By Yun-hua Chen.
For me, the third installment of the trilogy is about liberation and breaking out of certain emotional or psychological prisons, shedding old skin so that new skin can grow. The sparrow is important because of this potential for freedom and flight.”
—Ramon Zürcher
From cat to spider, the twin brothers and filmmaking duo, Ramon Zürcher and Silvan Zürcher, now move to a creature with wings in the grand finale of their trilogy, following The Strange Little Cat (2013) and The Girl and the Spider (2021). Written, directed, and edited by Ramon Zürcher, and produced by Silvan Zürcher, the film delves into another family nucleus—this time, far more explosive.
Set in an idyllic childhood home, the narrative revolves around two sisters, Karen and Jule, who reunite with their families for the birthday of Markus, Karen’s husband. Karen’s eldest daughter returns from another city, while her quick-witted teenage daughter rebels against the matriarchal structure. Meanwhile, her young son, skilled in the kitchen and tender in demeanor, conceals a rarely exposed darker side. Jule, with her contrasting personality, brings a fresh and unpredictable energy to the mix. Each family member follows their own trajectory through the house, confronting the family’s past and constantly shifting their dynamics with one another. Through their rapid, often sarcastic, yet always sharp exchanges, and their choreographed movements within the space, emotions and conflicts gradually saturate the cinematic landscape.
Characterization is sharp and distinct, with the cast’s performances—graced by the presence of Maren Eggert, Britta Hammelstein, and Luise Heyer—delivering pitch-perfect tone. With just the right blend of enigma and astute observation of subtle interpersonal interactions, the film provides a stunning closing note. It celebrates the quiet complicity between women, the freedom to break free, and offers a true cinematic feast of color, light, and sound.
Ramon and Silvan Zürcher explored themes of metamorphosis and spatial choreography during the film’s premiere at the Locarno Film Festival, where it was featured in the Concorso Internazionale section.
I love how the metaphor of animals runs through the trilogy. You’ve moved from a cat to a spider, and now the title of this one is especially intriguing with the inclusion of “the chimney” as a space within the title. Could you talk about the significance of this space?
Ramon Zürcher (RZ): It’s great that you’ve noticed it’s not just about animals but also a spatial element in the title. A chimney is more than just a space; it’s a confined and enclosed area with doors. The animal here, a sparrow, has wings and thus the potential to fly, but it can’t because it’s imprisoned. This is something I find very meaningful. For me, the third installment of the trilogy is about liberation and breaking out of certain emotional or psychological prisons, shedding old skin so that new skin can grow. The sparrow is important because of this potential for freedom and flight.
Silvan Zürcher (SZ): The metamorphosis of animals is central to the film. There’s a transformation happening, not just with creatures like caterpillars turning into butterflies, but also in the form of other elements, like a static camera becoming a moving one. The characters evolve, the family dynamics shift, and setups change, creating tension that builds to a climax where things explode and everything transforms, even the film itself, becoming more dreamlike.
There are many facets to this metamorphosis that can be explored. In addition to the camera becoming more dynamic, colors also become warmer, more orange-toned.
SZ: Yes, perhaps. We shot this film on location, unlike the last one which was filmed in a studio setting. This may explain why it feels warmer, with more daylight and sunlight. We wanted to juxtapose the dark themes with bright, sunny visuals, creating a summer setting. This contrast fascinated us. Often, dark social dramas are visually dark as well, as a means to illustrate darkness, but here, contrasting aesthetics makes things more visible. For example, if I hold something cold at hand and place it in warm water, the hand holding a cold object would feel even colder. Things become highlighted when there is a contrast.
In our last interview for The Girl and the Spider, you mentioned the third film would be a family war film with some fairy tale elements. I now understand what you meant. In the previous films, emotions simmered beneath the surface, but here, there’s an eruption—a war-like situation. Do you think such eruptions are necessary for resolution?
RZ: I wouldn’t say that in every situation or conflict an eruption is needed, but in this particular setting—a dysfunctional and somewhat toxic family system—deconstruction can be productive. Often, we view deconstruction negatively and construction positively, but sometimes, in order to build something new, you must first dismantle the old. In the family war aspect of the film, they don’t use physical weapons but rather words, silences, and inactions—emotional weapons that deconstruct the family structure. By the end, the family is reduced to ashes, from which something new can emerge. The fairy tale element comes from the compressed timeline; the entire film portrays this family’s transformation over just two days, something that usually takes one whole life, so it would be impossible for things to happen in real time, of course. This makes it feel like a fairy tale, especially when Karen wakes up in the cabin, no longer a caterpillar, but something transformed.
