Désirée de Lamarzelle: Your film stands out, beyond its subject matter, for its genuine artistic vision. You have worked with many filmmakers: what did you take away from them when you stepped behind the camera?

Joséphine Japy: The great privilege of having been an actress is that I was able to familiarise myself with life on set. Its magic, when everything flows naturally and a sequence creates a moment that feels slightly suspended. But also the other side of the coin: the days when nothing goes as planned, when the image ‘resists’.

A film is a succession of shooting days; I was able to see how great directors manage these days, in the face of adversity – that’s priceless. I remember one day when the lighting wasn’t right for Dominik Moll: we had to start all over again. Observing his patience, his precision… was a real learning experience.

It’s impossible not to think of Truffaut’s *La Nuit américaine*, which captures so well the vagaries and magic of filmmaking.

J.J.: I love it. It’s one of the films that most inspired me to get into filmmaking. They all look exhausted, and yet there’s that element of magic on set: that moment of grace that gets everyone hooked – technicians, actors, directors.

At what point did the actress realise she would be telling her own stories?

J.J.: My love affair with cinema is all-consuming. But I come from a family that has nothing to do with that world; I first discovered it simply as a spectator, fascinated by a world I thought was far away. Then I took a short local drama course, and that’s when I fell in love with acting.

At a very young age, on set, I wanted to understand everything: the sound, the lighting, the camera… And I told myself that, to grasp it all, I had to be the captain of the ship. Working with Mélanie Laurent on Respire meant a great deal: seeing an established actress write and direct her own stories definitely opened a door in my mind.

Your film tackles a powerful subject, inspired by your family history, and has a very distinctive visual style.

J.J.: I wanted to make a film that addresses this subject, without it being a film *about* this subject. I didn’t want the social dimension to overshadow everything else. I sought a middle ground: something between comedy, social drama and coming-of-age, with disability at the centre. My references leaned more towards Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird, Richard Linklater’s Boyhood or Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides. I wanted to draw on that kind of poetry.

Visually, we see a highly sensory, almost organic approach centred on water, sound and texture…

J.J.: That was essential. Bertille is a non-verbal character: sensory elements had to make her ‘speak’. Sound, touch and water (a symbol of transition) run through the film from start to finish.

With my director of photography, Romain Carcanade, we worked on soft lighting, an almost tactile quality, and a bold colour palette. I wanted the film to remain luminous, imbued with hope.

How do you direct the actors to maintain this sense of restraint?

J.J.: I had wonderful actors. With Mélanie Laurent, we talked a lot about restraint: her character doesn’t have time; she mustn’t break down. In that restraint, we found the right balance. This family rejects self-pity: they want to be understood, but not pitied.

The opening sequence immediately establishes an emotional tone made up of joy, fragility and a loss of control.

J.J.: Yes, it’s a pact with the viewer. A fine line between laughter and tears. It’s very universal: we all have in mind a family meal that can end in fits of laughter… or in tragedy.

The autobiographical film also explores emancipation—that of a young woman seeking to break free from the role of carer whilst feeling guilty.

J.J.: Leaving for love is the hardest thing. Unconditional love is a gift… sometimes a poisoned one: it can hold you back, make you forget who you are. For the siblings of people with disabilities, this is central. It took me a long time. It was harder for me to ‘break free’ from my sister than from my parents; even though she never said a word.

The scene at the doctor’s, where she tells the mother ‘you have the right to fail’, is deeply moving.

J.J.: It’s the moment when she’s finally given the right to breathe. Anne Noiret, who plays the doctor, did a remarkable job by attending real consultations to observe how doctors speak and how parents react. On the day of filming, something almost documentary-like emerged between her and Mélanie Laurent; and that authenticity fuelled the scene.

The music by Odezenne accompanies the film like an inner breath.

J.J.: I was already familiar with their work and contacted them after hearing their music in Rachel Lang’s *Mon légionnaire*. We wanted something understated, music that accompanies the emotion without emphasising it, that guides the viewer whilst remaining discreet. In the end, we even incorporated the voice of Sarah, the actress, into the composition, so that the music would retain that organic connection with the character.

Artaud said: “Cinema must allow us to enter reality as one enters a dream.”

J.J.: I really like that. If I’ve succeeded even by 5%, I’m happy.

What direction do you want to take with your next film?

J.J.: I’m writing something very different, but which undoubtedly continues the same obsessions: childhood, the boundary between child and adult, that murky zone where you’re no longer quite sure which world you belong to.

And then, between writing and directing, I’m still acting. Just after editing my film, I shot Mata, Rachel Lang’s next film. It did me a world of good. Rachel asked me if I wasn’t frustrated, but on the contrary, I was happy to be a stowaway on someone else’s ship (Laughs). These two roles, that of actress and that of director, fulfil me in different ways. They are two ways of inhabiting cinema.

An article written by Désirée de Lamarzelle. Read it in issue 14 of Oniriq Magazine.

Translated by Bethszabee Garner