Torino Film Industry

#04 TFI Specials | We are climate change: interview with Jessica Woodworth

Giugno 2025

The fourth TFI Special welcomes director Jessica Woodworth for an interview dedicated to representation of environmental dystopias in contemporary audiovisual.

Jessica Woodworth is an American-Belgian director, screenwriter and producer known for the award-winning fiction features “Khadak”, “Altiplano” and “The Fifth Season”, made in collaboration with Peter Brosens. She premiered several works at the Mostra Internazionale d’Arte Cinematografica di Venezia: she won the Golden Lion of the Future for a debut film for “Khadak”, and the first Green Drop Award for “The Fifth Season”, an award given to the film that most powerfully addresses environmental issues. She was part of the ScriptLab Story Editing group of TorinoFilmLab in 2017 for her latest film, “Luka”, a highly dystopian film shot in Sicily that was presented at the Torino Film Festival.

Woodworth is a guest of Festival CinemAmbiente, which in 2025 comes back for its 28th edition. The Festival organizes a panel to explore how, in past years, media and cultural production has been characterized by an increase in dystopian content and the representation of possible negative universes. This reflects the fears, problems and contradictions of the human race in the face of both the uncertainties of the future and the reworking of traumas and upheavals of the past. A research project by the Università Cattolica di Milano has led to the creation of the Atlante delle distopie mediali which intends to provide an overview of the phenomenon from a geographical perspective: a cartography capable of highlighting the variety of genres and languages in which dystopia is expressed, their connections and contaminations.

Festival CinemAmbiente will be held in Torino from June 5, World Environment Day, to June 10, 2025. Founded by Gaetano Capizzi in 1998, CinemAmbiente aims to present the best environmental films and documentaries at an international level and contribute, with activities that develop throughout the year, to the promotion of cinema and environmental culture. It is one of the founding members of the Green Film Network, an association that brings together the most important international film festivals on environmental issues, and since 2024 it has been a partner of TFI Torino Film Industry with EcoTalks.

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Tell us about your career: what attracted you to filmmaking and why, specifically, did you choose fiction as a language to tell stories of dystopias?

I never imagined I would become a fiction film director: it came purely out of necessity. I had some early experiences in non-fiction that were a great test of my character because I discovered immediately that this approach to storytelling was not comfortable for me. Fiction offered me a terrain where there is creative freedom and there are no uncomfortable ambiguities: there is a pact with your partners, with your cast especially – and I work so closely with actors. We have common ground and a common goal, they are engaged to create alongside us. It happened in Mongolia – where I met Peter Brosens, my filmmaking partner. We were both shooting independently, non-fiction films: but then, from our synergy and our relationship with this country was born “Khadak”, our first fiction film. We felt intuitively that what we wanted to evoke was not something to be transmitted via statistics or storytelling in a traditional sense. On a formal level, we wanted to use a brave language, offering more of a visceral experience. At the beginning we were clumsy: we wrote our first fiction script, and it was the worst fiction script ever written! It had the worst dialogues ever written, ever! We were very humbled by that, because we realized that, in order to raise a little bit of money for this expensive endeavor, we had to pull it together. We learnt how to write a script: it was very challenging, because storytelling is plot driven, so it is very difficult to transmit and convey in film form the in-betweens. The crucial ingredient for us is what is unspoken, what is not necessarily visible. We did our best, and in the end, we created something very much alongside the Mongolians – which was critical for us. We knew that the only possible approach was to be so humble every step of the way. And that is the way we have worked from day one, always. 

How does the writing process develop? What attracts you in finding and then articulating a story?

Our creative process is always guided by humility as a prime ingredient on every level: how you function with your team, how you search for authentic moments that make sense – maybe not in a cerebral, literal, or rational way, but our world is hardly rational. If we look at the prime ingredients for “Khadak”, Mongolia is an El Dorado: it is a land that holds gold, uranium, copper, coal, and it is also a place afflicted by serious climate challenges, like the desertification. It is not headline news, but the Gobi Desert is moving at an alarming speed, mostly towards the South and deeper into China. It is a huge story and the source of one of the critical lines in the film, a dialogue from the shamaness to the main protagonist, the young boy: “The desert always wins”. The film does not exist without that line. The naming of the film, too: all our films have other titles until very deep in the postproduction, sometimes at the end of the mix. The working title for “Khadak” was “The color of water” – we are constantly working with prime elements like water, wind, space, sky. This title carried the story until a certain point, when it was transcended by the title “Khadak”: a “khadak” is a blue, sacred, ceremonial scarf considered a symbol of the sky, the ultimate judge of mankind. The word for “sky” in Mongolian is “Tengri”, and the belief system is “Tengrism”: it is so deeply embedded in the story on every level and so it made sense to call it that. It is also beautiful to know that when you tie a khadak around the neck of an animal, it will grant it a natural death, not at the hands of man. In a way, the film itself functions as a kind of khadak, as a kind of protection. We really believe that, even though we are quite impoverished, we are fundamentally spiritual beings. But in our society, here on this side of the world, we are neglecting our inner lives: we are very disconnected from nature, so, looking elsewhere, we find ourselves and we learn so much. We can have things awoken in us that are actually memories ingrained in us as a species – there are certain things that we can re-connect with. Mongolia was such a place for us where we could sense that there were some truths visible, simply due to the fact that it is so full of seemingly empty spaces and tremendous silence. In that kind of environment, you are confronted with the fundamentals: who are we? Where are we? Why, and where are we going?

