An absurdist delight, Nobody Barks follows Candela, who – after accidentally running over her nephew’s dog – invents a legend about a dog pilgrimage to a sacred tree and invites him to join her in the search. While both the performances and the laconic script are laced with deadpan humour, the film is also an affecting and revealing examination of belief and love.

Already winning audience and industry hearts at numerous gatherings – including a recent win for Best Short at Cinema Jove in Valencia (see the news) – the work is the graduation film by Júlia Coldwell Serra, who graduated in Directing from the Catalonia Film and Audiovisual School (ESCAC). With the film’s journey continuing as part of EFP’s Future Frames at the 2026 edition of Karlovy Vary, Cineuropa caught up with the director to find out why taking an absurdist approach works.

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Cineuropa: Was there anything specific that inspired Nobody Barks?
Júlia Coldwell Serra: I am fascinated by the motives that lie behind a lie. I believe there is something inherently human in lying, which connects us to an uncomfortable, fragile, and even somewhat absurd part of ourselves. In general, we lie to protect ourselves or to spare others from pain or sadness. Under a false appearance, lies – when born of good intentions – can seem like a refuge and a solution to our problems, but they remain a form of deception, a double deceit, and we are aware of it. For this reason, they are closely tied to guilt.

From this relationship between lying and guilt, the initial seed of the project emerged – a lie that keeps growing until it becomes unsustainable. The question was: how far can a person go in maintaining a lie in order to protect someone they love?

Can you say something about the region of Tarragona, where you filmed?
The short was shot in the Alt Camp region, in the province of Tarragona, between Vilabella, Vallmoll and Valls, the city where I was born and raised. I suppose there is also a sense of reconciliation with my roots after moving away to study: writing stories about where I come from is, in a way, an excuse to return and not forget where I come from and why I am who I am. Consequently, there is also a political intention to create and shoot in a decentralised way, outside of the major cities, rejecting the impulse to globalise and homogenise in order to instead value what is local, singular and specific.

Tell us about the casting.
I wrote the short with Laia Cabrera, the actress who plays Candela, in mind at all times. We had met on a film where I was working as a runner, and her magnetism on screen, combined with her deep humanity off screen, made me certain from the very beginning that she had to be played by her.

Beyond each person’s acting abilities – which were secondary, as I was not looking for strictly naturalistic performances, but rather for the friction that arises from a non-naturalistic approach – I was primarily looking for genuine people with whom I could connect on a personal level. For this reason, we carried out a street-casting process, carefully led by Eduard Peyró, in the Alt Camp area, as I wanted the participants to be local in order to preserve the accent and way of speaking of the region.

Fortunately, Lucas Catalán’s [the young boy Esbert in the film] mother signed him up for the casting even though he had never acted before, and the moment he entered the room, I knew it. I was impressed by his understanding of the emotional conflict of the story and by his ability to perform without losing a sense of being “alive” in front of the camera – that is, interacting with his environment as he would in real life, without being constrained by the presence of the camera. This brought a strong sense of authenticity to the movie.

Why is offering an absurdist and comedic take on subjects such a fertile ground?
I am interested in establishing a set of rules that give me absolute freedom when writing a story. For this reason, I try to move away from naturalism and get closer to comedy and the absurd, as they allow me to delve even deeper into heavy themes and emotions in a more open way, a way that is rich in narrative possibilities.

I believe that comedy is sometimes undervalued, yet all good comedy is grounded in a conflict or a tragedy that sustains it. It also allows for an approach that reflects back to the viewer everything that makes us ridiculous and absurd – or human, ultimately.