in the film that allow the viewers to experience the feeling that “making music” seems to respond to a human need, to something deeper than creativity itself, to something that’s related to the impulse to communicate a perpetual search of complete freedom. I think it was Nadia Boulanger who said that “your music can never be more or less than you are as a human being”, and that’s exactly what I took away at the end of the film. The Yellow Tie is essentially a film about a brilliant conductor, an uncompromising artist, a grand and truthful man and musician, a dreamer. And essentially that’s the story we want.
I have had the pleasure to talk to production designer Vlad Vieru at length about the film in what, to my joy, must be one of the most in-depth incursions into the production design process. He also takes us through how they recreated decades past and an array of countries inside one single city, Bucharest, and made it all feel believable, while still keeping a rich, cinematic look, reflects on why cinemas still matter, and shares the beginnings of his working in film with Anthony Minghella and Dante Ferretti.
Ben Schnetzer as young Sergiu Celibidache in ”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
First of all, congratulations on The Yellow Tie. How did you get to work on the project?
Thank you very much. I’m so happy this film finally gets to be seen. For me, it was a very special project, in which I was introduced to Serge by one of the producers, Andrei Boncea, with whom I’d worked many times before. At that moment, we had just wrapped another project that he thought might be relevant — not so much for its visual similarities, but for its thematic and logistical approach, which felt oddly familiar. It was also centered around an artist’s life and required us to recreate the artistic world of show business, the pre–World War II era, and various places across America and Europe — all while shooting entirely in one single city, Bratislava.
With The Yellow Tie, the challenge was somehow similar, but on a completely different scale. This time we had to bring to life a whole range of historical periods and countries inside Bucharest — and make it all feel believable, while still keeping a rich, cinematic look. It had to be both about realism and visual beauty.
So, I met Serge, and honestly, it was hard not to like him from the very first moment. He’s one of those rare people who are completely real — full of life, sharp humor, and absolutely free of any of the arrogance you might (unfairly) expect from the son of such a legend. What really got me was how deeply he loved the project. His energy was contagious — you couldn’t help but get swept up in it. I guess we both felt that kind of easy chemistry right away.
What was the starting point of your work as production designer on the film, in creating, or recreating, this believable and authentic world that tells the story of Sergiu Celibidache and that takes us around the globe, from Iasi to Bucharest to Berlin, London, South America, Italy, Paris and Japan?
The first step was aligning with Serge’s vision of the project — understanding his way of seeing the story and identifying the essential narrative elements that define both the characters and their emotional journey. Because beyond the basic function of recreating a time or a place, sets have to serve the story. They reveal who the characters are, they underline emotions, and sometimes they even amplify certain moments in the script.
So, in the beginning, it’s really about building that visual backbone — the structure that supports the story from a design point of view. After that, comes setting a clear hierarchy of priorities and approaches. In some cases, historical accuracy becomes the main goal; in others, the precision of certain details matters more; and sometimes it’s all about conveying a particular mood or emotional tone. It’s a process of synthesis — deciding what we want to say, visually.
And then comes the second part: how. That’s where the hard work begins — creating a visual identity, a sort of guideline that gives every scene its direction through color, texture, light, and physical detail. Once that’s in place, we can decide, scene by scene, whether it can be adapted to an existing location or if we need to build it — completely or partially — or extend it through CGI. Of course, the technical needs of the shoot also play a huge role. Sometimes lighting setups or camera movements dictate whether we build or use a location.
For The Yellow Tie, one of the very first things Serge cared deeply about was recreating the house near Paris where Maestro Celibidache spent his final years — a former watermill turned into a manor in La Neuville-sur-Essonne, still owned by the family today. Some rooms, like the Maestro’s study, have been kept untouched, almost sacred. That gave us the rare opportunity to study the space in detail and rebuild it near Bucharest, on the shore of Lake Balotești. Serge wanted a faithful representation of specific areas — the study, the barn, the living room where he used to teach his students — so in these cases, authenticity and accuracy took the lead.
Other spaces, however, were more open to interpretation. For example, Ioana’s painting studio or young Miki’s (Serge’s) bedroom didn’t have strong personalities in real life, so I reimagined them in a way that served the spirit of the story better — with richer colors, textures, and layers, more suggestive visually than strictly realistic.
