Locarno 2024 Interview: Denis Côté on Defying Filmmaking Norms, Upcoming Simp Movie, Embracing Artistic Freedom, Navigating Life After a Kidney Transplant

At the Locarno Film Festival, Canadian filmmaker Denis Côté presented his latest work, Days Before the Death of Nicky. In the short film, Côté crafts a meditative journey through the Canadian landscape, focusing on the mysterious, solitary travels of a woman whose motives remain as elusive as the fragmented storytelling.

Known for his prolific and eclectic body of work, Côté has long been a fixture in the world of auteur cinema, crafting films that challenge conventional narratives and explore the fringes of human experience. From his early shorts to acclaimed features like Vic + Flo Saw a Bear (2013) and Ghost Town Anthology (2019), Côté's films are celebrated for their unique approach, blending documentary and fiction.

Côté sat down with Screen Anarchy to talk candidly about making his new short film, the personal struggles that have shaped his recent work, and his unconventional approach to filmmaking. As he delves into his creative process, Côté offers insights into the philosophy that drives him to create without the constraints of industry expectations, maintaining a fierce independence that has become his trademark.

Screen Anarchy: Your new short film DAYS BEFORE THE DEATH OF NICKY premieres at Locarno. I always imagine that when you make a short, it’s like taking a break—you have some free time, so you decide to make a short.

Denis Côté: It’s a way to put it, but honestly, I don’t understand filmmakers with that kind [shows linearly rising line]. You know what I mean? It troubles me.

Like, every young director starts with a DIY film or a low-budget project, maybe a million dollars. Then the next one has to be three million, then five, and soon they’re looking for an agent in Beverly Hills. Some people in Quebec aren’t opposed to that trajectory, even though we’re connected with France. But you see it in young Quebec directors too—they naturally gravitate towards the States.

For me, though, I don’t follow that straight curve. I can move from a bigger budget back to DIY, no budget, then to a short film. I just turned 50, and I’m not ashamed of making a short film.

I see cinema the way a painter sees painting—every film is a gesture. It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece every time. We made this short film in 36 hours, edited it in two days, no script, just three people in a car—it’s energizing. We had vague ideas; we shouldn’t say no script, but rather, ideas. The actress knew there wouldn’t be much to “act” in the traditional sense—it’s more about presence. It gives you the energy to go back and make a bigger film again. And there was another situation. I was waiting for a kidney transplant for such a long time.

Oh really?

Oh, you didn’t know? A lot of people know. In 2006, they diagnosed me with kidney insufficiency, and they told me it would get worse over time. It’s degenerative. They said, “One day, you’ll need dialysis or a transplant, but let’s see how long it takes.”

So, that was 2006, and it lasted 17 years—just slowly going downhill. By 2015, my life was basically crap—napping every day, feeling worse and worse. At 15% kidney function, they call it terminal. I reached that point in 2020. Then, out of nowhere, this guy comes to me in 2022 and says, “That’s enough, I’m giving you a kidney.”

Really?

Denis Côté: Yes, it was in 2022. We had just finished making Mademoiselle Kenopsia. We shot it over seven and a half days. I was just sitting there with 12% kidney function. I don’t even know why I made that film, but it was done in a state of... well, it felt like it would be my last one. Then, a month after we finished, this guy tells me he’s giving me a kidney. So Mademoiselle Kenopsia was here and in Toronto without me.  

I was two weeks away from the transplant and I was in remission when the film was in Toronto. By October, just two months later, I was already thinking about my next film. It was like, “You live, you just live instantly.”

We had this opportunity to visit a regional festival six or eight hours away from Montreal, and I said, “I want to make a film in a car on the road, but with different kinds of roads.” So, we went to this place called Rouen, and on the way back to Montreal, we shot the film in the car—just three of us – the DoP, the actress and me - with five different cameras, two big guys sitting in the back. It worked out perfectly.

I think the problem with short films is there’s not really a market for them.

People still see short films as a school, which is what they should be—a school to learn something. But some people are in such a hurry to make a feature film that they don’t take short films that seriously sometimes. They don’t see them as a true means of expression, just as a stepping stone to features, which is kind of wrong.

I made 15 short films before my first feature, and I’m still very happy to make one. The last one was in 2015. It reminds you where you come from. I know it’s not just that, but it tells me, “You’re still young; you can still make short films.”

There’s an energy behind making a short film when you’re older that’s very intriguing. It’s not about creating something bigger; it’s like a painter who has an idea and just does it. There’s no calculation; you don’t have to achieve something with your short film.

We made it in two days. It´s in Locarno. It cost $500. If it doesn’t play anywhere, so be it. At this point in my career, I’m not trying to get somewhere—I’m not looking for success. Some directors come to me and say I should be more ambitious. They think I should “step up my game” after winning awards, like in 2013 at Berlin. They expect me to aim for Hollywood, like Denis Villeneuve. But that’s not in me, you know?

