25/09/2026 - The Basque filmmaker explains his emotional return to his hometown, his fondness for imperfect characters, and the political dimension of intimacy

(© 2026 Dario Caruso for Cineuropa - @studio.photo.dar, Dario Caruso)

After the success of the series I, Addict, Javier Giner makes his feature debut with This Solitude, a drama presented in the New Directors section of the San Sebastián International Film Festival. Starring Oriol Pla and Marina Salas, the movie is about two former lovers riven by grief, precarity and weariness. We spoke to the director to find out more.

(The article continues below - Commercial information)

Cineuropa: How did you approach This Solitude after the exposure that I, Addict brought you?
Javier Giner: I, Addict was a very beautiful, explosive moment in my life, but there were times when that experience merged with a feeling of overexposure and of being fed up with myself. This Solitude works partly as a response: it represents starting over with something smaller, rougher, quieter and more intimate. There’s an umbilical cord connecting the two works, but here I switch register. If I, Addict hadn’t existed, this would have been a completely different film.

The movie isn’t overtly autobiographical, but it seems to contain a lot of you.
I feel it’s as autobiographical as I, Addict was, even if I’m now hiding behind characters and a fully fictional narrative. I am Leo, Lorea and Irati; I’m in every shot. The Bilbao in the film is also my Bilbao. I don’t know how to create from a place that doesn’t flow through me, spark my curiosity or move me. If I don’t love the characters deeply, I don’t know how to make a film.

Why move the story from Madrid to Bilbao?
The first version of the script took place in Madrid, but after I, Addict, I rewrote it completely to bring it to Bilbao. It was a kind of homecoming: returning to a safe place, to a city I know and which made me who I am. It also allowed me to recover a more reflective part of myself. I’m sociable and a bit of a clown, but I enjoy solitude and silence. Many of those decisions only make sense in hindsight.

You’ve worked again with Oriol Pla and Marina Salas. What does that continuity represent?
With Oriol and Marina, an idea that’s very Basque gets thrown up: the cuadrilla, the gang, the chosen family. I think of us as a theatre company, a small troupe. When I wrote these characters, I couldn’t imagine any other option. I like to work with people whom I love and admire, people with whom there’s an enormous amount of trust. That way of creating also lets us bring in newcomers and build common ground.

The film addresses a collective loneliness. Why is it so hard for us to connect?
I don’t have a definitive answer, and the film is more interested in asking questions than answering them. I also feel disorientated and alone at times. There may be an individual responsibility, but the system pushes us towards that isolation: we’re more connected and, at the same time, more disconnected than ever. We live in overcrowded cities under an exhausting form of turbo-capitalism. When all of your energy goes into just staying afloat, how are you supposed to forge bonds? Material precarity shapes how you love, relate and connect.

You treat your characters with affection but without idealising them. How do you strike that balance?
I set myself a fundamental rule when I write: never judge them. I’m not particularly interested in hero stories; I’ve always felt closer to marginal, conflicted or so-called loser types. Imperfect, broken characters move me - those that try to survive or rebuild themselves, but mess up. I look for three-dimensional characters because we’ve all loved badly at some point. It’s about accepting imperfection, and I love them even when they’re wrong.

Leo and Lorea struggle to follow their artistic vocations. Did you also want to talk about creating from a place of precarity?
The film ended up being deeply political without trying to lay down a thesis. It’s about class, precarity and exhaustion. We usually hear the success stories, but the more common reality is that of people who cling to their calling while stringing together day jobs. I wanted to step away from the spotlights, the awards and the suits to show the private lives of those who keep creating under those conditions, and to pay tribute to them.

What did Luisa Matienzo bring to the writing?
Luisa initially came on board as an executive producer, but she’d come over to my place, sit with me at the computer and we’d write together. On the third or fourth day, I told her it didn’t seem fair to go on unless she signed the script: de facto, we were co-writing it. The communication between us, being from different generations and of different genders, enriched the film enormously.

(Translated from Spanish)