Léonor Serraille Interview – Berlinale 2025
Léonor Serraille is one of the most authentic voices in French contemporary cinema. Her storytelling is intimate, character-driven, deeply observational, rooted in realism, with an emphasis on emotional nuance and complex. She came to prominence in 2017 with “Jeune Femme” that received the Caméra d’Or award at Cannes where it premiered in the Un Certain Regard section, a post-Nouvelle Vague portrait of a young woman whose life is not unfolding as it should, according to society’s expectations. Think “Frances Ha,” but transplanted in a French milieu.
Her third feature “Ari,” bowed in the competition at Berlinale last month. The film follows a young man played by newcomer Andranic Manet, who seems to be going through a similar kind of existential crisis. There is less comedy and more drama here, the film abounds in moments of extreme personal anguish and vulnerability. It’a wonderful film full of genuine emotion. (To find out more about “Ari,” read the “Berlinale Film Festival Overview”).
The following interview with Léonor Serraille from Berlinale 2025 touches on her particular challenges as an independent filmmaker in France, her creative process and the narrative risks she took with “Ari.”
Dana Knight: How would you describe your filmmaking journey from “Jeune Femme” (2017) to “Un petit frère” (2022) to “Ari” (2025)?
Léonor Serraille: There’s a bit of the spirit of the times, and a lot of myself in all these three films, I believe…
“Jeune Femme” was about the need to express a voice — a woman’s voice — at a time before #MeToo, before Weinstein, when simply speaking openly could get you labeled as “loud-mouthed,” or showing a woman’s inner chaos in broad daylight could be called “hysterical.” That first film was an assertion of freedom, and to make it, I approached it like Paula — with a lot of freedom. That sense of freedom in early films, where you’re searching, making mistakes, feeling your way forward with a burning, vital momentum, strongly defined my cinematic universe. For me, the heart of my work is the characters, the people, the portraits — and, therefore, the actors.
In “Un petit frère,” I told the story of a family from Côte d’Ivoire, a world I knew intimately. The mother’s character — her struggle for freedom, the sacrifices she made for her sons’ success and to become French — was crucial for me to bring to the screen, especially at a time when the climate of far-right extremism and racism in France was becoming unbearable. Portraying this family in a novelistic setting, as heroes worthy of a grand French novel spanning 25 years — because they had an absolute right to such representation, both in cinema and in life — was my way of redressing the balance.
The portrait of “Ari” was born from a personal state of fragility, a kind of existential crisis. I was shaken — in a good way — in how I worked, pushing even further my desire to put actors at the center. I sought to write, direct and edit the film as if painting on a canvas — with instinct and freedom — to find meaning in our era. In “Jeune Femme,” we closely observed Paula; in “Ari,” I think we are with him. I tried to create a journey into his world, moving between ultra-sensitivity and lightness, a kind of film-poem about a person.
DK: As an independent filmmaker in France, do you think about your audience, or do you focus on telling the stories you want to tell, hoping they will find their audience?
LS: I didn’t really consider “the audience” until I felt the deep disappointment of my second film not reaching as many people as we had hoped, despite its Cannes selection. Journalists didn’t forgive me for telling the story of my children’s father because I was a white woman. But to me, a female filmmaker has the right and duty to tell the stories she chooses and to feel legitimate as an artist.
The audience didn’t want to see “the struggles of a Black family coming to invade us” (as I read in an online comment…). I felt there was an overwhelming enthusiasm for “Jeune Femme” — perhaps too much, even? — and that this second film, which was more complex and profound, didn’t find its place. Since I was deeply attached to it, and had put so much of myself into it, I found that difficult. It depressed me, I’ll admit. But that passes — it’s part of the job.
The audience comes in a second phase. If you choose independent auteur cinema, you know it’s part of the game. You can’t control what happens after. When I write, when I’m on set, when I’m editing, I always try to connect with someone — but that someone is humanity, not a demographic or a market segment. It’s not about gender, skin color, or a defined audience. It’s about the Other, the sensitive being I want to connect with. That’s broader than a “public.”
DK: What do you appreciate most about being an independent filmmaker?
LS: I don’t know… The profound sense of freedom at every stage, from writing to production, having full creative control.
I came to cinema after falling into Cassavetes’ world. I couldn’t work any other way, which also limits me in terms of collaborations or co-writing. That said, I’m open to being challenged, and I think I’d really enjoy directing a series — surprisingly enough.
It’s also about the state you’re in when you work. The intensity. If I ever stop feeling shaken and obsessed with seeing a film through to the end, I’ll quit.
DK: What is your creative process like? Do you read a lot? Watch a lot of films? Do you sit in cafés, observing the world, drawing inspiration from faces, reactions and overheard conversations?
