When you were making short films, to what extent did you consider them a good school?
They are the best school there is. You can only truly test yourself through practice. It’s during filmmaking that you understand what works for you and what doesn’t. How you function, how you make decisions, how precise you are, how persistent you are. Whether you are capable of changing direction and convincingly explaining that to your collaborators. Or conversely, when the cinematographer notices something you hadn’t seen before—are you able to integrate their perspective? It’s through filmmaking that you can truly experiment and learn. Short films are a necessary step in this learning process.
What is more important in a short film: the script or having a clearly defined visual language?
It’s essential that the film has its own personal, concrete world. A director should tell a story they feel they must tell themselves, and not someone else. If they don’t feel that, then in my opinion it’s a film not worth making. Film is a visual language that behaves like any other language—it is constantly changing, evolving, searching for new forms. A script is only truly good if it already carries within it the visual mode of expression in which the film will later be made. But this visual language is not primarily about images, rather about the focus of attention. A script is interesting when we can sense what smells, what colors, what kinds of touch surround us within the frame. I believe a film’s true message appears in its ability to pay attention to details.
I think one of a director’s greatest responsibilities is casting. Choosing the lead actor is the director’s most important decision. A character becomes truly interesting if they are deeply lovable, yet their gaze carries mystery and ambiguity—if their face contains an inherent inner drama. At the same time, a good short film also carries the promise of a feature film. I don’t like films that are built solely around a clever idea. I much prefer those that unfold a situation, delve deeply into a person, search for answers through them—without knowing the answers in advance.
Which short films have had the greatest impact on you over the past decades?
Those that, even indirectly, express the latent spirit of the age. Films that speak—whether humorously or dramatically—about those general, deep, hidden feelings that invisibly surround us. Things we see, yet don’t talk about. If I had to name Hungarian films, I would mention Here I Am (Itt vagyok) by Bálint Szimler, or Afta by Kornél Mundruczó.
How do you watch a film as a jury member, curator, or “ordinary” viewer?
These roles are difficult to separate. Once you start separating them, something is already wrong—you begin, in some way, to make excuses for the film. For example, you might say the cinematography is beautiful, even though the film itself says nothing to you. The most important thing is that the film touches you, and cinematography plays a crucial role in that—but on its own, it is worth very little. The essence of film is that magic which is assembled before you on the screen, in space and time; something you cannot withdraw from, that pulls you in and captivates you. In this sense, I don’t believe there is a distinction between a curatorial and an ordinary viewer’s role. There is only you and the screen.