For Celibidache’s childhood home in Iași, we shot in an old house in Bucharest that captured the spirit of the 1920s. We didn’t want it to look modest — Demostene, his father, was a respected figure — but neither opulent. The goal was to create a warm, idealized memory of that home, because, after all, it’s seen through the lens of nostalgia. So, in this case, atmosphere and emotion mattered more than historical accuracy.
We chose the house for its spatial quality — the way all the rooms flowed into one another, allowing for a beautiful overlap of colors, textures, and controlled details we carefully added. It was a complete transformation of an existing location — a kind of set construction within a real space.
Other scenes were shot in existing locations with additional set dressing — like the Venice hotel room or the nightclub where Sergiu worked alongside Ortancia, both shot in small palaces on Calea Victoriei. Some were entirely digital, such as the Basilica San Marco in Venice or the Titania Palast in Berlin. And the list could go on, but I’ll stop here before readers start quietly scrolling away. :o)
Setting the scene for ”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
“What was important for me was to recreate not only
the visual richness of that environment, but also the sense
of balance and order it reflected. It was a space that spoke
a lot about Celibidache’s personality — his discipline, his sense
of harmony, and his connection to both music and tradition.“
We often see Celibidache in his old days (played by John Malkovich) in his home studio, with a wall filled with vintage musical instruments as background. The elegant simplicity of his life there beautifully contrasts with the early grandiose scenes in the limelight. What else did he like to be surrounded with?
Celibidache’s house with his studio was one of the main sets we built entirely from scratch. As I mentioned earlier, we followed very closely the spirit of the real house — the one the Maestro himself had transformed into a true corner of Romania in the French countryside.
Besides his impressive collection of rare musical instruments, especially in his studio, the house was filled with Romanian traditional objects: wooden carvings, ceramics, pieces of folk costume, and many other handmade artifacts. Even at the architectural level, you could see his attachment to his roots — details of traditional joinery, a Maramureș-style wooden gate, and structural elements inspired by rural craftsmanship.
When rebuilding it near Bucharest, we aimed to respect those proportions, materials, and textures that would make the place feel authentic — like a home genuinely shaped by him rather than a simple reproduction. But we also allowed ourselves some interpretive touches where it felt meaningful.
For instance, in the barn where Celibidache used to teach his students, I decided to add a large wooden gear mechanism — the kind you’d find in an old watermill, something you’d expect in an ethnographic museum rather than a film set. The original house in France no longer preserved such elements, but I liked the idea of bringing them back — not necessarily to express more clearly the old mill conversion, but for the metaphor it carried. Those handcrafted wooden gears, made with precision and soul, echoed the same values Celibidache himself was passing on to his students while teaching in that space.
What was important for me was to recreate not only the visual richness of that environment, but also the sense of balance and order it reflected. It was a space that spoke a lot about Celibidache’s personality — his discipline, his sense of harmony, and his connection to both music and tradition.
Wouldn’t it have been easier to film in the house near Paris?
I’m not sure filming in the real house would have been simplier or cheaper. But, “easier” doesn’t always translate into “better,” especially when we’re dealing with a space as personal and meaningful as Celibidache’s home.
The house near Paris still belongs to the family, and Sergiu’s studio is preserved exactly as he left it. There’s a sense of respect and sanctity around that space. Bringing in a full crew for many shooting days would have required a lot of caution. A film set means hundreds of people moving equipment, cables, lights, rigs — and even the most careful crew isn’t the ideal guest in a place that carries so much emotional weight. Accidents can happen easily.
Building the set from scratch gave us the freedom to avoid all that pressure and, more importantly, to shape the space in a way that truly served the story. It allowed us to recreate the lost elements, control proportions and natural light, and introduce or adjust details whenever needed. It’s the kind of flexibility you simply don’t get when shooting in a real, lived-in home.
At the end of the day, the decision wasn’t about avoiding the authentic house. It was about creating the version of it that the film needed.
“At the end of the day, the decision wasn’t about
avoiding the authentic house. It was about creating
the version of it that the film needed.”
