The cinematic year 2024 can be defined as one of entrapment, a recurring theme where characters across a diverse spectrum of films find themselves ensnared in vicious cycles with seemingly no escape. From the ominous shadows of Smile 2 (Parker Finn) and the unsettling moral landscapes of Kinds of Kindness (Yorgos Lanthimos) to the raw intensity of The Substance (Coralie Fargeat), from the poignant transitional struggles in Aïcha (Mehdi Barsaoui) to the journeys of Anora (Sean Baker) and Emilia Pérez (Jacques Audiard), and from the animated sorrow of Memoir of a Snail (Adam Elliot) to the dystopian critique in The Assessment (Fleur Fortuné) and the historical reckoning of Nickel Boys (RaMell Ross), these narratives share a deeply resonant theme.

Protagonists, whether drawn from reality or fiction, and spanning timelines from the distant past to speculative futures, are depicted as trapped – socially, economically, culturally, or personally. These stories dramatise a profound sense of entrapment, as though an inescapable curse shadows their every move, rendering them powerless to alter their seemingly predetermined fates.

Among the films that explore themes of entrapment, Laura Carreira’s On Falling stands out for its raw, realistic portrayal of such circumstances. The film centres on Aurora, a Portuguese immigrant woman working in a warehouse in Scotland, whose existence is defined by monotonous repetition. Her days blur into one another, consumed by the mechanical task of scanning items, devoid of meaningful human connection or interaction. Carreira captures the tragedy of a life stripped of joy and fulfilment – a routine stretching from early morning to late evening, bleak and isolating. Trapped by economic necessity, the protagonist is unable to form relationships, enjoy leisure, or dream beyond the confines of her job, as her sole focus becomes saving for an uncertain future.

Carreira’s profound empathy for such characters is rooted in her earlier works, including The Shift (2020) and Red Hill (2018), where she similarly explores the struggles of individuals navigating economic hardships. In these films, Carreira illustrates how systemic pressures erode not only dreams but also the ability to experience even the simplest pleasures. Daily consumption, leisure, and a sense of self are rendered distant luxuries, replaced by an existence drained of vitality and meaning. 

The Shift

Red Hill

Work, as Carreira suggests, can consume and entangle individuals to the point of complete depletion, leaving them hollow, disconnected, and devoid of energy. For immigrant labourers, this harsh reality is compounded by additional challenges such as language barriers and the alienation of adapting to unfamiliar environments. The isolation and alienation they face amplify the already demanding nature of their work, making their struggles even more poignant.

Carreira captures these lives with authenticity and quiet precision, focusing on undramatic yet profoundly human moments – the empty routines, the mundane struggles, and the small details of a life lived on the margins. She brings attention to the challenges of living in shared accommodations with communal kitchens, where social distance often grows, and time is more frequently spent on mobile phones than in meaningful interaction with others. Through her thoughtful and understated approach, Carreira gives voice to those trapped in cycles of isolation, shedding light on their struggles with dignity and respect.

This approach is epitomised in one of the film’s most affecting scenes: during a job interview, the protagonist is asked about her spare time. Her attempt to describe her dreams ends in an emotional breakdown, her tears reflecting the overwhelming weight of her circumstances. The raw vulnerability of this moment grips the audience’s hearts, highlighting the quiet devastation of her life.

As a Portuguese filmmaker educated in Scotland, Carreira brings authenticity and personal insight to her storytelling. Her work feels deeply thoughtful, shaped by her lived experiences and genuine understanding of the struggles faced by marginalised individuals. This sincerity and grounded perspective make her films compelling, relatable, and heartbreakingly real, offering a cinematic window into lives that are often overlooked.

As the final days of December 2024 unfolded, I found myself reflecting on the year’s cinematic offerings while attempting to write this introduction for our interview. My thoughts wandered as I watched the last episodes of Squid Game (Hwang Dong-hyuk) season two, followed by I Saw the TV Glow (Jane Schoenbrun) and No Other Land (Yuval Abraham, Basel Adra, Rachel Szor, and Hamdan Ballal). The characters from these works seemed to echo the chaos and sadness of the real world, as I sought to find meaning or a glimmer of hope amid the turmoil.

In one episode of Squid Game, a character, surrounded by the brutality and bloodshed of desperate individuals vying for money to escape their debts, delivers a striking line: “I think the outside is scarier.” She isn’t wrong. The show serves as a stark metaphor for the relentless struggles of existence – our endless pursuit to earn, survive, and navigate societal, economic, gender, and migratory inequities. These challenges can feel suffocating, leaving us trapped in cycles of survival with little room for reflection or reprieve.

I hope we are not merely passive observers, consuming shows like Squid Game as thrilling entertainment while resigning ourselves to the inevitable suffering of its characters. The idea that their pain is destined, that their circumstances leave no room for change, mirrors a dangerous complacency in the real world. Instead, I hope films like On Falling, I Saw the TV Glow, and No Other Land – despite emerging from vastly different cinematic traditions – can inspire us to feel sympathy and empathy for the inner lives of their characters and, by extension, the real individuals they represent.

These films urge us to recognise the lonely and voiceless – both people and entire nations – trapped in seemingly inescapable circumstances. They challenge us to offer solidarity, to be present for those who need compassion and understanding. In many ways, the cries, screams, and hopeless shouts of the characters in these films demand more than passive acknowledgment; they ask us to truly listen and respond.

