Swiss filmmaker Jacqueline Zünd makes a leap from documentary work into the realm of fiction.
Her debut fiction feature, Don't Let the Sun, unfolds in a near-future world scorched by heat and emotional inertia, a setting that resists both sci-fi spectacle and overt dystopian tropes. Instead, Zünd creates an atmosphere of quiet alienation, where relationships are mediated, bodies move with languid precision, and the collapse of intimacy feels as oppressive as the climate.
In the discussion with Screen Anarchy, the director reflects on her affinity for Brutalist architecture, the decision to strip back dialogue in favor of physical expression, and the porous line between personal connection and transactional performance. She also discusses the intense summer shoot, her collaboration with lead actor Levan Gelbakhiani, and the conceptual world-building that began with a single question: what if it's simply too hot to speak?
Screen Anarchy: This film feels like it touches on dystopian themes. Was that something you wanted to lean into, or avoid?
Jacqueline Zünd: For me, it’s more a possibility, or rather a glimpse into a possibility. Of course, it could be close to reality, but I didn’t want to paint such a dark image. It’s just a soft background. I’m not really talking about it directly, it’s there as the backdrop to the story.
I ask because dystopian tropes are popular in the mainstream. It feels like your film is aware of them, but doesn’t quite embrace them. Instead, you create a different kind of background. Was that deliberate?
When I discovered this agency in Japan, I started thinking about the dignity of human relationships, and what could change them. It’s already changing here too. If I watch my son and how he lives his relationships, it’s different. Everything is mediated, often happening simultaneously with different people. I wanted to make a story about that, how it feels, how it works.
And how did that connect to the climate crisis element?
It came naturally. The climate crisis became part of the atmosphere in which the story unfolds. We didn’t make it the main subject, it’s more a layer.
Was there a full script? There’s very little dialogue, and the film feels surprisingly physical without relying on words.
Yes, there was a lot of writing. If you don’t have dialogue, you have to describe the images and the emotions.
So it was a technical script?
No, not at all. In the end, it was more like a literary script. You had to write what you see, otherwise people wouldn’t understand where you are, because there’s so little dialogue. The script was about 60 pages. Some people said, “That’s too short,” but I knew it was enough. It’s written in feature format, but the descriptions create the world. I love scripts that people also enjoy reading, that draw you into the atmosphere.
So those 60 pages were mostly emotions and conditions?
Descriptions of light, of space, of how people look at each other. Not “what you should feel,” but rather what the world looks like, so you can sense the emotions. For the actors, that was difficult. Without much dialogue, everything becomes physical. We worked on that beforehand, how do you move when it’s hot, how does the body express itself without words. But then, on set, we didn’t need to imagine it too much, it was actually 40 degrees.
There are several narrative units, micro-stories, joined by the main character. Why did you decide to rotate between those micro-stories?
For me, it’s not that fragmented. For me, it’s just his… I mean, it’s his daily life and how he interacts within his job. You don’t know what is his private life and what is his work. I found it interesting to play with that tension, what is personal, what is professional, which relationships are real and which are not.
Looking back, he isn’t authentic himself. You never really know what’s real and what isn’t. And is it wrong if it’s not real? I don’t think so. I’m not moralistic about it. It can be positive, if you can order somebody and you feel good with it, why not? I’m not interested in judging it at all.
Was there any reference behind the structure when you were preparing this?
The structure? No, not really. I work very visually. I start with images in my head, then I write about them, and out of these images, scenes develop. Working with my co-writer Arne Kohlweyer was very interesting, you bring an image, it transforms, and suddenly it becomes something else.
There wasn’t a direct influence from a specific film or theatre piece. Because of the physicality of the storytelling, there’s not much dialogue, it might feel like silent cinema. But it’s not really silent movies; that’s a completely different genre.
I’m a big fan of quiet, contemplative Asian films. As a filmmaker, you’re influenced by so many things. I’ve watched so many movies over the past 20 years, it’s impossible to say which ones really made their way into the film. I have a big video library at home, so there’s always something in the mix.
The places where you shot seem very carefully chosen, the architecture, the compositions…
I’m very much into architecture, especially Brutalism. Even in my documentaries, locations have a big impactm they reflect the inner state of the characters. I always choose locations carefully, and I love doing that.
Yes, I did the location scouting myself. All these buildings… I was building them into my mind for years. For example, the building in Genoa with the stairs, I’ve wanted to film there for a long time. I tried using it for other projects, even documentaries, but it never worked. When I was writing this film, I thought: this is perfect.
The second location I found in Milan. Initially, we wanted to shoot everything in São Paulo because it’s just a beautiful Brutalist city. It’s incredible. But it was complicated because of co-production and political reasons. In the end, we shot the exterior scenes in São Paulo, the empty streets, the daylight shots, the skyline. I like that you can’t immediately place it. You don’t know where it is.