SZ: Regarding the eruption you mentioned, at the beginning, we were interested in designing conflicts more explicitly. In The Strange Little Cat, the conflicts were atmospheric and implicit, full of passive-aggressive tension that wasn’t openly addressed. In The Girl and the Spider, they were slightly more pronounced but still largely atmospheric. In this film, we wanted to explore family conflicts in a more direct and explicit way, presenting new challenges for us as filmmakers. We didn’t want to repeat ourselves, so we experimented with sharper, more pointed dialogue to see how it would affect the outcome.
We aimed for a musicality with varying tempos, creating an unpredictable formal flow, with thematic shifts adding to this dynamic.”
The body movement also orchestrates the conflict. The way characters enter and exit the frame is quite sophisticated, reflecting their relationships, physical proximity, and distance…
RZ: The ballet, the choreography and the mise-en-scène were planned from the script stage. When writing the scenes, I already envisioned the characters’ movements—when they would enter and exit, even without specific actions. This planning extended to making floor plans and color-coded diagrams for each character to guide the staging and ensure the mise-en-scène was coherent. During shooting, we adjusted this choreography, and in the editing room, we refined it further; everything started with thoughts. The rhythm wasn’t monotonous; we aimed for a musicality with varying tempos, creating an unpredictable formal flow, with thematic shifts adding to this dynamic.
This variability extends to the sound and music you use, which sometimes is extradiegetic and sometimes diegetic, flowing from a speaker carried by a character…
RZ: Yes, the diegetic music is often associated with Johanna, the young rebel daughter who contrasts sharply with Karen. Johanna’s pop and electronic music disrupts the cinematic space, like small acts of rebellion that suggest change or explosion. The extradiegetic music, on the other hand, is lighter and more poetic, providing a counterpoint to the darker narrative elements.
SZ: The electronic music represents a more monstrous side, while the classical music embodies a more tender, serene aspect. Constructing contrasts or opposites is like music; it balances between bright, pleasant melodies and dark, heavy beats that are monstrous and destructive, scratching the surface of the summer’s idyllic façade.
I find the ambiguity of the child figure, Leon, quite intriguing…
RZ: Yes, the two children are designed to be quite different—one introverted and the other extroverted. For Leon, we wanted an introverted, fragile boy, more of an observer. Within the family’s psychological and physical dynamics, roles can shift; victims can become perpetrators. Leon is bullied and takes up the role of a victim in the family but also has his own space with his cookbooks, representing a small semblance of autonomy. Even there, however, his mother’s system encroaches, leaving him no real “me” space, either inside the house or outside, where he is bullied. His situation reflects how trauma can be transgenerational, with past conflicts impacting the present.
How did you approach rehearsing with such a young actor, given these complex concepts? How did he grasp these ideas?
RZ: He read the script and has wonderful parents who support him.
SZ: Working with child actors is like a triangle involving the child, their parents, and the filmmakers. It’s a collaborative effort with the entire family.
RZ: Indeed, it’s about creating a supportive environment with both the parents and the actor. The young actor we worked with has extensive experience in film, which helped. He had a natural sense of rhythm and pacing and was sensitive to direction. He is very focused and his initial performance is often in a very good direction. Sometimes he would act a bit too much, likely due to his experience in TV movies, but it was easy to guide him towards a more subdued performance. He understood the script well and didn’t require much explanation of psychological nuances, having already grasped the concepts. He was previously mostly cast in horror movies (laughs).
Your cast includes actors with varying levels of experience. How did you manage these differences?
RZ: We didn’t consider an actor based on whether they came from film or theatre. It was more about whether their face, voice, and sensibility matched the role. We often considered the actors’ natural temperament and expressivity and how these aligned with the characters. Karen, for example, is central to the family’s dynamic and has a certain enigmatic quality, a bit like a blank page, that makes her difficult to typecast. We wanted someone with tenderness and sensitivity to play a character designed to be tough and hard, providing a warm, sensitive core beneath a seemingly hard exterior. A purely tough portrayal would have been too simplistic and lacked the necessary ambiguity.
Yun-hua Chen is an independent film scholar and critic and associate editor of Film International Online.