On Falling is particularly poignant in this regard, serving as a powerful reminder of the emotional burdens carried by those struggling in silence. One scene that lingers in my mind is the old man in the park who stayed with the protagonist until she awoke from what seemed to be a faint brought on by the sorrows piling upon her heart offers a lesson in humanity. Sometimes, it’s not about solving someone’s problems but simply being there – offering presence, empathy, and a moment of connection. We must value films like these, not just as art but as catalysts for awareness and change in a world that desperately needs both.

– H.S.

You’re originally from Portugal but now live and work in the UK as a filmmaker. What inspired you to move to the UK for your film career, and how was your experience during that transition?

I left Portugal in 2012, so it’s been nearly 12 years now. At the time, Portugal was in the midst of a severe economic crisis, and the chances of building a career in film there seemed very slim. I was already studying film in high school, as Portugal has public schools that offer arts education. One of my teachers suggested I look into a course in Edinburgh, which led me to visit Scotland. I applied to the program, got accepted, and decided to make the move.

To be honest, I wouldn’t have been able to study in England because the tuition fees were prohibitively expensive. In Scotland, however, I was still considered a European student at the time, which meant I qualified as a home student and received the same tuition benefits as Scottish students. That made it possible for me to pursue my studies.

Initially, I hadn’t planned on staying long-term – I came to Scotland purely to study. But as things unfolded, I never really left.

Laura Carreira

Your mention of the economic crisis in Portugal reminds me of how Portuguese filmmakers like Miguel Gomes have addressed similar challenges. Did you feel that the crisis influenced your perspective as a filmmaker? Were you always interested in making movies, or did your passion for filmmaking develop over time? 

Well, it depends on where you start the story. Portugal was under really intense austerity measures at the time, similar to what Greece experienced under the Troika. It was a challenging period, and the outlook for cinema – and many other industries – wasn’t very positive. For someone just finishing high school and trying to figure out their future, it was quite daunting to navigate life in such a difficult environment. The uncertainty and economic instability made it a very unsettling time to think about pursuing a career, especially in a field like filmmaking.

When I was really young, I thought I wanted to be an actress. I’d watch plays and films and think, ‘Oh, I’d love to do that.’ At the time, I didn’t realise there were so many people working behind the camera to create what I was watching. It was a very childlike view – wanting to be in front of the camera.

But as I entered my teenage years, I quickly realised that acting wasn’t really for me. I wasn’t cut out for it, and I naturally let go of that idea. Around the same time, in high school, I started being exposed to films in a deeper way, and I realised that what I truly wanted was to make them – to write and create stories. From then on, I had no desire to pursue acting; my focus shifted entirely to filmmaking.

Lisbon played a huge part in this journey. I studied in Lisbon, which has an incredible place like Cinémathèque called Cinemateca. It was an amazing hub for cinephiles, where I discovered a world of cinema beyond mainstream films. That’s where I first encountered directors like Jean-Luc Godard and John Cassavetes. Cassavetes, in particular, became my first real film obsession. His work deeply marked me at that time and shaped my understanding of what filmmaking could be.

It’s fascinating to see how your films carry a serious and reflective tone, often focusing on the more sombre and challenging aspects of human life. Were you always drawn to these kinds of themes from the beginning, or was your early exposure to cinema more typical – fantasy, cartoons, or comedies? Did this focus on the more serious dimensions of life and storytelling develop over time, perhaps influenced by your social background or personal experiences?

I think moving to Scotland at 18 was a pivotal moment for me. It was where I got my first jobs, began navigating adulthood, and really started to face the realities of the world. That experience shaped me deeply. At the same time, I was immersing myself in films, and there was this collision between what I was seeing on screen and what I was experiencing in real life.

I realised how much work dominated our lives – how we often work tirelessly just to scrape by, without ever really questioning it. At the time, I felt like cinema wasn’t reflecting that reality enough. It made me search for films that showed people working and struggling in everyday life. Seeing characters in movies who seemed so free – going on road trips or having grand adventures – felt so distant from my own experience. For me, taking a holiday wasn’t as simple as jumping in a car; I had to ask for permission, and there was always the chance I wouldn’t get the time off.

That contrast made me gravitate toward filmmakers like the Dardenne brothers and Ken Loach. Their films portrayed characters bound by the constraints of their circumstances, which resonated deeply with me. Watching those films during university had a profound impact on me. I felt they reflected a reality that I was living at the time. From that point on, I knew I wanted to make films that explored those themes – films grounded in the struggles and limitations of real life. I honestly don’t think I could make movies about anything else.

In your two short films that I’ve seen, even from your debut, you focus on characters who are deeply immersed in their work – individuals in blue-collar jobs who seem unable to see a future beyond their daily grind. This theme of being trapped in the routines of working life feels very personal. Do you think this focus comes from your own experiences of working to afford a living in Scotland? 

I think I would have experienced that shock regardless of where I was, but being in a foreign country made it even more intense. As a migrant, there’s an added layer of vulnerability – you don’t have the social ties and safety net that you would in your own country. That made the experience of working to get by feel even more raw and eye-opening for me.

Those work experiences shaped how I see the world, particularly how much we don’t talk about the realities of labour. It’s something we’ve normalised – this idea that you work your entire life to put a roof over your head and simply survive. It made me reflect on my own life, my parents’ lives, and the people around me. I realised just how much of our existence is tied to work, how dependent we are on jobs, and how little freedom that gives us.

