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Yan Berthemy
stella Anyways
FILM INTERVIEW | 2026
STELLA ANYWAYS
17’ | Short Film | France
Writer/Director: Yan Berthemy
Image © Fusa Films
JAN, 11, 2026
When Stella speaks up, her confession is intriguing: she is in a secret relationship with someone who has neither a phone nor a real identity.
Hi Yan, we really appreciate you taking the time to talk with us about your latest short film Stella Anyways. Have you been surprised by the amazing reaction you’ve gotten for the film?
I wasn’t surprised by the reactions, because I knew from the start that the film wouldn’t resonate with everyone, due to its narrative structure and the combination of live-action and animation. Some viewers interpreted it as a queer coming-of-age story, a moment of emancipation in which Stella begins to acknowledge her own desires, challenging the expectations around her friends and environment. Others read the scenes in a way I did not intend, but it’s important to clarify that the film was never meant to depict harm or coercion. My focus has always been on exploring human desire, growth, and emotional truth.
The story portrays a very unusual and intimate encounter between a human and an otherworldly being. At its core, it’s not about shock or sensationalism — it’s about desire, transformation, and the confrontation with something completely unfamiliar. The alien figure externalises emotions and experiences that are often difficult to articulate, while the journey through a female character allowed me to explore desire as something fundamentally human and universal.
What struck me most was how divided the responses were. The film sparked more discussion around moral and ethical questions than around technique or performance, which was unexpected for me. From my perspective, I was simply portraying a deeply human process of emancipation — the moment when someone begins to listen to themselves rather than external norms.
Stella Anyways was part of Thessaloniki Short Film Festival, what was your time like at the festival?
Yiannis Zachopoulos, the organiser of the festival sent me an email about the selection, I was very excited to fly to Greece. It was an incredible experience to have my film screened at such a major festival as the Thessaloniki International Short Film Festival in Greece. I arrived in Thessaloniki on October 9th and immediately fell in love with the country and the Greek way of life. It was also deeply flattering to feel a certain recognition there, especially because Greek cinema has always been a major source of inspiration for me, both in the films I make and in those I choose to distribute. I’ve been particularly influenced by the new wave of Greek filmmakers such as Yorgos Lanthimos, Ariane Labed, Athina Rachel Tsangari, and Christos Nikou. I’ve always admired the way these directors break conventions and propose forms of cinema we rarely get to see. I’m drawn to filmmakers who take risks, who are slightly off-kilter and who push us outside of familiar paths.
You also won best French Film at the 16th Cinefantasy Film Festival in Brazil and Best Foreign Film at the 22nd Corto Creativo in Mexico. What has it meant to you to see Stella Anyways get this type of recognition?
I was genuinely surprised to see the film resonate so strongly in Latin and North America, especially in Mexico, where we won Best Foreign Film at the 22nd Corto Creativo Film Festival. I remember it being screened both in the afternoon and later at night, and receiving an email saying the jury had loved it, it was such an incredible feeling. What I loved most was that it was also shown at their university, giving students the chance to see it. As a student myself, it’s always something special to share your work with students from faraway places. We also had several selections in Brazil, including the 16th Cinefantasy Film Festival, where we won Best Short Film in the France Fantastic category alongside other French films. The festival itself was amazing.
But the country where my shorts seem to truly thrive is the UK, and more broadly across Europe. Interestingly, all my shorts perform particularly well in the United Kingdom. I’m not entirely sure why, but I feel a connection with British cinema, its independent spirit, openness to experimentation, and this underground energy resonate closely with the way I approach my work. I also collaborate frequently with British programmers through my distribution company, and their openness and support for the films we distribute with Fusa Films really made me want to go work there.
Poster © Romain Thiollet
Earlier this month Stella Anyways was screened at the Shorts in Season in Berlin, what was that experience like?
I wasn’t able to attend the Berlin screening in person, but I was blown away when I saw where the film was shown : an underground, independent cinema tucked away in Berlin that felt like the perfect home for a film like mine. It was the second screening of the film in Germany, after its selection at Weird Weekender in Stuttgart, an international festival built around wild, weird, and wonderful indie and genre cinema, with panels, Q&As, and a dedicated short film competition that celebrates imaginative and off‑beat works from around the world — a context I couldn’t be more proud of being part of, even remotely.
