We spoke with Ecuadorian director Ana Cristina Barragán about The Ivy [+leggi anche:
recensione
intervista: Ana Cristina Barragán
scheda film], winner of the Best Screenplay Award in the Orizzonti section at the Venice Film Festival. A powerful story about a young woman and a teenager who meet and confront their past traumas and pain.

Cineuropa: In the presentation of your film, you mention that you like ambiguity. How did you manage to capture that in this story?
Ana Cristina Barragán: Since I began writing, I felt that this story was emerging differently than my previous ones. It came from a more unconscious place, more connected to feelings. Often it appeared when I was about to fall asleep, or in those diffuse states of consciousness when you get lost in thought. As it evolved, the film underwent a big transformation. I actually began writing it before making my second film La piel pulpo, which gave me a new perspective when I resumed writing this story. What attracts me to this film, and what I’m also interested in exploring in my own films, is intimacy that isn’t entirely clear, and childhood wounds. It’s not about explaining explicitly, but about showing what’s left unsaid. The audience only has access to part of that story, but there’s much more to it.

You also mention the concept of intimacy. The film features many close-ups, unafraid of proximity. Did you imagine the camera as a character?
That’s something I’ve been exploring in my previous works: the actor, whether natural or professional, is the centre of everything. This can be tricky for some cinematographers, since the usual approach is to start wide, light the entire space and then zoom in, but in my case, everything revolves around the actors. The visual aspect is crucial for me and I build on it from the script, creating an aesthetic universe that is then developed with the cinematographer. With The Ivy, Adrián Durazo contributed a great deal. For example, at first we considered using anamorphic lenses, since he had worked on Carlos Reygadas’ films and had extensive experience with them. We started testing them and realised that those lenses did not give me the freedom I needed. That's why we switched to spherical lenses instead, which I feel was the right choice because it allowed the camera not to be a character in itself, but as invisible as possible.

You often work with non-professional actors, yet you still place them in very vulnerable, intimate and even uncomfortable situations. How was this process for The Ivy?
We conducted a very careful and extensive casting. We visited various schools and centres. A couple of young people who came to the casting weren't in the script originally, but I thought they were so powerful that I decided to create characters for them. The casting really added a lot to the film. Simone Bucio, a professional actress, attracted me because of her mystery. I felt that we could find an interesting fragility in her. Directing actors is one of the things I’m most passionate about. I propose exercises, creating a very strong relationship. When we arrived on set, there was already a deep connection with the story and between the actors. For the teenagers with no previous acting experience, it was also essential to help them emotionally distance themselves from the material.

You’ve said that you look for something sensory in your films, almost like a perfume. What were your main inspirations this time?
When I start writing a story, I don't begin with the structure, the beginning or ending. I begin with a physical sensation. For The Ivy, it was a sour, empty feeling. I took this as a starting point and ran with it, which brought with it other feelings, images and emotions. Only when that becomes strong enough do I start writing. It has to be something that will stay with me for years, because making a film can take five or even seven years. In this project, I wanted to explore certain wounds, about abandonment, about what remains after abuse. Also specific sensations of Quito, which led me to the title. Ivy grows in abandoned spaces, clinging to walls. It’s beautiful but also toxic. That duality really interested me, as did the feeling of a city shrouded in fog, on the margins of what is considered success or normality.