Red Hill

The Shift

These reflections heavily influenced Red Hill and The Shift. Red Hill explores that moment of release from a lifetime of work – retirement – and what comes after. It’s about questioning the meaning and value of those years spent labouring. The Shift, on the other hand, is more focused on financial vulnerability – how precarious our lives become when we rely entirely on our jobs for income. It’s about being at the mercy of the job market and the systemic pressure that creates.

To me, these are the quiet struggles, almost like daily microaggressions, that people endure constantly. I felt it was important to bring those stories to the screen because I didn’t see enough films portraying work in this way. Often, labour is only the backdrop for something else in cinema, and while I understand why – work can be repetitive and perhaps not the most dynamic subject to watch – I found the challenge of capturing it compelling. I wanted to focus on the lives shaped by work and give those experiences the attention they deserve.

What strikes me about your films is how deeply observational they are. There are so many moments – like the quiet loneliness of a character scrolling through her phone, or the seemingly mundane yet telling dialogues between coworkers during lunch breaks. These aren’t just conversations; they reveal how each character exists in their own isolated world. For instance, we see one character trying to connect with Aurora but failing, and later, tragically, he passes away. That moment feels not just like his fate, but a potential fate for anyone in that environment, including the protagonist.

I wonder, do these scenes come from personal experience? Did your own time working in such environments give you a deeper understanding of these characters and their worlds? 

Yes, I think you’re absolutely right. While I never did the exact job that Aurora performs in the film, I knew that to portray it authentically, I’d need to do a lot of research. I spoke to a lot of pickers to learn about the work, and those conversations directly influenced the film. It became a blend of my personal observations – distilled into scenes – and the stories shared with me by people who were incredibly generous with their experiences.

One moment that stands out, for example, is the scene where Aurora talks about doing laundry in her free time. That line came directly from an interview. When I asked someone how they spent their free time, they simply said, ‘I do the laundry.’ It wasn’t a joke – it was an honest reflection of how little time or energy they had after work. That answer stuck with me because it highlighted how work can define even your personal time. Many of the people I spoke with described how exhausting their jobs were – not just physically but psychologically. They talked about loneliness, isolation, and the mental toll of working long, solitary shifts, often following scanners or performing repetitive tasks for 10 or 11 hours straight.

So, the film became a mosaic of these conversations, layered with my own perspective and observations of characters and situations I’ve encountered in life. The themes of loneliness and monotony emerged naturally from these insights, as did the depiction of how disconnected and isolating such work can be. These experiences – both lived and shared – helped shape the authenticity of the film and its characters.

In one scene of your film, there’s a powerful visual metaphor – a box caught on the conveyor belt, endlessly circling, never moving up or down. It powerfully reflects Aurora’s situation: stuck in motion, yet going nowhere, trapped in a repetitive life with no clear horizon. This metaphor seems to resonate not just with Aurora’s experience but also with the themes in your other films, Red Hill and The Shift, which similarly explore emotional and economic struggles.

For example, in The Shift, the focus on reduced-price groceries and the constant calculation of savings evokes a sense of being trapped by necessity. In Red Hill, there’s a poignant moment during the discussion of leisure time when the character remains silent, unable to articulate his experience. By contrast, in On Falling, Aurora’s tears capture the emotional weight of her situation.

As your debut, On Falling feels like a distillation of your recurring themes – the struggles of work, isolation, and survival. Would you say this film serves as a foundation for the concerns you’ve continued to explore throughout your work?

You might not have noticed, Those characters from my short films also appear in On Falling, though their presence might not be obvious – especially if you saw On Falling before watching the shorts…

You’re absolutely right – I hadn’t noticed them at all!

The man from Red Hill appears as the security guard who helps Aurora in the park, and the girl from The Shift is the one Aurora helps in the bathroom at the club.

Now everything makes perfect sense! The gentleman from Red Hill, almost as if coming from another universe, feels like the only person who could truly be there for her during her moment of breakdown. Similarly, the connection between the two women is so poignant – they seem to instinctively understand and comfort each other, even if only briefly and in seemingly unrelated circumstances.

I like the idea that all these characters exist within the same world and that their paths might cross, even briefly.

On Falling

You’ve mentioned Ken Loach as one of your role models, and it’s clear your work shares his focus on working-class struggles in the UK. His films, like I, Daniel Blake and Sorry We Missed You, which tackle zero-hour contracts, food insecurity, and the emotional toll of precarious work, resonate deeply in your own films. These are issues many outside the UK might find surprising in one of the world’s largest economies. How did you first connect with Ken Loach and bring him on board as a producer for your film? 

I started out making my short films independently – I didn’t know anyone at Sixteens Films at the time. For my first short, I produced it myself, and for the second, I worked with a producer. When I came up with the idea for On Falling, I didn’t have a producer attached, though several financiers were already interested in the project because of my previous shorts. They were keen to support my next project but emphasised that I needed a producer on board.

That’s when BBC Films introduced me to Jack, a producer at the Sixteen Films. They watched my short films, liked my work, and we started discussing the project. They eventually read the script and stayed involved – it all happened during the pandemic, so it hasn’t been that long. Since then, we’ve built a strong working relationship, and I’m already developing my next project with them.

