By Yun-hua Chen.
The key was having the courage not to rush the pacing. People tried to convince me otherwise—they said it was too slow, that it took too long for the characters to meet. But I stood my ground.”
–Désirée Nosbusch
With over 30 years of experience as an actress, TV host, and award ceremony moderator, Désirée Nosbusch makes a seamless transition into directing, where she finds her true creative comfort zone. Poison, her debut feature, is a powerful and intimate exploration of grief and human connection.
The film follows an estranged divorced couple—played by Tim Roth and Trine Dyrholm—who reunite years after the tragic death of their son in a traffic accident. Meeting at a cemetery, their initial exchange is polite and distant, but as their conversation unfolds, emotions rise and escalate. The pain they have endured separately resurfaces, bringing with it long-buried resentment. As Nosbusch poignantly puts it, grief is something we cannot share.
At its core, Poison is a meditation on loss, time, and the resilience of love. It delves into the kind of grief that feels insurmountable, the love that lingers in the face of tragedy, and the quiet strength that remains between two people who grieve in their own ways yet still hold something precious for each other—and for life itself.
Adapted from Dutch playwright Lot Vekemans’ stage play of the same name, with a screenplay written by Vekemans himself, Poison is an emotional rollercoaster, ultimately offering a glimmer of hope and reconciliation at the end of its journey. The color palette is a muted blue-grey, with the camera capturing the powerful performances of the cast, whose presence commands the screen.
With Poison premiering in Luxembourg at the Luxembourg City Film Festival—the country where it was filmed, against the backdrop of a tranquil town and lush green forests—Nosbusch reflects on the film’s long journey to completion. She likens her approach to directing to that of a symphony conductor, orchestrating with an ear for music.
It took you more than a decade to bring this project to life. Can you tell us about the development process?
Thirteen years, to be exact. I fell in love with the play the moment I first read it—that was 13 years ago—when I was offered the lead female role in a theater production in Luxembourg. The play completely blew me away. I remember thinking, Wow, I have rarely read anything modern that touched me so deeply and resonated with me on so many levels.
It was brilliantly structured, almost like a symphony. Just when I thought I knew where I stood—when I was firmly on her side—something would happen and suddenly, I was catapulted to his. And this kept happening, back and forth, until the very end. My biggest realization was that grief is something we cannot share. Each person experiences it in a deeply personal and individual way. This, I believe, is why so many couples break apart after enduring such profound loss. The pain becomes unbearable, and they start blaming each other: Why isn’t he sitting here with me, crying his eyes out? Why is he going out instead? But grief is not about loving less or grieving incorrectly—it’s simply different for everyone.
This realization struck me profoundly, as it connected with my own family history. My parents lost two children. There were experiences in my life that echoed this theme, and understanding it gave me a sense of peace. I am the kind of person who doesn’t run away from fears—I try to confront them. Perhaps it’s naïve, but I believe that looking fear in the eye helps you deal with it if it ever comes to pass. Losing a child is every parent’s worst nightmare, and I felt that someone had to make a film about this.
The challenge was convincing the author to trust me. She had bad experiences with previous attempts at adapting her work for film. We initially tried hiring screenwriters to craft a feature-length script, but none of them captured what I was looking for. I wanted to open up the story while staying true to the essence of the play. Eventually, I convinced the author to write the screenplay herself—it was her first time writing for the big screen.
Then came eight years of financing. You can imagine how many doors I knocked on—anywhere that had the word funding on it, I was there. But when you tell people, I have a great story—two people talk in a cemetery for 90 minutes, their response is: Désirée, we think you’re charming, but please come back with a different story.
Twice, I gave up. I thought, This is just not meant to happen. But one last time, I revised the script, took it back to the film fund, and finally, they said, Okay, we see it now. We’ll trust you. Go ahead—but bring us an A-list cast.
I don’t think in terms of A-list or B-list actors, but I knew what they meant. My first thought was, How on earth am I, as a first-time director, going to secure an A-list cast? I turned to our casting director in London, Colin Jones, and asked, What am I allowed to have as a first-time director? And he said, What’s your dream cast?