I wasn’t able to attend Weird Weekender either because of university exams, but I was especially excited to learn that my film screened right before Malpertuis by Harry Kümel. I had only seen Kümel’s Daughters of Darkness before, so the idea that my work was placed in conversation with Malpertuis, starring Orson Welles made me curious and thrilled — and it pushed me to go straight to Metaluna Store in Paris afterward to find a Bluray copy. Metaluna is such a dream place for anyone passionate about cult, genre, and heritage cinema, they have some of the weirdest & wildest films on earth!
When I finally watched Malpertuis, I began to understand why the programmers made that choice. Even though the two films are very different in narrative and genre, there’s a surprising visual and atmospheric kinship between them. Malpertuis is a surreal, dreamlike adaptation of a classic Belgian fantasy‑horror novel, set in a labyrinthine mansion full of strange characters and uncanny energy. Its world doesn’t unfold through straightforward plot mechanics so much as through mood, texture, and an eerie logic that feels half myth, half hallucination, with Gothic and symbolic layers woven throughout its imagery.
In Stella Anyways, although the surface story is rooted in contemporary emotional experience — young people exploring desire, identity, and connection — I was always more interested in creating a film that operates through feeling, rhythm, and visual immersion rather than conventional realism. The way Malpertuis uses its architecture, its uncanny interior spaces, and its heightened visual atmosphere to pull the viewer into a psychological rather than literal reality resonated with what I was trying to do in Stella Anyways: to make something that feels like a state of being rather than a simple series of events.
If I had to sum up Malpertuis after seeing it:
A fever-dream-meets-kaleidoscopic-fairy-tale, drenched in acid, psychedelic mushrooms, haunted mansions, eccentric aristocrats, twisted corridors, surreal magic, and just the right amount of gothic madness!
Your previous short from from 2022, MORTO ROSSA, had an incredible festival run picking up several awards. Did getting this type of attention for your short add any additional pressure on you as you started working on your next film?
Morto Rossa had quite a few international screenings, but not many in France. I don’t think it received the same level of attention as Stella Anyways. I was very young when I made it — 17 or 18, I don’t even remember exactly — and still in the process of figuring things out. The film brought a certain pressure with it, but it also made me realise that I didn’t want to make that kind of film again. It wasn’t really me, it didn’t reflect who I was. I feel much closer to Stella Anyways because it’s a more personal story. Morto Rossa was more of an exercise for the next film.
How did Stella Anyways come about?
I first came across a book by David Huggins about his encounters with female aliens, and I was struck by how strangely realistic his story felt. Later, I watched the documentary Love and Saucers, directed by Brad Abrahams, which brings Huggins’ dreams and artwork to life on screen. I was blown away by how wonderfully weird and imaginative it all was.
Around the same time, I had a script about a young person meeting someone online for the first time, with very unusual expectations. That’s when I realised I could combine the two ideas: to tell the story of a protagonist navigating a secret relationship with someone who exists only in their imagination or in another world. It is also a queer story, dealing with difference: someone embracing her own desires, rejecting conventional norms, and refusing to be with a human, which leads to rejection by her peers. Ultimately, the film speaks about hidden dreams, emancipation, and the complex passage from adolescence into adulthood and desire.
Originally, I imagined the main character as a boy and the imagined figure as a girl, casting women for the creature. But when I met Bérangère Bardot, I immediately knew I had to reverse it: the main character would be female, and the creature male. Bérangère is an incredible actress, she brings a soft, bittersweet innocence and a natural mysticism to the role. She is inherently dreamy, effortlessly charming, and adds a subtle depth that makes the character very curious about life and his environment. There was something truly unique about Bérangère and the way she works as an actress. She is incredibly sensitive and introspective, she has this natural ability to observe and absorb the world around her. Every gesture, every glance she offers feels thoughtful and intentional, yet effortless. She brings so many subtle layers to her performance, always offering ideas and nuances that enrich the character without ever feeling forced. She intuitively understands how to inhabit a role fully, and she also was constantly adding non-verbal elements that I found so interesting. Her creativity and gaze elevated the material in ways I could never have anticipated.