They’ve been incredible collaborators, and I feel they’re the right fit because we share a similar worldview. They’re not afraid of political filmmaking, which is crucial to me. On top of that, their wealth of experience has been invaluable. For example, we filmed On Falling largely in story order, which is something they were completely open to. They also supported the decision to work with non-actors, allowing us to cast people who had never acted before. These production choices influenced the film in significant ways and felt natural to them, given their experience working with Ken Loach. It’s been a truly enriching collaboration.

On Falling

One of the scenes that stood out to me was when Aurora is invited to receive a “Best Worker of the Month” trophy. It’s such a poignant moment that feels deeply authentic – something you might only fully understand if you’ve lived in the UK and seen how these dynamics play out. It reminded me of the themes Ken Loach explores, particularly in Sorry We Missed You, where the precarious nature of zero-hour contracts and the exploitative practices of companies are laid bare. While it’s not explicitly stated, Aurora’s situation seems to echo similar struggles. Was this scene intended as a critique of how capitalism operates, particularly in these industries? How did you approach portraying this dynamic in a way that felt both specific and universal?

Yes, Aurora’s job is incredibly repetitive, and in many ways, she’s just a small cog in a much larger machine. Her role exists as part of a long, fragmented chain of labour, similar to what we see in Sorry We Missed You, which focuses on delivery drivers. Aurora’s work is earlier in the process, but they’re part of the same system. Before Aurora’s role, there are delivery drivers who transport goods to the warehouse and stowers who stock the items on shelves. Aurora’s job involves picking these items, and after her, there are packers, transport workers, and returns teams who handle the next steps.

What’s striking is how divided and compartmentalised this entire process is – each person is responsible for just one small, repetitive task, disconnected from the bigger picture. For example, the delivery driver in Sorry We Missed You is at the very end of this chain, interacting with consumers and delivering parcels that could very well have been picked by someone like Aurora.

This disconnection between workers is something I found fascinating. Many pickers I spoke with described how isolated they felt, even within a large workforce. I wanted to reflect that in the film by keeping Aurora’s interactions with others minimal. Apart from a few shots, we don’t get a strong sense of the people around her, which was intentional. It mirrors her experience of working in a fragmented and isolating system, where everyone is focused solely on their own part of the job.

When you started writing your screenplay, what was your process like? Beyond drawing from your personal experiences and the interviews you conducted, was the Aurora character always intended to work in a warehouse, or did that idea evolve over time? 

When I was working on The Shift, I was already exploring themes of precarious work and started reading extensively about industries where job security is minimal. That led me to the fulfillment and distribution industry, where I discovered the role of a picker. The job fascinated me – someone working alone, surrounded by millions of items, walking endlessly, and picking objects one after another in a highly mechanised, repetitive process. Visually, it felt compelling and symbolic, almost like a metaphor for a larger human predicament.

Drawing from my own experiences, I decided to write a Portuguese character living in Scotland, which allowed me to write authentically about aspects of her life. For instance, I had lived in shared flats, so I could realistically depict the dynamics of flat-sharing, especially in places like Edinburgh, where it’s so common. The kitchen scenes, for example, became an opportunity to explore those interactions and small tensions that arise in communal living.

The writing process was also shaped by the interviews I conducted with pickers. Each conversation influenced or refined the scenes. The job itself, with its relentless routine and isolation, became central to the story. The film unfolds over a week and a half, so I focused on capturing Aurora’s routine – her day-to-day existence – rather than building towards a dramatic, life-changing event. Her days are dominated by work, so I wanted to reflect that truthfully, emphasising how much time and energy it consumes.

On Falling

I also worked to incorporate visual storytelling elements that reflected the monotony and rhythm of her life. For instance, she leaves for work in the dark and comes home in the dark, highlighting the relentless, consuming nature of her job. By focusing on these details, I aimed to create a film that was deeply grounded in routine while still revealing the emotional and psychological toll of such a life.

In your film, the characters come across as incredibly authentic, reminiscent of real-life interactions and dynamics, such as those I experienced during my university days in a shared house. The naturalistic portrayal of flat mates interacting in the kitchen, complete with minor mysteries and subtle dynamics, strikes a chord of deep observational truth. Was it your goal to maintain this level of grounded realism, deliberately avoiding more dramatic or fabricated conflicts? For example, the Polish housemate adds energy and positivity that Aurora seems to lack – did you consciously choose not to heighten the drama or make these moments more theatrical to preserve the authenticity of their experiences?

There were earlier drafts where the characters were more connected – where he played a bigger role in Aurora’s life – but over time, as I developed the story, I realised that wasn’t the direction I wanted to take. Writing the script over several years meant trying out different approaches, and eventually, I decided to limit the level of interaction and eventfulness in the story. It felt important to reflect Aurora’s lack of care and connection with others. If I gave her too many interactions or relationships, it would undermine the central theme of her isolation.

In my mind, the story takes place over a week and a half, which is a relatively short window of time. His arrival is recent, and though their connection is tentative, it’s also layered with unspoken complexities. For instance, it’s clear he has someone else in his life – possibly a girlfriend – though he doesn’t disclose that. Aurora’s subtle gestures, like leaning her head on him at the nightclub, reveal her longing for connection in ways that feel small but significant. It’s a quiet but meaningful fight for what she wants, reflective of her character.