There is a quote of yours saying, “We need dreams to understand what is happening to us, and cinema is an important tool to do so”. What kind of effect do you think cinema can have on people and on reality? 

What we try and hope to do is to shed a ray of light in some kind of quiet corner of the viewer’s soul. Unexpected. Wake something up, which could stir some associations. We do not want audiences coming away from the experience of watching a film with any conclusions, we do not want statistics, nor any kind of sure answers – but we would like something inside to move. We realized early on that this is the road we want to follow, and it is never-ending and unfinished – or it felt unfinished to us. This is why, eventually, we created the unintended trilogy of films that is “Khadak” in Monoglia, “Altiplano” in Peru, and “The Fifth Season” in the South of Belgium. They each have an independent core, but the search is common. The process, too: for example, we believe very strongly that the very last image of a film is something that contains so much of what we have been striving for, so we have it as a kind of beacon for the film that embodies something incredibly fundamental. We also do years of fieldwork, which is very close to how documentary filmmakers work: our raw materials are raw materials, from reality. Other sources include music, and paintings, which inform our work and help finance it. For example, whenever we were submitting financing files for “The Fifth Season”, we always included a clip of a song by Gurdjieff from “Chant from a Holy Book” – an indescribable piece of music that sets a temperature, a tone, and a timber: the readers were invited to listen to it before reading the script in order to understand something. Music opens up certain parts of the brain or the body – therefore you can more deeply imagine what you are trying to achieve when confronted with a script. Because a script is a script, you know? It is just a means to an end. It begins to die the moment you start filming. We also positioned, built, and financed “The Fifth Season” just with one line, which was “Man has forgotten that he is a part of nature”. It is a simple phrase, but it carries it all. The title of that film was “Silent Spring”, same title of the seminal text by Rachel Carson from 1962, looking at pesticides. Eventually, the connection with the book was too strong, even though it was indicative of what was carrying us, but we communicate in different ways, now. I’m not at all one of these fundamentalists that thinks we should hold on desperately to shooting on 16mm and 35mm, and arthouse cinema is – we all have to admit – for a small number of people, the market is small. We have new instruments of power, which is of course streaming and TV series, and talent is gravitating in that direction, which is very exciting.

What about themes? Do you feel dystopia is an overarching theme that permeates your storytelling?

There is a dystopian theme through all of our films, even in my latest, “Luka”, a very personal interpretation of the classic “Il deserto dei Tartari” by Dino Buzzati but bumped to a dystopian future where there is no water. The really biting wind, and parched faces… this is being carried through twenty years of work, in fact. Because it is our story. We are climate change. It is impossible to imagine storytelling without it, now, because it affects – certainly our children. I have little girls (not so little!) and they’re moving into the world – which will burn, which will be hungry, which will be thirsty, which will witness massive movements of people, and this is only inevitable. But I am not a self-proclaimed “collapsologist”: I do not believe we are inevitably leading towards the collapse of industrial civilization as we know it, otherwise I would not make such an effort to make cinema. Making these films – they are all impossible films to make. Everyone in the beginning says it, and then, somehow, as all filmmakers know, the impossible is possible. The love of humanity it requires – it is necessarily optimistic. It is such a collective, colossal effort to pull together. And these are small, arthouse films with relatively modest budgets, but still, it is a colossal effort on everyone’s part, and it is so exciting to harness everyone’s will, and their passion, and their convictions, and sharing these in creating the film. From step one, all the way through to bringing the film to the screen – it is a huge joy and it is really valuable. Storytelling will save us. It will save us.

What kind of relationship do you see between past, present and future in dystopias?