What was it about Bérangère Bardot that made her ideal to play Stella?
When I met Bérangère Bardot, I immediately knew she was right for the role. The connection felt instinctive and natural, and that trust was essential to approach such sensitive material with honesty and care.
What made you want to include animated elements in the film?
From the beginning, Stella Anyways was conceived as a journey between reality and inner space. The film opens with Stella experiencing something strange and almost inexplicable, this moment in the crystal ice already places her on the edge between the physical world and something more abstract. I knew that, by the end, I wanted her to return to that dreamlike state, but in a more conscious and transformed way.
Live-action felt too limited and risky to fully express what was happening inside her, as well as the first time sexual relationship. Animation gave me the freedom to step outside realism and enter Stella’s thoughts, desires, and sensations without having to explain them verbally. It allowed me to visualise emotions that don’t have a clear language : desire, confusion, fascination. I used a lot of metaphorical elements to express this rather than graphic drawings. We draw flowers, crystal shapes, water, volcanos etc.
For me, animation isn’t an escape from the story, but a continuation of it. It’s where Stella’s inner world becomes visible. It also creates a circular structure: the film begins in strangeness, moves through a more grounded reality, and then dissolves back into a dream. That return to animation felt essential to close the film emotionally, as if Stella were reclaiming her own imagination and inner freedom.
How vital was the creative collaboration between yourself, Tatiana Poliektova, and the rest of the animation team on this film?
The collaboration was absolutely vital, especially because most of the work was done handmade and entirely remotely. I began with Samia Zerrou, who led the art direction—she created the storyboards, designed the characters and backgrounds, and produced an animatic that was quickly validated because we shared the same vision for the film. Samia is incredibly talented, and even though we never met in person, our remote collaboration worked surprisingly well, though it required constant communication, trust, patience and sometimes some debates. Every decision had to be discussed in detail, and every image, gesture, or colour choice involved careful explanation to ensure we were aligned across continents.
After Samia completed her part, I worked with two other talented animators, Tatiana and Olga. We relied on traditional animation techniques for some sequences, including gouache painting, and they had to scan and digitise every single frame. This process was extremely time-consuming, and doing it remotely added another layer of complexity. We communicated exclusively in English, and even if we are more than fluent in English, we’re not native speakers on both sides. So a few discussions about subtle emotional or visual nuances were challenging, and misunderstandings had to be carefully clarified. On top of that, it took us a full year to animate just three minutes of the film, which was an intense and demanding challenge.
Because of these constraints, it became clear that remote collaboration only works if there is mutual respect, patience, and, most importantly, a strong personal rapport. We had to understand each other intuitively, anticipate each other’s creative decisions, constantly adjust without frustration and avoid any fights. In the end, this shared effort and trust not only made the animation possible, but it also infused the film with an energy and intimacy that could only have emerged from such a careful, collaborative process.
What was the biggest challenges you faced bringing Stella Anyways to your audiences?
The biggest challenge by far was the animation of the sexual elements, particularly the scenes where Stella makes love and escapes her human body. Depicting sexuality in animation is incredibly delicate: What and how should she show it ? Should it be metaphoric using montage alterné or should it be graphic and frontal ? it’s easy to slip into absurdity, obscenity, or sequences that feel problematic or alienating to the audience. Since the story is told from Stella’s perspective, I wanted these scenes to feel intimate, sensual, and truthful without ever being exploitative or distancing. To achieve this, I made the conscious choice to work exclusively with female artists for the animation of these sequences.
As well as write and direct Stella Anyways, you produced and animated your short, how did you balance all these creative roles on a project like this?
Doing both directing and producing means living in a permanent state of contradiction. Artistically, doubt is necessary, it’s how you know something needs to change. Economically, doubt is dangerous, because every hesitation has a cost. You’re constantly forced to translate an inner feeling — this doesn’t work — into something measurable: time, money, logistics.