There were moments in the script phase where feedback suggested Aurora might be too passive or not doing enough to change her circumstances. I thought it was important to treat her situation without judgment and to resist the narrative temptation of making her solely responsible for her struggles. This approach extended to the other characters as well – I didn’t want the people around Aurora to be the cause of her challenges or to diminish the broader systemic and personal themes the film explores.

There’s a scene in the film that I found intriguing but wasn’t entirely sure I understood. It’s the moment where Aurora scans an item, but the scanner doesn’t seem to read it. She then removes the label, and while the mechanism of what’s happening wasn’t entirely clear to me, it made me wonder if her position might allow her to take something from the storage without being noticed – but she doesn’t. Could you clarify what’s really happening in that scene and what it’s meant to convey?

Some of the pickers I spoke to mentioned rumours – and in some cases, admitted – that they would occasionally swap items as a small act of rebellion. Instead of sending the item that the customer ordered, they’d substitute something else. That’s exactly what Aurora is doing in that scene. She picks up a rope and decides it won’t be sent, so she removes the tag from the rope and places it on a different item. It’s a subtle but deliberate act, reflecting her desire to push back against the monotonous control of her work environment.

On Falling behind the scenes

So, in that scene, does this mean the customer will receive something they didn’t order? Am I understanding that correctly? If so, how often does this happen, and what kind of consequences could it have for the customer or even for Aurora?

Yes, there’s a moment earlier in the film where a character mentions during a break that he once swapped a book for a dildo. To me, this reflected something I heard while speaking with pickers – these small acts of rebellion made sense in that context. The way it works is by swapping the tags on the items. However, I realise that scene might have gotten a bit too technical or subtle for some viewers to fully grasp.

Joana Santos is a well-known actress in Portuguese TV soap operas, which operate in a completely different universe compared to the tone and atmosphere of your film. Bringing her from that world into this kind of project is an intriguing decision. Could you share how you ended up casting her and what led you to make that choice? What was your experience working with her, especially considering she carries the majority of the film, appearing in about 95% of the frames? 

We conducted a big casting call in Portugal and reviewed around 600 tapes for the roles. From the moment I saw Joana’s first audition, I felt she had an innate understanding of the character. There was something about her performance that was very close to how I envisioned Aurora. I already knew her from her work in TV, but seeing her audition, I was genuinely blown away by her depth and range as an actress – she took the character to a whole new level.

Laura Carreira & Joana Santos

I didn’t approach her as a soap opera actress, and honestly, her experience in that medium turned out to be a huge asset. Soap operas are shot at a very fast pace, so she brought this incredible stamina and discipline to the set. She was always fully present, hardworking, and deeply engaged with the role, which made her a real pleasure to work with. In fact, working with Joana was the longest collaboration I’ve had with any actor, so I was learning alongside her, figuring out how to get the best out of our partnership.

One unique challenge was her English. Having lived in Portugal her whole life, she hadn’t needed to speak English fluently, and Aurora’s dialogue sometimes felt too polished. Joana would occasionally say, ‘I don’t know what that means,’ and we’d adjust the lines to make them feel more natural. Initially, she was self-conscious about her accent and even considered taking English lessons, but I was adamant that she shouldn’t. Her accent was perfect for the character and added authenticity to the role.

This approach extended to the rest of the cast as well. Whether it was Polish or Spanish actors, we wanted everyone to keep their natural accents because they reflect the diversity of Scotland and the UK. I wanted the film to feel genuine to that multicultural reality, where accents are part of everyday life. Joana eventually embraced her accent, and I think it beautifully highlighted Aurora’s struggle to communicate, adding another layer to her character. It was rewarding to see her grow more confident in that aspect as we worked together.

Speaking of self-confidence and communication struggles, I completely understand how not having strong English skills or having an accent can affect someone’s self-esteem. Characters like Aurora feel so relatable because of that reserved nature, which seems tied to their circumstances. From a psychological perspective, it makes sense – poor English skills or a noticeable accent can lower one’s confidence, making them hesitant to speak or interact. Combine that with their economic situation and social status, and it’s no surprise they might try to hide or avoid engaging with others.

It’s easy to imagine someone like Aurora being reluctant to share details about their life. For instance, if they tell someone they work in a warehouse, they might feel that it doesn’t reflect well on them or that they’re being judged. That kind of shame or hesitation reinforces the isolation they experience and creates a cycle that’s hard to break. It reminds me of the box in your film – endlessly circling but never moving up or out. Your movie left me wondering about these characters and whether they can ever escape this cycle.

At the end of the film, when Aurora and her colleagues gather to play with the balls, there’s a moment of lightness and connection – a brief break from the monotony. It feels like a positive note, but there’s also the lingering reality that once their break is over, they’ll return to the same situation.

So, my question is: Do you think there’s a way for characters like Aurora to break out of this vicious cycle? Or is their struggle emblematic of a system that keeps people trapped? Was the ending meant to leave a glimmer of hope, or is it more about accepting the cyclical nature of their lives?

I would like to believe there’s a way out, but it really depends on whether we can find ways to make it happen. I struggled with the ending because I knew that, in reality, Aurora would have to return to work, and that felt both mundane and incredibly depressing. Structuring the film around the week meant there was no way to avoid that reality. But simply ending with her going back to work felt like too much of a defeat – too dark and brutal. It wasn’t the tone I wanted to leave on, even if it reflected the truth of her situation.