I was hesitant—I didn’t even want to say it out loud. But he insisted, so I said, Trine Dyrholm and Tim Roth. And he simply replied, Okay. I was stunned. What do you mean, ‘okay’? And he said, We’ll ask. They can say no. I couldn’t believe it. We reached out to Tim Roth through his agent. After about ten days, I got a message: He loves the script. Would you be willing to talk to him? I was shooting in Ireland at the time, running around with my laptop, trying to find a decent background for the Zoom call. What is he going to see behind me? I thought. So, I hung up a sheet. Then, on Sunday—bing!—there he was. Hi, Des, I’m Tim.
We had an incredible conversation. He had analyzed the script deeply, pinpointing exactly where the emotional traps were. After an hour, he said, You’ll hear from me soon. When he said yes, I went to five different churches in Ireland and lit candles. Then we approached Trine, and the same thing happened. Five minutes into our conversation, we were already sharing stories—it was a true woman-to-woman connection. I was beyond lucky. Somehow, I got my dream cast.
The film explores grief, but also love. You even added “A Love Story” to the title. Why was that important?
That was a crucial addition because, to me, this only works if love is present. And by love, I don’t mean infatuation or butterflies—I mean deep, enduring love. These two characters still love each other. It may have been buried under years of pain, but it’s still there.
He needs this encounter as much as she does. They both need to give each other permission to move on. The only way we can fully understand the shifting perspectives—seeing the story from her side and then from his—is through that underlying love.
How did you approach adapting the play for cinema?
We knew the film couldn’t just be two people standing there for 90 minutes. But I was constantly grappling with an inner conflict—yes, we needed to open it up, but at the same time, it had to stay authentic. How much can you really expand a cemetery without making it feel contrived or overly stylized?
That’s why the location was crucial. From the start, I knew I wanted a place with water—a metaphor for arrival and departure, cleansing, and purity. Finding Vianden changed everything. It had exactly what I was looking for. Geographically, it already offered natural movement—they could step out of the car, walk up—it was all there.
We didn’t have to artificially construct anything beyond what the location already provided. In that sense, the setting itself became a third protagonist in the film. I wasn’t ready to shoot until we found this place—and thank God, we did.
To answer your question, the key was having the courage not to rush the pacing. People tried to convince me otherwise—they said it was too slow, that it took too long for the characters to meet. But I stood my ground. I still believe it needed that time—for everything that followed to feel earned and possible. I also wanted the music to be as minimalistic as possible. I didn’t want it dictating emotions or telling the audience when to feel something. The goal was to keep the experience pure and authentic, while still adapting it for the big screen.
I always look at everything I do in a specific way: If this were the last thing I was ever allowed to do in my life, for whatever reason, would I be proud of it?”
It is such a tour de force of acting—a masterclass from both of them. From your background as an actor, do you think that your experience brought an additional layer to the way you directed them?
Tim and Trine are both exceptional actors. In all honesty, even if there had been no director on set, they would still have been brilliant. That’s the kind of deeply giving actors they are. But I do believe my own experience as an actor helped me understand what actors truly need—because I know what I need when I’m in their position. Actors need to feel safe and protected. Every single day, I tried to create a playground where they could feel safe to experiment and take risks. I felt more like a conductor of a symphony orchestra.
It was always essential to me that both characters were portrayed on equal footing. I never wanted her to be a victim. I didn’t want a helpless female character. I wanted a woman who makes conscious choices, who is strong, who drives the story forward.
We didn’t always agree, and we would have discussions. For example, I insisted that Tim’s character needed to have a breakdown. Tim thought the breakdown had already happened before he arrived. I argued, no, he needs to break down here, in this moment, in front of her. And in the end, he gave it to me—and it’s in the film.
We also tried to shoot as chronologically as possible, weather permitting. I wanted to help them maintain the emotional arc naturally, rather than jumping between moments. They put their hearts and souls into this film. They were very trusting, very giving. Our DOP, Judith Kaufmann, played a huge role as well. Her camera work was fluid, almost like a silent dance with the actors.