Live-action cinema is brutal in that sense. It transforms fragile, intuitive decisions into irreversible facts very quickly. A performance exists once, in a specific body, in a specific light, at a specific moment in time. If it’s imperfect, that imperfection becomes part of the film’s truth. You can’t erase it — only accept it or pay to try again.
Animation, on the other hand, tolerates doubt for much longer. It allows uncertainty to remain productive. A scene can stay unfinished, incorrect, even wrong, without becoming definitive. You can hesitate, step back, destroy and rebuild. Time replaces risk.
Producing live-action is therefore an exercise in surrender. You must decide when to stop searching for the “right” version and accept the version that exists. Animation invites control; live-action demands faith. And when you are both director and producer, that tension becomes existential: you are responsible not only for the film’s meaning, but for the moment when doubt must finally end.
Have you always had a passion for cinema?
I don’t think so. Before cinema took a central place in my life, I was primarily shaped by music and sound: I had no real connection to filmmaking and spent my early teenage years doing electronic music on Logic Pro and Ableton with a MIDI keyboard, deeply influenced by EDM culture around 2015–2016, until something shifted in my mid-teens, around 2018, when discovering films such as The Favourite, Suspiria, Fantastic Planet, and filmmakers like Michelangelo Antonioni or François Truffaut revealed to me the emotional, sensory, and political power of cinema; this awakening resonated with earlier, almost unconscious memories from my first theatrical experience as a child, seeing movies like For a fistful of dollars (Clint Eastwood) or Persepolis (Marjane Satrapi) during a school screening organised by my French teacher, who regularly took us to the cinema and had a strong attachment to independent cinema, to growing up with Michel Ocelot’s Kirikou and Princes et Princesses, and ultimately crystallised through the shock of Under the Skin, a film that made me feel, perhaps for the first time, that cinema could be experienced as something physical, intimate, and profoundly unsettling.
What do short films mean to you?
Be simple, tell without telling too much. For me, short films are not mere stepping stones or unfinished features; they exist as works of art in their own right. I think the best short films have an integrity that belongs only to their own form: concision, intensity, and freedom from the commercial expectations that often weigh down longer formats. In a short film, the filmmaker doesn’t have to conform to industry pressures or stretch a story thin to fit a duration, and that freedom opens up a space for experimentation and emotional immediacy that can be more powerful than a feature ever could. In fact, the history of cinema itself began with short films, and even today they remain a vital laboratory for ideas, innovation, narrative risk, and new voices, not just a training ground for emerging filmmakers but a form that artists return to throughout their careers. The way a short can distill an idea, an emotion, a world into minutes rather than hours is, to me, one of cinema’s purest expressions of creativity and intention.
And what I like also about shorts is that you can actually make mistakes.
Where did the inspiration come from to set up your own short film distribution company, Fusa Films?
I’ve always felt a deep need for independence. I like the vertical aspect of a project, to be involved at every level of its existence, from creation to circulation. That’s one of the reasons I created FUSA FILMS. Directing alone was not enough for me — I needed to understand and shape the entire ecosystem around a film. I produce short films through a separate structure called TWENTY-FIVE SCOPE. FUSA FILMS, on the other hand, is primarily a distribution company. Occasionally I co-produce with it, but that remains rare. I’m very careful about keeping each entity true to its purpose.
Beyond directing, I genuinely love curating films with FUSA FILMS and supporting other directors in bringing their work to festivals and streaming platforms. There’s something deeply satisfying in accompanying a film after it’s been made, in helping it find its audience and its path. It’s not just logistical work for me, it’s an extension of my artistic vision. In a way, I’m still directing, but through selection and circulation. I think I created FUSA FILMS because I wanted to defend films that take real risks — I want to show films that aren’t afraid to be fragile, radical, or uncomfortable. I’ve always been deeply inspired by 1990s Danish cinema, especially the Dogme 95 movement. That rawness, that rejection of artifice, that obsession with truth over polish had a huge influence on how I imagined FUSA FILMS. I want to distribute films that share a certain energy — something reckless, strange, and uncompromising. Films that exist outside classical ways of seeing cinema, films that feel alive, dangerous, and necessary.