On Falling behind the scenes

At some point, while I was wrestling with this, a few of the pickers I had spoken to got back in touch. They mentioned that their warehouses had recently experienced outages, which temporarily halted all work. During these moments, the managers didn’t know what to do, so workers ended up playing ball games and connecting with their colleagues for the first time. That story stayed with me, and it inspired the final scene. It felt like a way to show a fleeting glimpse of what could happen if the system stopped – even briefly. It’s temporary, but it opens a window into the potential for human connection and community beyond the constraints of work.

For me, the ending is a reminder that while society is currently structured around work – where we define our identities by our jobs and often measure our worth through productivity – it doesn’t have to be this way. I believe there’s a lot of potential to reimagine how we view work and its role in our lives. I also feel like my generation is beginning to question and deconstruct these norms, which gives me hope. Denormalising the idea that our value is tied solely to work might be one of the ways forward.

For Aurora specifically, her way out is finding another job. She’s heading back to Portugal, where the economic situation has stabilised, with the hope of starting anew. It’s not a dramatic transformation, but it’s a step – a chance to leave the cycle she’s been caught in and explore a different possibility.

I have to admit, I’m a bit of a pessimist when it comes to the state of the world, and this year, the films I’ve watched have only deepened that feeling. Beyond your film, I’ve seen works like Anora, Emilia Pérez, Mike Leigh’s Hard Truth, and Aïcha. What stands out is that, despite their different backgrounds and contexts, these films all seem to reflect a shared reality – that as human beings, we’re trapped in systems or situations that feel fundamentally wrong and inescapable.

In these stories, it often feels like the only way out is through extreme measures – whether it’s a death, a rebellion, or some kind of revolutionary act. This makes me worry even more for characters like Aurora, who are economically dependent on the very system that holds them back. As much as we might want to dream of escape or freedom, for someone like Aurora, the lack of money makes those dreams impossible to achieve. If she earned enough, she might be able to pursue her goals and break free, but without that, the system continues to trap her. It’s a harsh reminder of how much control economic realities still have over people’s lives, even as new generations try to think differently.

I think you’re absolutely right. If we approach this issue with individual solutions – asking what Aurora is doing wrong or what she should do to escape her situation – we miss the bigger picture. To me, it’s more about thinking collectively: how do we create systems where work provides, at the very least, enough for people to live comfortably? That’s the most minimal demand we can make of work, and yet Aurora doesn’t even have that.

On Falling

This ties into the decline of collective structures like unions, which were much stronger in the past. However, I do think there’s a growing awareness of their value, and I believe there’s still incredible work ahead in that space. While I try to remain realistic, I don’t believe in giving in to pessimism – it doesn’t lead to meaningful change. The film may have a sad tone, but I also believe it carries the message that change is possible if we shift our mindset from individualism to collective action.

Right now, so much of our focus is on individual improvement – each person trying to fix their own circumstances – but that approach isn’t working. Real progress requires a collective effort to address the systemic issues that hold people like Aurora back. It’s only through that lens that meaningful change can happen.

When it comes to your directing style, how much do you rely on improvisation versus sticking to a structured script? I’m particularly curious about the balance between rehearsals and spontaneous moments. For example, in the final part of the film – the interview scene and the moment where Aurora ends up sleeping in the park on the grass – it feels so raw and unfiltered. At one point, I even wondered if she might have had a heart attack, which made me feel deeply concerned for her. Considering how seamlessly these moments play out, I’d love to know how much preparation went into crafting them and how you worked with your actors to bring that authenticity to life.

We rehearsed with almost all the actors before filming, and during those rehearsals, we focused on refining the dialogue. While the dialogue was already written, we adapted it as needed to make it feel natural for each actor. If certain lines didn’t make sense or didn’t fit a particular person, we’d tweak them. The scenes remained very close to the script, but the rehearsals helped us refine details and adjust lines to better suit the actors.

A number of the actors had little to no experience in acting, so the process was quite collaborative. If a line wasn’t working for someone, we’d sometimes throw it out and rewrite it entirely. That flexibility was crucial, but most of the discoveries and changes happened during rehearsals rather than on set.

In that sense, there was an element of improvisation, but it occurred primarily in the rehearsal stage. By the time we started filming, the scenes were pretty well-established.

Could you briefly explain the scene where Aurora bursts into tears during the interview? I’m curious about the preparation and approach to capturing such a raw, emotional moment. That scene reminded me of characters from Mike Leigh’s films – people who carry the weight of their sorrow and sadness in their daily lives until, in a single moment, everything erupts. How did you work with Joana Santos to achieve that emotional explosion, and what was the process like for bringing that moment to life on screen?

I think you’re right. In the interview Aurora gets asked a simple question, a very common interview question even, and yet she struggles to answer it. That struggle reveals something to Aurora that she has to fight right then and there. After all she has been through, at that moment, she can’t go along anymore with the interview – even though she’s determined to still try.

We’ve rehearsed the scene a few times ahead of the shoot, mainly to also discover the dynamic between Aurora and the interviewer. In the script I had always described a bigger outburst, but as Joana and I started working together, we realised it shouldn’t be the uncontrollable crying I had imagined. That moment should still allow Aurora some control, as if she maybe just about managed to contain the crying – that felt stronger and truer to the character.

On Falling

Your films, with their documentary-like feel and emphasis on capturing authentic moments rather than heavy drama, rely heavily on the visual storytelling. Your director of photography, Karl Kürten, has worked with you on both of your short films, so it’s clear you’ve developed a strong understanding and creative partnership. 