Maybe it has to do with the disease. When you live with something hanging over your head, you’re not dreaming of making a big war saga or a $25 million film. That’s how I see my work—it’s like a brick wall. Some bricks are bigger than others.

But you’re one of the most prolific filmmakers in Canada.

I am prolific, but I’m not sure what that means. Other directors might see cinema as a way to achieve success, and they spend years financing their films, pitching their scripts all over the world. Maybe they’re afraid to shoot.

When I say it’s a no-budget film, it’s just that I use my name to approach a post-production company, and they say, “Sure, we’ll help you for free.” I’m not afraid— let´s just organize the energies and – whop – there is a film.

You could ask someone like Hong Sang-soo how he works. Being prolific isn’t necessarily a quality. I’m not even sure what it is. If the outcome is impressive, it’s impressive, but if you look at my body of work, I’ve never had a hugely successful film. Maybe three of my films have sold in ten countries.

But your name usually comes up when talking about the current Canadian cinema.

I get that because I’m a festival item. It’s true—people see me at festivals. They say, “Oh, it’s Denis Côté. I didn’t see his last three films, but he’s here.” I don’t mind being on this kind of confidential art scene. It’s not about success; it’s about respect. I’d rather be respected than celebrated.

So this prolific stuff and being at festivals, at some point, you stop caring. You just create, create, create—no more calculation. Sometimes journalists ask, “Are you considering something more Hollywood?” Every time I talk to someone from The Hollywood Reporter, they bring it up. But I am where I am, and that’s fine.

I have three projects now. I´ am paying my rent with all these small films I made. You do the films you want, you are totally free and you pay your rent. I don´t need more. I live a very simple life.

Can you talk about those projects?

I’ve started editing something weird. It’s called Paul—it’s about a guy I met named Paul. He's a... well, we call him a Simp. In the BDSM world, a Simp is someone who dedicates their entire life to giving pleasure to women, serving them. It's not sexual; it’s about serving. It’s like being a lifestyle slave, though I know “slave” isn’t a word everyone likes. But let’s just say he’s very happy with his role as a Simp.

So, he created this character called Simp Paul, and it became just simple. What he does is clean for dominatrixes five or six days a week. He goes to different women’s homes and cleans for free. Every day, he’s at a different place, just cleaning. And they give him money, a reward, they can beat him. They do want they want with him. It does not involve sex, not too much violence. And it´s very fascinating.

Is this a documentary?

Yeah, it is. For the past year, I’ve been following this guy. We didn’t shoot much, maybe 20 days over six months. But now we’re starting to edit, and it’s quite a mystery.

What would be the narrative arc in this documentary?

Honestly, I don’t think you can have one. Remember when I made the film with the bodybuilders, Ta peau si lisse? There was no arc in that film either. It was just a moment in the lives of those guys. So there’s no real beginning, no real end, because these people are in transition, you know?

It’s very hard to make an American-style documentary where you start from point A and end at point B. Instead, we just watch this guy in his routine.

What’s his motivation to go public with his lifestyle?

I’m going to edit the film and finish it, and I’m not sure I understand it yet. It’s extremely hard to get to the bottom of it. He’s shy, not very spectacular. He doesn’t speak to men—he only gives me two or three words at a time. I’ve been using a woman to gain his confidence. She talks to him and then comes back to tell me what he said.

Like a proxy?

Exactly. But I’m a bit worried about finishing the film because I never really connected with him.

When do you know the film is finished in the editing?

Well, we do not have that many hours – 27, 28 – I am quite fast, I don´t doubt too much. Every film I edit takes no more than three weeks.

No regrets after?

No. I have edited a film longer than three weeks. I don´t doubt, not because I am good. It´s just that it is supposed to be there and bye.

But do you enter the editing room with already constructed image of the film?

Usually yes, but now I´m very afraid of Paul. Because I don´t know what we did. And that´s exciting. For me, cinema is advancing in the dark. And then I find some light at some point.

Advancing in the dark is so fun and a lot of filmmakers, they like to have all lights open. I love to not control what I am doing. So, this Paul proposition is very intriguing.

And ethically speaking, I am afraid because I am not sure we connected, so it´s worse. I don’t want to play behind his back, I do not want to do any tricks. I don’t want to go Ulrich Seidl on him, or you know, trick him?

I am not sure Seidl tricked anybody.

It´s always on the line. I love the guy. But when we hear a story like about Sparta, I totally understand what he did because it is easy to do this. You can see somebody, asked them if they want to be in a film. And they are poor and you tell their mother you are going to give them €200. The kid is going to play a football, it´s a documentary about football.