What is it about genre cinema that influences you so much?
What draws me to genre cinema, and what continues to influence me, is its freedom, freedom to transgress, to exaggerate, to explore the extremes of human experience in ways that realist or conventional cinema often cannot. I love how genre films can blend the visceral and the poetic, the entertaining and the political, creating spaces where emotions, ideas, and fears can coexist in vivid, sometimes unsettling ways. Horror, science fiction, and fantasy, in particular, have always offered me a way to think about the world differently: they allow for metaphors that reveal social tensions, injustices, or personal anxieties without having to justify them through realism.
In November Giallo International Film Festival, which you founded, celebrated its 3rd edition, how did the festival come about, and why do you think genre cinema is growing so much in France?
I am speaking here first and foremost as a passionate cinephile. I have always had a deep attachment to genre cinema, fascinated by its visual richness, its narrative freedom, and its unique ability to combine entertainment with a reflection on the world.
For a long time, genre films have suffered from an unfair reputation: many still perceive them as marginal, minor, or even “B-movies.” Yet the reality is quite the opposite. Horror, fantasy, and science fiction have often been among the most lucid and daring forms of cinema when it comes to questioning society, exposing discrimination, or revealing our collective fears like in dictatorships. Through their codes, symbols, and excesses, these films have addressed essential themes such as racism, sexism, social anxiety, surveillance, and the dehumanisation of the modern world.
Genre cinema has also been—an aspect that matters deeply to me—a space of freedom for minority voices. It has allowed many women filmmakers to assert their vision within a historically male-dominated industry, and enabled artists to express themselves through symbolic and subversive forms that are often more honest than academic “realist” narratives.
When I decided to create a genre film festival, my intention was not simply to organise an event designed to scare or to program sensational films. My ambition was quite different: to highlight the political, social, and poetic dimensions of genre cinema, and to show that behind blood, monsters, and nightmares, there are often powerful metaphors about our time. I am convinced that in the years to come, we will need to reinvent the way we make films. The political, social, and economic upheavals we are currently experiencing offer vast and complex material, which will likely push filmmakers to explore new forms, new languages, and new ways of producing and narrating the world. And I firmly believe that genre cinema has a vital role to play as a medium.
I feel that genre cinema is slowly growing in France, but it still represents only a small portion of the films that are able to exist and be produced. The French system remains largely dominated by realist auteur cinema, and this makes production companies cautious when faced with the radical possibilities of genre. There is often a fear that these films go too far off the beaten path, that they are too strange, too extreme, or simply not understood.
I see this caution as a misunderstanding of what genre cinema truly represents. For me, genre has always been a space of freedom. Historically, it has allowed minorities to express themselves, to speak through metaphor, excess, and fiction when realism left no room for them. Horror, fantasy, and science fiction have long given form to bodies, desires, and fears that society prefers to repress or ignore.
Genre cinema is also deeply connected to popular culture and to filmmakers who are not fully integrated into dominant institutions. Because it exists on the margins, it offers a space where rules can be broken and new voices can emerge. This is what makes it powerful. Rather than limiting expression, genre opens up possibilities: it allows radical ideas to reach audiences through emotion, sensation, and imagery.
You are currently studying cinema and audiovisual at Sorbonne-Nouvelle, how much has your time there helped to inform your filmmaking approach?
I am studying at Sorbonne-Nouvelle since 2023. The university has really helped me structure my ideas as a filmmaker, though its approach is very theoretical and intellectual. We analyse and read a lot about cinema, which was exactly what I needed after high school. I already understood the technical aspects, but I lacked context, and those three years gave me that. Watching countless films, experimenting, and attending festivals constantly shaped my perspective. They even have a whole Blu-ray library, I used to rent like 15-20 films a week and watch 3 to 4 movies a day back in 2023. Now, with my company keeping me busy, I can’t watch that many films all the time, but I still try to watch as much as I can.
Although we read a lot about cinema during some courses, I personally prefer fiction novels to case studies or essays. Reading about cinema can sometimes impose boundaries that aren’t really yours; I believe the best way to learn is through experimentation and meeting people.