Working with Karl has always felt very natural. We actually first got to know each other at a seminar about the Dardenne brothers, whose work we both deeply admire. That shared influence shaped how we approached filmmaking early on, and it has been a consistent foundation for our collaboration.

In the shorts, we developed a way of working that carried over into this film – focusing on minimal coverage. Like with the actors, we rehearsed extensively with the camera to find what worked, and once we had it, we stuck to it. For example, in the scene where Aurora walks into the kitchen and Chris is there with his friends, there’s a lot of movement and interaction happening. We had to choreograph it carefully and then film it repeatedly to capture the right flow.

Another particularly challenging shot was the third one in the film, where we follow the scanner. It’s a long, continuous shot, and I wanted to keep it as uninterrupted as possible. That required many takes to get the timing and movement just right as the scanner navigates the items.

What I appreciate most about Karl is his incredible sensibility – his instinct for where to position the camera and how to follow the characters naturally. While the film isn’t a documentary, we use real spaces and try to capture a raw, authentic feel, and Karl’s approach to cinematography enhances that immensely. His ability to blend with the environment and make the spaces feel lived-in is a huge part of what makes the visuals work so well.

It’s impressive that you collaborated with Helle le Fevre, known for her work on Joanna Hogg’s films. She’s an incredibly talented editor. How did your connection with her come about, and what led to her involvement in your project?

An editor was definitely a key collaborator I was missing initially. I wasn’t sure who I wanted to work with, so we interviewed several people. I already knew Helle le Fevre’s work, particularly from The Souvenir and The Eternal Daughter. Both films had such a beautiful sensibility in terms of rhythm, character focus, and even a subtle sense of humour. I admired how those films were put together, and after speaking with her, it was clear she would be the right fit.

Working with Helle was an absolute delight. From our first conversations, I could tell she really understood the film and had a genuine affection for Aurora as a character. That connection was important because so much of the editing process involved fine-tuning Aurora’s journey – deciding how much she reveals in her expressions and actions, and how much remains unspoken. We also spent time carefully deciding the rhythm of the shots, like how long to hold on a particular moment before cutting. These were crucial choices in shaping the emotional tone of the film, and Helle’s instinct for those details was remarkable. I feel incredibly fortunate to have worked with her.

That’s really interesting – and it speaks to the beauty of cinema, doesn’t it? The creative process is so dynamic, and sometimes in the middle of making a film, you realise something isn’t working. The great thing is having the awareness and courage to pivot and change your approach to better serve the story.

I used to work as an editor myself, so I understand firsthand how transformative editing can be for a film. I’ve always believed that a film is truly made in the edit. There are some movies out there that wouldn’t have been the same without the unique touch of a specific editor, and I knew how crucial it was to find the right collaborator for this project.

This film, in particular, relies so much on Aurora’s internal rhythms – her quiet moments, her emotions, and how those connect with her interactions. All of that needed to come through in the edit. Joana gave us incredible material to work with, but it was up to Helle to shape and refine it, to find that balance and create the emotional flow. Helle’s skill in weaving it all together was essential in bringing the film to life.

Your film has been very successful, premiering at the San Sebastián Film Festival and also being showcased at the London Film Festival, among others. Despite being a smaller, more intimate project rooted in your personal concerns and interests, it has garnered significant attention and recognition. Were you expecting this kind of success when you made the film? How has it felt to see it resonate so widely and be embraced by major festivals? Did you anticipate the level of recognition it has received, or has it come as a surprise to you?

No, I didn’t expect this level of recognition at all. Just having the film in the main competition at San Sebastián was already such an incredible privilege. To be alongside filmmakers like Mike Leigh and Audrey Diwan, whose work I deeply admire, was a win in itself. As a huge fan of cinema, it felt surreal to be in that lineup. Winning an award there was something I didn’t anticipate at all – it was a complete surprise.

The same goes for the London Film Festival. Our primary focus there was seeing how the film would be received in the UK, especially since it’s a Scottish story. It was the first time we were showing it to an audience here, so we were really curious about the response. Winning there as well was another unexpected but deeply rewarding moment.

Overall, we’re incredibly happy with how the film has been received. If this recognition helps me make more films in the future, it’s even more welcome.

Have the individuals whose experiences you aimed to depict in your film – those often voiceless or overlooked in cinema – had the chance to see it? You’ve mentioned the importance of authentically representing their stories, as opposed to the polished narratives typically seen in films. If they have seen the film, what was their response?

In London, for example, there was a very touching moment when an audience member came up to me after the screening. He told me he had worked as a picker and thanked me for the film. That was incredibly meaningful – almost better than an award – because it meant that the depiction resonated with someone who had lived that experience. For me, it was crucial to portray the work as accurately as possible, and his reaction felt like a validation of all the effort that went into getting it right. He even said many of the details in the film reflected how he had lived his life, which made me feel the work had truly connected on a personal level.

While the film hasn’t hit cinemas yet – it’s set to release in the UK this year – I’m excited and curious to see how more people, particularly those with similar experiences, respond. So far, at festivals, I’ve had several people approach me with similar stories. Some have worked in similar jobs, while others have lived in the UK as migrants and could relate to Aurora’s struggles. They’ve shared how they saw parts of themselves or past chapters of their lives in the film.