I thought it was Berlin, you see?
People from São Paulo recognize it immediately, but everyone else doesn’t. It’s very hard to find a city you can’t “read”, where you don’t instantly know where you are. And also, where there’s nobody and no cars.
That was VFX?
Yes, yes. We had a second unit, DOP, director, and VFX artist. And Mets, he’s really great. He did such a fantastic job. He took the images and erased all human life from them.
You mentioned your special affinity for architecture, which you wanted to feature in the film. If we’re talking about a futuristic story, and you’ve mentioned Brutalism, what’s the connection?
For me, Brutalism is at the same time something old and something new. It’s futuristic, but also worn out. The world I depict is a kind of burnout world. You don’t know, maybe they don’t produce anything anymore.
The objects are all from the ’80s and ’90s: old televisions, old furniture. Maybe nothing is manufactured anymore. The clothes are reused. That was my idea behind this world. Brutalism was the perfect background for this atmosphere — something you recognize, but also something futuristic at the same time.
And you have these fight clubs at night. Where did that come from?
That was inspired by a film by Claire Denis´s Beau Travail. It’s about these legionnaires. I love that film. I was looking for something that could serve as a distraction for my character, a place where he could decompress.
When I watched Beau Travail during that period, it felt like the perfect expression of closeness and distance, intimacy and rejection. You push away something you want and need, but can’t allow yourself to have. All that emotion is in the movement of those scenes.
How did you find the leading actor Levan Gelbakhiani? Was there a casting process or specific requirements?
Because the city in the film is inhabited by people from all over the world, they communicate in English. For me, anyone who could speak a little English was possible, and I wanted everyone to keep their own accent. Like in Brooklyn or New York, you find places where no one is a native speaker. I wanted to create a society like that.
It made casting both exciting and difficult, everything was possible. Once we knew we were shooting in Italy, I found a wonderful casting agent, Chiara Polizzi, who also works on Alice Rohrwacher’s films. She’s very good at what she does, and together we found a beautiful palette of people.
Did you make them do physical exercises during casting?
No, nothing like that. There’s little dialogue in the film, so it’s all in the gestures, in the physicality. I already knew Levan Gelbakhiani from And Then We Danced, it premiered in Berlin and won at Sundance. He comes from classical dance, so he’s a very physical actor. I knew we could work on body expression, and with him it was easy.
So in the scenes, were you thinking choreographically?
No, not really. But if you have to express the heaviness of the heat or the weight of emotions, he had good access to that through his body. And Maria Pia, the girl, she was just a natural. A gift from heaven. It came so easily for her. For her, it was fun, like playing.
How long did it take to shoot?
Six weeks in Italy, with all the locations. Then another week in São Paulo.
Did you rehearse a lot?
We had some preparation time, but more to develop the characters together, not to rehearse specific scenes, especially not with the kids. We only rehearsed two difficult scenes. The rest we worked on the day of shooting.
So you shot during the day?
No, almost everything was at night. We had to do some daytime scenes for logistical reasons, especially with the child, but most of the film is nocturnal. Luckily, she’s a night person. It could have been a disaster if she fell asleep at 9 p.m., but she stayed awake, even after midnight.
Since I wanted the film to have that oppressive summer heat, I decided to shoot in July and August in Milan. Everyone told me I was crazy, the city is closed for Ferragosto, and it’s unbearably hot. And it was, really unbearable.
That must have been tough for the crew.
Yes, we were 30 or 40 people in small rooms without air-conditioning. Because of the sound, we couldn’t use fans. Imagine 40 people in swimsuits. (laughs) It was method acting for the crew, too.
Did you prepare storyboards with the cinematographer?
I’ve worked with Nikolai von Graevenitz since my first film, so we know each other so well that we don’t need to talk much on set. We’ve developed a visual language together. We did the découpage, talked for weeks before shooting about how we wanted to tell the story, and did a lot of location scouting together, even inside the buildings.
Was there any other research for the compositions and aesthetics of the film?
What do you mean, like paintings?
Yes, maybe some paintings or visual references. Because the compositions are really memorable, very painterly.
I think it’s more about my own films, actually. Did you see my documentaries? They’re kind of the same visually. People say that after five minutes you know it’s my film, because of our signature in terms of images.
Is there a difference visually when you work on documentary versus fiction?
Not really. For me, it’s always important to work with the ambience and mood of a place. I’m always looking for images that reflect an inner state.
I did one film about insomnia, all about the loneliness of the city at night. I did another about three men searching for meaning in life. Then one about children going through their parents’ divorce. One journalist told me: “It’s like all your films came together in this one picture.” And I thought, yes, that’s true, I’d never realized it.