I gave them a lot of freedom, but that was only possible because I knew exactly what I wanted and needed from the story. You should have seen me at home—I was doing a lot of homework. I went as far as printing photos from the internet, cutting them out, placing them side by side—researching how tall he was, how tall she was.
I remember thinking, he has a tall wife—great! Beyond the physical compatibility, what truly mattered was that they needed to walk into the room and feel like they had a past together. That’s something you can’t manufacture—you just have to hope and pray that it’s there.
Because of COVID, Tim was in L.A., Trine was in Denmark, and I was also in L.A., so we did hours and hours of Zoom calls discussing the characters, their backstories, their emotions. Every time I saw them on screen, I thought: I see something there. But I won’t truly know until they’re in the same room. And then, the first day in Luxembourg, they walked in together, and my DOP turned to me and whispered, “They have a history.” I knew then that we had something real there.
Every film is an experiment. You take people from different backgrounds, cultures, nationalities, religions, throw them together and say: “Now, you are a happy family. Now, go and make art.” That isn’t how things work. If only the world worked like that, the world would be a better place.
I am convinced that we had a lucky star. Somehow, with this film, it worked. Even today, when we see each other again, we have tears in our eyes—because everyone involved had a deep, personal reason for being there. That’s why we’re still promoting it—even though it’s not an easy film to market.
Grief is one of the hardest things to put on screen…
If you manage to get people into the cinema, something shifts. I traveled to 30 cities for screenings, and after every single one, people came up to me, hugging me, thanking me: “Thank you for showing that it’s okay to suffer.” Or, “Thank you—I’ve been through this, and I felt seen.”
The hardest part is getting them there in the first place.
One of the most remarkable things about the film is its rhythm—something you don’t necessarily see on paper, but which works so well on screen. Was there improvisation involved, or was the rhythm carefully crafted in the script?
I had the rhythm completely mapped out in my head. To me, this film was like a piece of music. That’s why there are moments of silence—because in life, we don’t always talk. Sometimes, the unsaid is louder than words.
I directed the film like a piece of music, shot the film with this rhythm in mind—and even if some find it slow, I still believe it’s exactly as it should be.
And even if some people find it slow, I believe the rhythm is exactly as it should be. Ultimately, it’s a matter of taste—not everyone will appreciate it—but I am convinced the pacing is right.
What excites you the most about directing, compared to all the other roles you’ve played, including moderation?
It is incredibly fulfilling when you have a vision in your head—when you sit at home, wondering, “Does this make sense? Is this right?” And then, finally, you gather the courage to bring it to life. Trust me, it wasn’t easy for me. I wouldn’t even say I’m particularly courageous, but I knew I wanted to do it.
And then, suddenly, all the puzzle pieces fall into place, and the vision becomes reality. You look at it and think, Wow. I sat in my corner imagining all of this, and now it exists—it sounds right, it feels right, it looks right. There is no greater joy. It’s almost like a drug.
I always look at everything I do in a specific way: If this were the last thing I was ever allowed to do in my life, for whatever reason, would I be proud of it? If my kids pulled it off a shelf one day and watched it, or if people asked, What was the last thing she did before she left this earth?—would I be happy with that answer?
And the truth is, if this film were the last thing I ever created, I would be proud. Do you know why? Because it’s truthful. It’s honest. I did everything I could to remain faithful—to the material, to the content, and to the people who worked on it.
There was no hidden agenda, no secret plan. I wasn’t trying to make it into something it wasn’t. It’s simply pure. And for a story like this, for a topic like this, that was the only way to approach it. I’ve met so many people who have experienced loss. I did my research, and I had people come up to me and say, Thank you for showing us that we’re not crazy for still suffering after 26 years of losing a child. That kind of response means everything.
Even in Germany, an organization that supports parents who have lost children has taken the film on as a resource. They now screen it at meetings and gatherings to facilitate conversations with grieving families. To me, that is extraordinary. That means the film is already making a difference for people who need solace and support.
Yun-hua Chen is an independent film scholar and critic and associate editor of Film International Online. Currently, she serves on the board of the German Film Critics Association.