John Malkovich and Miranda Richardson as Sergiu and Ioana Celibidache
in ”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
The film was directed by Sergiu Celibidache’s son, Serge Celibidachi, and that must have been an important resource for creating the universe in which the musician lived and work. What other research did your work imply? Did you also watch any films as reference?
Working directly with Serge was a real privilege — it gave me the opportunity to step, quite literally, inside Sergiu Celibidache’s world. Having access to authentic documentation made our work much easier in those situations where accuracy truly mattered. But more importantly, it allowed me to understand and feel the character — his way of perceiving beauty, nature, precision, and harmony. Those were values I tried to absorb and reflect in the visual concept of the film.
Of course, I also relied on all the historical material I could find — films, photographs, and visual references from different periods. But as I mentioned before, historical or geographical accuracy wasn’t always the goal. Inspiration often came from more unexpected places.
For instance, when designing the childhood home and the classroom (a set that unfortunately didn’t make it into the final cut), I found a series of late 19th- and early 20th-century Russian paintings that captured exactly the kind of emotion I was looking for. Their sensitivity, nostalgia, and subtle light felt far more relevant to what we wanted to express than any archival photo or documentary reference.
In the end, I think that’s what made the process so special — it wasn’t just about recreating reality, but about interpreting it through the same kind of harmony and sensitivity that defined Celibidache himself.
I like that. Even in a biographical feature film, it is not just realism that we, as viewers, are looking for. And this is one of those films that have the power to bond with the audience on so many levels.
Absolutely. Realism anchors the story, but it’s the emotional resonance that creates a bond with the viewer.
”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
Was it more challenging to define the image of young Celibidache? He leaves his childhood home early and for much of the film we see him as he is trying to make a name of himself and then perform on the biggest scenes of the world. It’s clear that is music that defines him, and not much else. But was there any thing in particular that helped Ben Schnetzer inhabit his character?
Unlike the sets that reflected Celibidache’s later years — the world surrounding John Malkovich’s character — those created for his youth, played by Ben Schnetzer, had to follow his entire evolution from an ambitious student to a mature artist. They had to capture not only change and growth, but also the consistency of the values he inherited in his early years.
We started from the safety and warmth of his childhood home — an almost idyllic space from which he draws his lifelong sense of beauty. That’s probably why this particular set could be “accused” of being a bit exaggerated — a richness of color, texture, and detail that some might call overdesigned. But it was deliberate: that visual abundance was meant to mirror the intensity of memory and emotion.
“We started from the safety and warmth of his childhood home —
an almost idyllic space from which he draws his lifelong
sense of beauty.”
From there, we moved into a succession of environments reflecting his inner journey. One of them was 1930s Bucharest, and in particular the nightclub where he works alongside Ortancia. At first, there were debates about whether that space should look dark, shabby, and oppressive — to express his loneliness and uncertainty at that point. But we decided instead to show it through his own perception of beauty — the way Sergiu would still find grace and harmony even in a decadent setting. So, we designed that place — essentially a brothel — in a romantic, almost melancholic key, where the decadence never turns vulgar, but remains aesthetic.
Then came Berlin — where Sergiu’s artistic identity takes shape. The apartment where he studies with Maestro Tiessen, the conservatory, the Berlin streets before and during the war — each space reflecting the transition between idealism and experience. Later, South America marks his period of disorientation and search, followed by the rediscovery of balance through his encounter with Ioana in Buenos Aires and his return to Europe. Throughout all these places and time periods, the focus was never just on historical accuracy, but on the emotional truth of each moment.
As for whether something specific helped Ben Schnetzer embody the character — I don’t think I could identify one single thing; only he could really answer that. But I do remember one day, while we were shooting the bombing sequence in Berlin, Ben came up to me and said how much it helped him that the environment around him was so powerful and real — a full 360-degree world he could move through. He said it made it much easier to step into the moment and into the character. For me, I think it was one of the best compliments I could dream at.
