Hanami unfolds across three stages in Nana’s life, with a distinct visual and narrative approach in each. How did you conceive the film’s structure, and what drew you to this temporal progression?
My idea was that Nana is part of a cycle, that there are things that happened before her birth that would forever shape her existence. So, almost as if giving the film a fable-like quality, I chose to follow her life from the very beginning of her story. I knew that if I wanted to portray the life of a young girl growing up on an island, I had to start tracing her journey from the moment she was in her mother’s womb and accompany her through time. This temporal progression was essential to me, as it allowed the audience to truly get to know Nana—a rather introspective character.
The film intertwines the natural and the magical, with elements of magical realism that evoke mythology and oral tradition. How did you work on balancing the tangible and the dreamlike in the narrative?
I believe the intangible qualities of human experience absolutely had to be present in this film. I didn’t invent the elements of magical realism—I simply highlighted what was already there. This archipelago, with a volcano at its center, carries a mythical energy. To me, the very nature of the island called for a type of storytelling that embraces mystery and the unseen, as if these elements were part of its very essence.
The island of Fogo is almost a character in itself within the story. How did this landscape influence the film’s aesthetic and tone?
To me, the island is the canvas of this story—inseparable not only from the narrative itself, but also from the inner nature of the people who live in this insular reality. We captured the landscape in the simplest way possible. Every choice in cinematography, production design, or costume design stands out effortlessly against this backdrop.
An essential aspect of the film was to reflect the island condition through rhythm, by conveying a sense of timelessness and a denser, slower sense of time. This was a deliberate choice to distance the film from the hurried, efficiency-driven pace often found in the Western world. The regular sound of the sea became our greatest ally in evoking this feeling of slowness.
The relationship between those who leave and those who stay is fundamental to the film. What did you want to express about the diaspora and the feeling of not fully belonging to a single place?
The Cape Verdean diaspora far outnumbers those who actually live on the islands. So, being Cape Verdean often means—or even primarily means—being or feeling uprooted, living far from home or from one’s origins. That’s why this story centers on a young girl who witnesses these arrivals and returns, and we, in turn, witness the impact these movements have—not only on her, but also on the spirit of this small, remote island. The question of belonging becomes almost essential—not just for those who leave, but also for those who stay. Even for those who remain, identity can sometimes feel too tight, too confining—especially when there’s no possibility of leaving, or when one chooses to stay.