You take the money and then discover that it was about a paedophilia. I am not saying this is exactly who has happened. You can feel the guy knows how to get things by. When I approached my bodybuilders, I told them, “Look, trust me. You might not understand the whole thing when it’s finished, but I won’t trick you.”

When you have the final cut of the film, are you going to show it to Paul and ask for his opinion?

Of course, and to the dominatrixes, as we have more then ten.

Are they anonymized?

Two asked to not show their heads, one asked to change her voice, others said it´s okay. Three or four said, when they signed the release, that they want to see their parts. With the bodybuilders, they saw themselves on the big screen, and they were just happy to be in a film.

But Paul is different. He wants to be famous. He told me that in life, he wants to be famous, and being in a film could be his chance. But he’s never watched any of my films. I’ve sent them to him, but he doesn’t care. He doesn´t care about me.

From my point of view, I want a film with him, but he wants a film about him. Can we meet in the middle? It´s hard. I want my film, he wants his. Since he isn´t an actor, what conversation can I have with him.

What’s the process like on set?

I go to his place and tell him, “Please forget we’re here. Today, you’re cleaning for this dominatrix, and you, dominatrix, forget about us, do what you normally do when he’s there.”

How many people from film crew on the set?

We keep the crew small—just two people. I do the sound myself with a little Zoom recorder, and we use a handheld camera.

The camera did not kill the mood?

Paul was never fully comfortable, but he’s not comfortable with life in general, so that’s okay.

But he has a day job?

Not really. We could talk about him for six hours.

Now I am curious about the project.

You will be curious. I am curious. I am not sure where we are going, but going in that tunnel is exciting. I do not know how will it start, how will it end. Usually, I have an idea, but this film is something different.

So that is Paul. We bought the rights to a Japanese book called Revolver, but I haven’t written anything for it yet. It’s an old, obscure book. Then there’s another project we’re trying to finance called Violence du Corps de l’Autre—we’ll need to find an English title for that one. It will be probably financed in 2025 and we can shoot the next summer.

What is your vision for this film?

It’s about a girl, she is on the road and she is committing acts of euthanasia on people.

Is this based on true events?

No, because it does not exist. She is offering the service of euthanasia and people would accept. But she is not from government and it happens in their homes. We are in a kind of dystopian society reality. She kills a few people and ends up in a big house where 15 people live. And all this people are very shady…

…is it a cult?

Kind of, and she gets money from thus people to do what she does on the road. She is afraid of this, not really a cult but an organization. And the rest of the film, she is looking at this people in the house trying to understand who they are. It´s very floating film, kind of typical Denis Côté.

What attracted you to this idea?

Again, my disease has been central to my life, and it’s reflected in my work. I bought the rights to Revolver, which I have just read, and the story is a about a guy who on the first page finds a gun near a dead body under a tunnel. He doesn't care about the dead body, takes the gun and puts it in his coat. And the whole book is him imagining what he could do with the gun.

I really like that. And this girl killing people on the road and this short film Days Before the Death of Nicky, and then Mademoiselle Kenopsia, and you can see there is something going. It´s in the periphery of my disease. So I am still in the echo my transplant and I need to close this chapter and these films will be pretty dark for the next two, three years for sure.

Is it like a therapy?

Somebody asked my “Why did you make a film about your kidney stuff?”. Nobody cares about the kidney transplant documentary. It´s very common. I would rather do those projects. I do not talk about myself. I prefer to hide behind characters and scripts.

Well, we are talking about you.

Yeah. I used to be a film critic. And the job was to give intentions to films. And some directors are saying to me “I just read something stupid about my film.” It´s not stupid. The job of that person is to give intentions to you film even if that never crossed your mind. I always defend film critics, the good ones. A good film critic is an author.

Back to your films, I read some of your interviews where you were alluding to mortality and now you explained it.

It´s the first time that I am talking about it because it struck me, Mademoiselle Kenopsia, these three new projects, there is something going on.

Before the transplant, was the situation different regarding your career?

It was different in that sense that I could not see dialysis coming, I could not see the transplant. And when I was going down to 15% of functionality, something is very serious. When I wrote That Kind of Summer, it´s about a woman with sexual problems. I wrote that around 2017, so I was still quite far from dialysis and transplant so I could interest myself in other subjects. Bodybuilders, that again is on the periphery of my situation. I was getting weaker, and those guys were in a perfect shape.

Even if you go back, All That She Wants, a film from 2008, the girl gives a kidney to buy her freedom—this was a year before I learned about my condition. Boris Without Beatrice, this woman is in bed, she is sick and doesn´t talk. On an unconscious level, I’ve always included sick characters in my films. It’s a way to talk about myself, but indirectly.

Do you have any projects you’ve abandoned after the transplant?