This kind of catastrophe scenarios have fueled the imagination forever. Looking at cinema – this is a right time to do another “Metropolis”, is it not? And next year will be the 100th year anniversary. So, this is not new, looking at possible cataclysms in stories. It gives great pleasure, it is deeply entertaining and sometimes incredibly valuable. Past, present and future, when you look at that – it is the good question of time. In many cultures, in Hinduism, in Buddhism, there are many strands of thought that look at time differently than we do: it is not a linear conception of time, it is cyclical. There are phases of creation, and in storytelling, we look at all the texts, all the ancient texts, all the religious texts, they all tell us that there’s rise and falls. Dystopias and dystopian visions are sparkling throughout as warnings. You cannot imagine our world without these stories. Stories help us process, and they also fuel us, they bring us closer to action. As we all know, every day we wake up and we are in a very extraordinary moment. We are all witnesses to unprecedented things, because of the matrix of alienating forces that make up our lives. Be it technology, and all that it is going to bring and all that it’s going to steal from us: it is a beast of our own creation, because, unfortunately, we are so bright, and we are so foolish at the same time. Therefore, considering the emergencies we are living with and amidst, an acceleration of these problems – I mean, the raging fires, the wind, rising waters, all these things, there are all just facts. In a way, we need stronger stories; so, cinema offers us that thing. As we know so well, all of us who love cinema, who considerate it fundamental and essential: cinema can move us in other ways. We can learn statistics, we can scroll through articles every day and feel like we are on it – we know what is going on, and this is fine; but these are facts. There are parts of us that need to be nourished, and cinema provides that. The arts do, in general: they access other parts of the human, and they create the possibility of looking at ourselves as in a more collective way. They tell us that we are part of something bigger. 

What kind of cinema do you think is more related to dystopia?

I was giving some thought to films that carried this, that burn with these questions about the environment, and climate, and dystopias. The examples that I cherish most come from the past: I was recalling earthquake-like moments, those when you experience a film and you say, “This is part of who I am”. So, it also really depends on what point you are in your life and in your evolution, but, for me, one is “La Jetée” by Chris Marker. Also, when I saw “Koyaanisqatsi” by Godfrey Reggio on a big screen I thought, “Oh my goodness”. “The Road” by John Hillcoat I really appreciated as well, based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy – and I really appreciate his writings. “The Road”, interestingly, we also used in building “The Fifth Season”, because we positioned it as a possible prequel to “The Road”. These are all older films. Today, instead, there is a tendency to favor story, story, story, and facts. Plots, resolutions and messages. But this is something we have a small discomfort with: the films are all carrying what you could interpret as messages, but that’s not the fundamental push of them. I am much more excited about form and what that could wake up in us. So, I think that we must look broader in video installations, where you’ll see things that are multi-dimensional. Also, all of us who carry stories to a public, we have to be broad, and wide, and hi-tech as well, because what we really want to do is try to reach a younger audience. As far a recent films… “The Brutalist” by Brady Corbet is quite a bold film on a formal level, and I am super appreciative of sound and sound design, which are an absolute colossal force that can bring into a seemingly benign story a sense of dread, or awe, and so on. I think we really have to cherish all dimensions of filmmaking, and deeply support alternative ways of storytelling that embrace cinema in its fullest form. The way we are being encouraged to write is so story driven, because there are so many urgent stories to tell, but form should never be neglected. We have to help make space for stories that are told in alternative ways: it sounds naïve, but the most exalted and ecstatic moments I have had in front of a screen have been films that on a formal level are brave, each in unexpected ways. This is what we have been trying to do for two decades with our multiple films, and will continue to do, even though the market pushes against this.

Talking about industry – You already know Torino because you have been part of TorinoFilmLab some years ago. Is this the first time you take part in Festival CinemAmbiente?

Yes, first time! I’m very excited and honored.

And have you taken part in the shaping of the Atlante delle distopie?

It’s my first exposure to this research – which is probably good because, this way, I will come up with very basic questions! It’s all link to everything I have been dedicating to, there’s a lot of common ground. It will be exciting, I am going to learn as much as I can about it before engaging in this conversation. Also, I will tell you this: many years ago, I studied at Università Cattolica in Milano for a year, Scienze Politche and Storia dell’Arte.

From an industry point of view, how aware and operational do you think the industry is in terms of climate crisis? Is it possible that green sets and good environmental sustainability practices are just rhetorical facades that carry little substance?

No, I do not think so. It is already manifesting, and we legally have to report on it, certainly in Belgium, and I know in France are very strict and very engaged. There are requirements of a whole new instrumentation to be implemented in this first generation – but then it will just become automatic. Just the cost moving these crews around is exorbitant, it is ridiculous, and there are so many ways to do it more effectively and efficiently. Every single person I have worked with on films is open to this, so the craftsmen and craftswomen in the industry are ready to go, especially if you are working on a story that is engaged, that touches on these things. It should be initially obliged, and then it will come automatically, but it is working, I am very optimistic. And then, on the storytelling front, there are many initiatives taking charge of this, one being GreenLab with TorinoFilmLab – ways ease in in organic ways the climate questions inside the stories, because there are no stories that can be told without it, really, as far as contemporary tales. There should be multiple organizations that educate people in the sector to up the effort, because it does have and it will have a watershed effect over time for the younger generation. All these new generations are looking at us older and they are baffled, they say, “What did you do?” So, the only thing we can do is deliver intelligent stories that actually carry the reality that we are facing. This is the minimum: it is a question of respect, in fact.

This brings us to the final question: is there something you’d like to leave with the new generation of filmmakers?

Their stories are our stories. Be alert, cherish confrontations with beauty – but beauty in its broadest, deepest sense, not aesthetic. The beauty of the fact that we are all living one story.