Sorbonne-Nouvelle also supported me practically. They helped me fund my films, guiding me to the right subsidies and giving me the resources to actually make my shorts. Because yes, in the end, you need money to make a film in this capitalist society.
Since your debut short film what would you say have been the biggest changes to your approach to writing and directing?
Since directing Stella Anyways, I’ve become deeply aware of how decisive editing truly is. Stella Anyways is probably the first film where I was able to genuinely experiment with editing, simply because I had enough footage, enough variations, enough material to work with. There was real density in what we shot — enough content to sculpt meaning in the editing room rather than just assemble a narrative. That experience completely shifted the way I write. Before, writing was mainly about telling a story, constructing scenes in a linear, almost literary way. Now, I write while constantly thinking about editing. I’m no longer writing scenes — I’m writing possibilities. I’m writing with rhythm, cuts, ellipses, and collisions in mind. It’s less about what happens, and more about how fragments will later speak to each other. That logic inevitably leads me to Eisenstein and the montage of attractions. The idea that meaning doesn’t reside inside a single shot but is born from the collision between shots has become central to how I think cinema. By placing two images that have nothing to do with each other, you can generate a meaning that is stronger, more violent, and more abstract than anything shown directly. Instead of graphically depicting a murder, you show a face, then a minced steak with ketchup slowly melting on it. Nothing is explained, yet everything is understood. There’s no need to insist, no need to illustrate — the Kuleshov effect does the work. The spectator completes the film in their own mind. Editing becomes an intellectual and emotional weapon: it transcends narrative logic and reaches something more primitive, more visceral. In that sense, montage is not just a technical tool, but a way of thinking, a way of attacking reality through cinema.
For example, a man is about to be killed. Instead of showing the blow itself, we cut to a shot of an overcooked steak drenched in ketchup. The viewer then understands that something happened.
"When I write, I try to keep a consistent voice while constantly questioning what can shift, evolve, or be challenged in the next project."
What does your work say as a filmmaker, and the types of stories you hope to tell?
Since making Morto Rossa and Stella Anyways, I’ve started to understand what I want to explore through cinema, but I have no interest in repeating myself. When I write, I try to keep a consistent voice while constantly questioning what can shift, evolve, or be challenged in the next project. Those early films were part of a learning process, highly visual, close to exercises in form and style.
I’ve realised that I’m especially drawn to writing characters who struggle under social oppression, trapped in systems that restrict, control, or diminish them. Rather than using science fiction, I prefer to work with what is happening right now since this world is going wild…There is so much inspiration since 2020 ! I’m interested in characters who try to live independently, outside of societal structures. I have a next script after DEER GABRIEL that I am writing with a British writer, entirely in English. My next script project is called Pielle and will engage more directly with institutions, particularly exploring the future of the french healthcare system in 2027. The story deals with the commodification of illness and follows an unusual situation that the protagonist, Pielle, must navigate. The film also plays with the concept of skin “Piel” in Spanish, which is reflected both in the title and in the character’s name. The film will be shot in France, southern coast and also the North of Spain in the Navarre Region. It is my first international film production.
I also don’t yet know if I want to continue working strictly within genre cinema. I feel the need to go further, to move beyond clear categories, and possibly to hybridise genres or experiment with different filmmaking techniques and forms. My upcoming projects will likely be more personal, more radical, and more politically driven.
And finally, you’re going to be shooting your next project in 2026, DEER GABRIEL, what can you tell me about this new film?
I can’t reveal too much yet, but the film is about a sound designer. More specifically, it follows a sound designer who is obsessed with recreating a sound that is, in reality, impossible to produce. The entire film talks about Foley during post-production of a documentary film, it’s both the subject and the medium. I’m fascinated by the work of Foley artists and sound designers, whose contributions are often invisible, yet can define the emotional and sensory impact of a film.
The story also explores the idea that not every sound can be created; there is a dimensional limit to what is possible. Some sounds exist only in imagination or memory, and trying to reproduce them confronts the boundaries of reality, perception, and the craft itself. In that sense, the film is not just about sound, it’s about the tension between desire, impossibility, and the limits of human creation.