No. But it's still very new. It´s going to be one year only. The three projects I mentioned are still in the works.

The short film Days Before the Death of Nicky was just a whim—something spontaneous. I have ideas every day, and the ones that stick are the ones I pursue. I think like a producer: can we make this film on a no-budget basis? If the answer is yes, then we do it.

It’s very DIY, very artisanal. I come from a punk background—organizing concerts, making zines—and that’s still in me. I’m kind of afraid of the industry, of 10 million dollars films… afraid, let's just say I don't care. As soon as I am with 30 people and three million dollars, I'm moody. But with a no-budget film, it’s just fun. No time for moodiness—just creating.

Does the director in you ever clash with the producer in you?

First of all, I’m never my producer. I always find ways to make something cheap and fast. You just have to assume it. This short film is the ultimate expression of that. It’s trashy, it’s punk, and it’s a big “fuck you” to the obsession with glossy, perfect films. It’s a way to remind myself—and others—that cinema doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

I was always need to take my revenge over the industry. All the time. I don´t know why I feel like that, I don´t know if I am a contrarian but as soon as I come out of a big project I need to take a bunch of friends and do something quick just to remind people “You know, I just made this three-million-dollar film, but no, no, no, I’m not a bourgeois filmmaker.”  

Look at this—I made this film in five days, it’s shaky, and it’s Wilcox. I need to alternate between big projects and small ones. We had no script for this one, it was very punkish approach.

When the price tag is in the millions, you get moody?

I’ve never made a film for more than 2.5 million. Yet, you see these young filmmakers in Quebec making their first films for four million, right out of the gate. Film under 3.5 million dollars is considered low-budget in Canada.

My biggest one is 2.5 and I made fifteen.  The lower the budget, the more liberty I have. That’s how I think.

That’s interesting, because most people would say that more money means more freedom, more leverage, more possibilities.

Well, it’s because they dream of special effects, stunts, and all that. I don’t work with that. But it’s funny, you do lose things when you have more money.

There was another thing with Days Before the Death of Nicky. The genesis of the whole thing. I wanted to make a film that works only with the title. Before you even see it, the title works on your imagination. Then, when you watch it, nothing much happens. There are traces of narrative, but the title keeps resonating in your mind. That’s what I wanted—a title that would occupy the viewer’s brain, making the content almost secondary.

So, the name came before the film?

Yes, totally. I was heavily influenced by a film by James Benning called The United States of America. It’s just him and Bette Gordon driving around the U.S., filming themselves. I love that film and wanted to do a little twist on it. I don’t mind having influences—it’s not about copying. I really like his work. Bestiaire was very James Benning-influenced.

Maybe the question is also the originality.

If you have your voice, people will see it.

You mean like a trademark style? Because yours is very heterogenous.

It´s very heterogenous. A lot of people told me  “We never really recognize you.” I was a bit worried at some point because I thought I have no special signature. But then I realized that’s okay. When you watch a Béla Tarr film, Tsai Ming-liang or Aki Kaurismäki -  and these people are probably the best filmmakers in the world - you know what you’re going to see. One day I read somewhere that “Denis Côté is the most dangerous filmmaker because when you sit down in cinema you have no clue what you are going to get.”

That´s a perfect compliment.

And it was such a compliment.

Are you open to influences from contemporary filmmakers?

Honestly, at this point, almost zero. When you’re younger, especially as a former film critic, it’s hard not to be influenced by everything you’ve seen and written about. My first films had clear influences from Claire Denis or Béla Tarr, but at some point, it doesn’t matter anymore.

I don’t watch films to copy anymore. You have to have your personality. When it’s time to write a script, you just have to write 90 pages and it´s not that hard.

Do you still have a passion for other people’s films? Are there filmmakers whose work you follow closely?

I’m still a cinephile, absolutely. I was a film critic for 15 years, so it’s still in me. My favorite filmmaker is Rainer Werner Fassbinder, but my work doesn’t look like his at all. And of course, I follow directors like Apichatpong Weerasethakul.

I’m drawn to this kind of alchemy—trying to create magic with nothing. I saw Miguel Gomes’ new film Grand Tour recently, and it’s so light, like he’s just taking things from reality and crafting a film.

Do you actively seek out these films, or do they come to you by accident?

No, I look for them. I follow these filmmakers—Pedro Costa, for instance. I’m from that generation that still believes in the auteur. The other day, somebody told me “the auteurs are dead”. But I’ve noticed that’s changing with younger generations.

In the 90s, we were all like “Did you see the new Jia Zhangke” or “the new Leos Carax, Béla Tarr”. It´s over. Ask people under 35 if they re looking for new film by this auteur. They don´t say that. They just go see films where the topics talk to them. The cinephilia is not there. It´s another kind of cinephilia. Things are changing.