The camera often captures only a fraction of what we build. We prepare much more than what’s visible on screen, because we rarely know exactly which angles or movements will end up in the final cut. For example, for the “Berlin 1936” sequence — when Sergiu first meets Tiessen — we transformed an entire street in Bucharest’s Old Town into pre-war Berlin, down to the smallest details: added illuminated shop windows with correctly priced products, street signage, even a café interior with printed menus on the tables. In the film, you barely see a few lights in the background, but for the actors, all those details mattered. They felt the authenticity of the space — and I’d like to believe that atmosphere quietly seeps into their performances.
Recreating the childhood home of Sergiu Celibidache. ”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
The production designer has to know every visual aspect of the movie; he along with the costume designer, set decorator and cinematographer, they are in charge with creating the look of the film. How was your collaboration with them?
I had already worked twice before with the costume designer, Alessandro Lai, so our collaboration started from a place of trust and familiarity. We already knew how to communicate efficiently and didn’t need any adjustment period — we were immediately on the same wavelength.
I met the cinematographer, Peter Menzies Jr., for the first time on this film, and I have to admit I was a bit intimidated at first. His background is impressive — more than thirty years of experience and a long list of major Hollywood productions. From my point of view, the relationship between the production designer and the director of photography is probably the most crucial one, because the DP is the person who can truly bring a set to life — or completely flatten it.
But very quickly, on our first meeting, that initial feeling turned into admiration and trust. Peter is a true gentleman — open, collaborative, and incredibly humble and respectful of everyone’s work. From prep to the final shooting days, our exchange worked in perfect sync. We didn’t need long discussions to align; we simply understood each other’s intentions. And that harmony, I think, became visible on the big screen.
As for the rest of the team — the two set decorators, Andreea Popa and Nora Dumitrecu, along with the art directors, graphic designers, painters, set designers, leadmen, and swing gang — they are all part of my core team, my family I would always trust to build our world. With them, everything flows naturally, because we’ve been through so many battles together. What I loved about this project was how personally everyone took it. Nobody treated it like just another job — everyone poured something of themselves into it.
Whatever recognition the film’s visual world receives, it belongs to all of us. I was very lucky to be surrounded by such passionate and talented people. I know it may sound like a cliché, but people outside this industry can hardly imagine how much the final result depends on the dedication of all these individuals working behind the scenes.
“The relationship between the production designer and
the director of photography is probably the most crucial one,
because the DP is the person who can truly bring a set to life —
or completely flatten it.”
I absolutely agree. Artists of so many crafts weave the threads that spun the illusion we watch so intently. And it is so true for this film. Is this hands-on experience on a set something usual in your filmmaking experience so far?
Yes, collaboration has always been a hands-on process for me. But on The Yellow Tie it reached a different level. Something about the subject, and about Celibidache himself, made everyone invest more than usual. That kind of unity doesn’t happen on every project, and it made this experience truly special.
”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
Celibidache’s reticence to recorded music and the lengths he went to hinder that from happening comes through in the film. What was your personal connection to his music?
To be honest, I truly discovered the philosophy behind Celibidache’s music only when I started working on this project and began researching his life. I spent quite a lot of time watching every interview I could find online, completely absorbed by his energy and his very distinctive personality.
Of course, I knew about Maestro Celibidache before, but not in depth. And to be even more honest — at the risk of exposing my own superficiality in this area — it was only through this film that I really understood the crucial importance of the conductor within an orchestra and a performance. Until then, I had always seen the conductor’s role as something more technical, a matter of coordination. I had never quite understood how enormous — and yet how subtle — his creative contribution truly is.
As for Celibidache’s philosophy and his refusal to allow recordings of his concerts, it’s hard for me to take a definite position. I fully understand the philosophical reasoning behind it, and I admire and respect it deeply — especially now that, thanks to this film, I’ve also understood the personal sacrifices behind that conviction. At the same time, I can’t help but acknowledge the paradox: precisely because of this film, I found myself wishing there were more recordings of his work. Through it, I also discovered how differently the same piece can sound when interpreted by various conductors — the nuances, the sensibility, the emotion — which somehow contradicts that very principle. So yes, I understand his stance, but I also selfishly wish I could listen to him more easily. Because — being painfully honest — I find myself agreeing with that line in the film, in the scene where Sergiu records a concert in a London studio and is not at all happy with the result. After a long debate, the manager says: “With all due respect, Maestro, most of us can’t hear the difference.”