That’s exactly what I hoped to achieve – bringing these often-overlooked stories to the screen. So many films focus on characters who don’t face financial struggles, who always look perfect, and who have endless free time, friends, and adventures. For me, it’s important to portray the lives that many of us actually live – stories of struggle, resilience, and the small victories of everyday life. It feels rewarding to know that this is resonating with people from different backgrounds and experiences.

Could you elaborate on a point you mentioned in an interview about the challenges of making a movie in the UK, particularly regarding financing? It seems the process involves bureaucratic challenges or other obstacles. Do you find it particularly difficult to navigate these systems as an emerging filmmaker? What insights have you gained from your experience making your debut film in the UK, especially in Scotland?

I’ve never made films in Portugal, so I don’t have a direct comparison, but I think making films anywhere comes with its challenges. In the UK, I guess my situation was a bit particular because this was my first feature. With a debut, you’re often trying to defend your ideas without having a track record to prove that they’ll work.

For me, the challenge was convincing people that the story, as written, could hold an audience’s attention. For example, describing a character picking one product, then another, and then another doesn’t sound very exciting on paper. There were questions about whether the film would be engaging or dramatic enough for people to care about the character. And honestly, I had no way of proving that it would work until I went out and made the film.

That uncertainty was one of the hardest things to navigate – convincing people to take a leap of faith based on the script and the vision. Fortunately, we had supporters that believed in the project from the beginning, but it was still an uphill battle to get everything aligned.

Ultimately, I think it’s difficult to make films anywhere – whether in Portugal, the UK, or elsewhere. It’s always a challenge to secure financing and get the project off the ground. This film was no exception, but I’ve learned a lot from the process.

Given your focus on the daily routines and challenges of ordinary lives, which aren’t driven by overtly dramatic events, securing financial support for your films must be challenging. Investors might be sceptical about the commercial viability of such understated projects, which often depend on festival recognition or partnerships with entities like BBC4 or arthouse distributors to reach their audience. How difficult is it to pursue this style of filmmaking, given the hurdles in financing and distribution? What motivates you to continue telling these stories despite the commercial risks?

The world operates within its own limitations, and as much as I want to explore the way we live, I’m also navigating within those same constraints. That said, I feel fortunate that the project was welcomed and supported by public funders. They recognised the value in telling a migrant story and a working-class story, both of which are often underrepresented in cinema.

It was important to them to invest in these perspectives, which I deeply appreciate, because it highlights a gap in the narratives we typically see on screen. For me, that’s significant – it’s not just about telling a story, but about contributing to a broader cultural conversation.

Of course, this kind of filmmaking isn’t a capitalistic venture. I’m not making films with the goal of turning a profit. It’s more about creating work that resonates, sheds light on overlooked realities, and provides a voice for those who are often unheard. While it might not align with the commercial priorities of the industry, I’m grateful there are spaces and supporters who value stories like these.

May I ask – do you believe films like yours have the potential to create change? I’m curious if you see your work as part of a chain reaction, where someone watches your film, reflects on it, and starts a conversation that might lead to something larger. How do you view the impact of your films beyond just the screen?

Yes, I believe even a small reaction can be a change in itself. If I look at my own life, I’ve been deeply impacted by films I’ve seen – some have genuinely changed how I think or feel. If a film inspires something as seemingly simple as a conversation, that’s already an impact. It’s about taking something we live with every day but rarely question and bringing it to the forefront as a topic of discussion. To me, that’s meaningful change. It doesn’t have to lead to a big, world-altering event; sometimes, just shifting perspectives is valuable.

Of course, when it comes to political or systemic change, film has its limitations. A movie can inspire someone to take action, but the actual change happens through activism, voting, and engaging democratically within your community. That’s where the real impact unfolds.

That said, I believe there are many ways to influence the world, and films can be a powerful part of that. Even if it’s just sparking a single conversation or causing someone to look at the world differently, that’s already a step toward change.

I understand you’ve already started working on your next project, which is currently in development. It’s exciting that you’ve had the opportunity to move on to a second film so soon after this one. Could you share a little about what’s next? Is it set in a similar atmosphere or tone, or are you exploring a completely different perspective? And will this new story still be based in the UK?

It’s still set in the UK and will again explore the theme of work, but this time I’m focusing on office work. I think it’s another fascinating environment with its own kind of monotony – not necessarily for the film, but for the life of the characters. There’s a lot of interesting dynamics in office settings that I’m excited to explore.

I’m currently in the process of writing, so I don’t yet know exactly what form it will take, but I’m really enjoying developing it. It feels like there’s a lot to uncover in this world, and I’m looking forward to seeing how it evolves.

Do you see yourself eventually going back to Portugal to make a film? Is that a possibility you’ve considered?

I do have some ideas for a film set in Portugal that I’d like to write. It’s something I’ve been thinking about, and I hope to get the support needed to develop it. So yes, there’s definitely one film I’d love to make in Portugal – let’s see how it unfolds.

About The Author

Hamed Sarrafi is a UK-based cinephile, critic and translator. He has written and translated for Iranian newspapers and magazines for 20 years and more recently has established his podcast, Abadiat Va Yek Rooz (Eternity and a Day), in which he reviews movies and film festivals and also interviews filmmakers and fellow film critics. Sarrafi is particularly interested in interviewing emerging directors on their social and political views. His interviews have been published in Cineaste, Notebook (Mubi) and Cinema Without Borders.

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