There are certain artists, writers, filmmakers, who are always, in a way, making the same work. But I don’t see that as negative. It’s about creating something coherent, something that belongs together. You do what’s inside you, and that becomes a recognizable language.
While shooting, was there anything that didn’t work as you’d imagined and had to change?
A lot of small things, angles, details. One bigger example: there’s a scene where he’s lying in the sun. Originally, it was at the seaside. I had this image since reading The Stranger by Albert Camus, the heat, and he kills the Arab, and I wanted to translate that feeling. But when we tried, it didn’t look good at all.
So we didn’t shoot it there. Instead, we thought: why not make him live on the roof of the building opposite, rather than on the beach? Like a homeless guy. That worked much better.
So that was more of an improvisation? Are you generally open to changing things on the go, or do you prefer to have it fixed?
I’m quite fixed.
Really?
Yes. Even though there isn’t much dialogue in the film, it’s all written, nothing improvised. The words are precise. I’m quite precise.
Why do you think that is?
I don’t know.
And you want to have it under control?
Yeah, I think I’m kind of controlling.
Is that also because of budget?
Not even that. It’s more that you spend so much time writing a screenplay, carrying the film inside you for months. By the time you’re on set, you already see the film before you shoot it.
And is the film you see while writing the same as the one after editing?
It’s close. Very close. It’s the same with my documentaries.
Were there compromises or changes in the editing?
Editing fiction was new for me, and it’s different, you’re much more tied to rhythm and to serving the dramaturgy. That was a challenge at first. With documentaries, there’s more freedom, more possibilities to change direction and find new ways to tell the story.
In fiction, at the beginning I had too much respect, maybe too much reverence for the material. But over time I found the liberties within the scenes.
People still sometimes talk about documentary versus fiction as separate worlds.
Yes, maybe ten years ago that was more pronounced. I don’t think like that at all. In fact, I’d say nowadays documentaries are often more interesting than fiction films. They can be very creative, there’s so much you can change, so many possibilities, and far fewer logistics.
And fewer people on set.
Exactly. Normally, I work with three or four people. The images from those shoots are not so different from what we did now, except this time there were forty people.
Including a production designer on set?
Of course. I loved working with the production designer and costume designer. Normally I do a lot of that myself, just by choosing locations, but with this project you can’t work like that, not when you have these kinds of scenes.
Were there changes to the production design on set?
No, that was all quite set. What’s interesting is that my documentaries were closer to fiction than my fiction film is to documentary. In documentaries, I work closely with my protagonists, condensing their lives into a story told in scenes. They play themselves, so in a way, working with actors now wasn’t such a big leap.
Visually, your work is quite minimalistic, the focus is on people, and the backgrounds are conceptually clear. The film doesn’t scream “sci-fi” or “future.”
I wanted it very simple. Minimalism and Brutalism. But with minimalism, you have to know exactly what you’re doing, because you can’t hide mistakes.
And with little dialogue…
Yes, there’s a reason for that. For me, it was important that it’s part of life in this world, it’s simply too hot to speak. People are reduced within themselves.
You mean the social fabric has broken down, so people interact less?
Maybe that too. But for me, first and foremost, it’s the heat. It reduces everything, the body, the mind. Even brain function economizes for survival. When it’s hot, people aren’t at their smartest.
Maybe that’s evolution.
(laughs) Maybe. But I didn’t want to show them as not smart, they are. They just don’t talk much. That’s realism, but my film is not realism.
Did you research what heat does to the human body, and its implications for society?
That’s why, while writing the film, I decided to make a separate documentary about heat. I discovered so many fascinating things during my research that I thought, this is a perfect subject for a documentary. So I shot, in parallel, a film about what extreme heat does to people — in Kuwait, in Dubai, in temperatures up to 52 degrees.
The film about heat is finished?
I’m editing now. It should be ready at the beginning of next year.
What’s it called?
Heat. It started as a working title, but I think I’ll keep it. It’s super simple, super clear.
And is it only about the effects on the human body, or does it also address climate change, like in your fiction film?
It’s mostly human stories. Very different ones. There’s a Kenyan woman working in an ice bar in Dubai, minus six degrees all day, in ski clothes. Then there’s a bicycle delivery driver who works in extreme heat. Many of them die on the job, but the government doesn’t talk about it.
I also have a very interesting meteorologist in Kuwait who is fighting for ecological awareness. It’s difficult in a country that relies so heavily on oil to even talk about ecology.
Do you have any other projects?
I’m starting to write my next fiction.
You enjoyed making your first fiction?
I learned a lot, and I think I would change many things next time.
Like working with actors?
I really like working with actors. I was always a little afraid of them, but now I know it’s not so different, in some ways, it’s closer than I expected.
And the new fiction, can you say more?
No, it’s too small still, just a plant.
Image cover courtesy of Locarno Film Festival.