I completely agree. Firstly, I think that not many people are very familiar with the complexities of the profession of a music conductor, and that’s why I think that this film does a brilliant job at bridging that gap. Secondly, after I saw the film, I myself started to look for recordings of Sergiu Celibidaches’s music, and in the one place I did find a collection of cd’s, they told me there has been a significant demand for his music precisely because of the film. And I would like to go back to an early Berlin scene in the film, when Sergiu is auditioning for the conservatory and stops the orchestra and tells them to begin again and again because he is searching for a specific sound and rhythm. That’s one of my favourite scenes in the film, exactly because it speaks so clearly about Sergiu Celibidache’s unique creative personality.
Is the story of the yellow tie in the film true? You don’t have to answer that, because I also want to ask: do we really need to know?
I’ll tell you this much: the story is not true… the actual tie wasn’t yellow… The rest is cinema.
“As for films I return to for inspiration… I try not to.”
”The Yellow Tie”, 2025, directed by Serge Celibidachi
When did you become interested in cinema as a profession? Is there a film (or more) you constantly reach for for inspiration?
I’d like to say I had some cinematic childhood epiphany… But, in reality I got into cinema the classic way: by accident. I was studying architecture, started doing set design for TV during university, and from there the fate did the rest. Transition to film happened because one project led to another, and once I discovered the magic of a movie set it was hard to stay away, so I had fun with it until I realised at some point that this had quietly become my profession.
As for films I return to for inspiration… I try not to. Not because I don’t have favourites — I do, plenty — but because limiting myself to a set of references can be dangerous in this job. As a production designer you need to be able to jump between aesthetics, and sometimes even “tune” your eye to the director’s personality or to the story’s needs. So yes, there are films I love, but I don’t treat them by default as a creative compass. If anything, my rule is to keep the compass moving.
”Later, through the 1960s James Bond films and Kubrick’s work,
I discovered Ken Adam — and suddenly there was a name
attached to that kind of world-building.”
I will rephrase the question and ask you if there has ever been a moment, when watching a film, before getting into filmmaking yourself, so visually powerful, that made you curious and fascinated and ask yourself: “Who is the architect of that? Who can create such things?”
I see… Probably, the first time I became aware of a “manufactureded visual world” in a film was in my 80’s childhood, watching “Star Wars”. That was probably the first time I realised someone had actually built that amazing enviroment.
If we talk about more “adult” examples that actually pointed me toward this profession, those appeared much later, during university, when I started developing a bit of visual culture and watching films with a different filter — probably the filter of the architecture student. I remember being fascinated to discover that the beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright–style house at the end of Hitchcock’s North by Northwest didn’t exist in reality, but was a built set.
Later, through the 1960s James Bond films and Kubrick’s work, I discovered Ken Adam — and suddenly there was a name attached to that kind of world-building. Again, probably because his designs had a strong architectural component, they made immediate sense to me. Looking back, those were the first moments when I started to wonder, not just “How did they make this?” but “Who creates these spaces?”
Setting for ”Cold Mountain”, 2003, directed by Anthony Minghella
I would like to go back a little to some of your earlier films. You were assistant art director on Cold Mountain. How was that experience like, working with Anthony Minghella and the legendary production designer Dante Ferretti? What is your fondest memory from the set?
It’s funny how this question makes me reconsider my earlier remark that “one project led to another.” Looking back, I realise my transition to film was Cold Mountain. And most likely, that project is what transformed a hobby into a career. My architectural background was actually one of the reasons I was selected for the team — the sets consisted mainly of 19th-century American houses, entirely built for real, down to the smallest detail.
So I suddenly found myself on this huge international production, surrounded not only by superstar actors and names like Anthony Minghella, but by Dante Ferretti himself — a multiple Oscar winner for Production Design — and his whole team of painters, sculptors, illustrators and art directors, the best in the business. And somehow I became part of that team as well. That’s where I truly learned how an art department works and how all the pieces fit together. It was my introduction to the craft at the highest possible level — the kind of level you don’t fully appreciate until much later, when you realise not every project looks like that.