LS: I followed a very “academic” path — thesis writing, accountability, strict frameworks. So in my creative process, I do the opposite: I leave room for instinct and intuition, even at the risk of making mistakes.
I do read a lot and watch many films, but I’m mainly driven by what I experience, what I feel about life. That infuses my work.
I write in cafés to be close to people. I spent too much time on the theoretical and cerebral, so now I like discovering things that aren’t perfectly “by the book.” Especially in screenwriting — I never follow set rules. I’m always searching for what feels right, what’s subtle, what reveals people in their complexity. Because reality and our era desperately lack that, in my eyes.
In creation, I seek my own form of letting go. Strangely, one might think filmmaking requires control, but I seek the opposite: I want the film to take hold of me, for it to control me.
DK: In “Ari,” the character finds unexpected joy in fatherhood. Is this something you’ve observed in Generation Z, or is it your own speculative solution to their existential struggles?
LS: It’s something I mainly heard during my one-hour interviews with young actors while writing the film. The women prioritized work in their future plans, while the men spoke a lot about fatherhood — but also about their wounds and vulnerabilities.
That surprised me too, and I liked it. I wasn’t expecting it either. I also enjoyed the contrast with “Jeune Femme” — a kind of mirror image.
Despite the slow pace of social change, things are evolving. Men are less afraid to discuss their fragility and their need for tenderness. I wanted to put that at the heart of the film, avoiding sentimentality, aiming instead for depth.
I thought a lot about how men might still relate to Paula, and how women might be moved by “Ari.” They are bridges — ways to better understand how we function, to express what matters in life.
Tenderness is also a man’s affair. We need to build together; we’re not necessarily in conflict.
DK: Regarding the film’s narrative execution, you took some considerable risks with this film. Can you talk about your approach?
LS: I wanted very little to “happen” — just conversations — but for Ari to slowly experience epiphanies, as if a bud were blooming inside him.
For me, that’s a kind of cinematic suspense: what happens inside us. That fascinates me in people, both in life and on screen. But yes, it was a gamble, because it’s all about sensations and sensitivity. The lead actor had to be magnetic, compelling us to follow him through small internal shifts.
In this film more than in my first two, I sought to step into the canvas of the painting, to get as close as possible to his inner world. Everything had to feel fluid, almost aquatic.
DK: One of my favorite scenes is the one with Ari and Aurore (played by Eva Lallaier Juan) in which they’re confronting two opposite world views. There’s a very delicate balance of seriousness and comedy in it, how did you manage that?
LS: I particularly like it when, in a very short time in a scene, you can try to reveal a lot about someone, and unexpected shifts occur. Clara protects herself with concepts and postures, but in reality, she’s suffering, like many others. And with a few questions, Ari confronts her, without any ill will on his part. He’s feverish, and his condition lays others bare, with a kind of elegance and radicality. That’s what we worked on with the actors: his strength, despite his vulnerability, as if he had a “power” to get to the heart of things. Lucidity leads to light; it can be joyful and painful at the same time. It allows you to be very lively in tone, because when you talk face to face in life, the words chosen by the other can suddenly either hurt you or make you burst out laughing. It’s very special. The “serious–comedy” balance is not so much a goal that I seek, but for me it’s how I feel the present, and I try to make the present as accurately as possible. Life is terribly serious and dark or melancholic, and terribly funny all at the same time.
DK: The father–son relationship takes center stage in the film and the scene in which the father apologizes to the son for not being there for him is very moving. The film is full of genuine emotion overall. Did these scenes require many takes?
LS: No more than the other scenes, I think, but the night scene, in which Ari joins his father in bed because he can’t sleep, wasn’t easy because we were looking for many different things, and at one point I thought we were getting lost, or maybe I wanted the father to cry, without wanting him to cry, and I was getting lost in my expectations. In reality, we didn’t want him to break down too much at that moment. We didn’t want to spoil the ending. But for other scenes, like the first or last, we didn’t need many takes. I think the flashback was only one take. There was a very beautiful relationship between Pascal and Andranic, I really liked how they talked between takes, they formed a family, I even added scenes for them during filming, the flashback in which Ari announces to his father that Irene is pregnant, and another scene, my favorite, but which is not in the film because it would have been too “strong” and unbalanced their last scene.
DK: Your cinema brings to mind that of Mia Hansen-Løve and Joachim Trier. Who are your influences—classic or contemporary?
LS: That’s funny — no one’s made that comparison before! I don’t know their work well enough (shame on me!), but I’ll dive into it. I love Bergman, Cassavetes, Pialat, Capra, Engels and Ruth Orkin — they were strong catalysts for my desire to film.In recent years, I’ve enjoyed discovering Eliza Hittman’s cinema, and I’ve revisited Godard. I worry about the future of French independent film. I hope we can sustain our incredible system, which allows for such diversity and vitality.