And if I had to pick one fond memory, it’s a small one: I still keep the first sketch Dante scribbled for me on a corner of paper — just a tiny explanatory note about a detail on one of the houses. Nothing fancy, but for me it was a reminder of where everything started.
“Looking back, I realise my transition to film was Cold Mountain.
And most likely, that project is what transformed
a hobby into a career.”
And because we are talking about past projects, I would also like to ask you about Wind in the Willows, from 2006. That’s one of my favourite children’s book and much of my fascination with it comes from the way it has been illustrated over the years, my favourite editions being the original one, with illustrations by E.H.Shepard, and the version illustrated by Robert Ingpen. Did you reference any of the illustrations in creating the world of Badger, Mole, Ratty and Mr. Toad?
Wind in the Willows was a special project for me as well, especially because I had to Art Direct the entire underground world of Badger’s and Mole’s homes. Of course, it’s impossible to approach Wind in the Willows without being aware of Shepard’s or Ingpen’s heritage. But there wasn’t a direct or literal reference to their work, mainly because illustration and set design operate under very different rules.
It was a very particular constructive and aesthetic challenge: how to recreate a believable subterranean environment in physical sets and details while still keeping the storybook spirit captured by the classic illustrations.
That said, there’s always a kind of “background influence” that stays with you — when you grow up seeing certain images, or simply admiring them as an adult, some of that atmosphere inevitably filters through. But in terms of concrete references, on that particular project the approach was much more from a design-and-construction perspective than an illustration one. The real challenge was to build spaces and details that worked physically for the story, rather than to replicate a drawing on screen.
Creating the sets for “Wind in the Willows”, 2006, directed by Rachel Talalay
You were also the art director on Claude Lelouch’s Ces amours-la, a film that references the director’s own previous films, his favourite films and cinema itself. What does the movie theater experience mean to you? Why do movies still need cinemas? Could you share with us one of your most memorable cinema experiences?
Working on Ces amours-là with Claude Lelouch was interesting not only because the film is so self-referential — but also because it was one of the first projects that carried me through a wide range of historical periods, from the 1930s all the way to the 2000s. In that sense, it had something in common with The Yellow Tie: the constant jump between decades and visual worlds. It was a very good lesson in understanding how time shapes aesthetics, architecture, atmosphere — and how you keep coherence navigating all that.
As for what the movie theater experience means to me… I think cinemas matter because they impose a certain discipline and respect: you sit down, you focus, you don’t “pause” emotions. It’s one of the few places where the world stops for a while and you’re asked to simply pay attention.
Streaming is great, but it doesn’t impose that collective concentration that makes all the difference. A cinema forces you into a shared energy experience, and that changes the way a story hits you. Even the silence works differently when it’s shared by a room full of people.
As for a memorable cinema moment… it’s always difficult to choose just one — the question itself creates a bit of pressure, because there are so many films that impressed me for completely different reasons. So I’ll simply go with the first example that comes to mind, without over-analysing it: “Apocalypto”. On a big screen, the tension, the physicality, the sound, the sense of scale and realism made all the difference. That was a moment when you realise that some stories are designed to be experienced, not just watched. And that’s why cinemas still matter.
“The cinema is one of the few places where the world stops
for a while and you’re asked to simply pay attention.”
All the films we’ve talked about were international co-productions, as is more and more often the case worldwide. Does that give you strength for the future, that this is still a powerful medium to tell stories, and entertain and educate people?
I think international co-productions are simply the reality of how films get made today. And yes, they can be a real source of strength. They allow teams from different cultures and working habits to collaborate, and that mix often leads to better, more complex results.
From my own experience, working internationally keeps you sharp. It exposes you to different aesthetics, different locations, different ways of thinking, different expectations. It’s challenging — and most importantly, it’s almost never boring.
What gives me confidence for the future is not just the idea of cinema as a powerful medium, but the fact that filmmaking keeps adapting and always finds a way to adjust to whatever the ‘new times’ are imposing. Stories will always be told. I just hope cinema won’t forget that its role is not only to entertain, but also to question and educate — a balance that sometimes feels increasingly at risk today.
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