A topic rarely explored on screen with such nuance, The Ceiling, directed by Louisa Connolly-Burnham, delves into the often-overlooked reality of sexual assault within dating contexts. Written and performed by Louisa Sexton, the script emerged from candid conversations about how such violations are frequently normalised. Connolly-Burnham directs an uncomfortably intimate viewing experience which mirrors her protagonist’s psychological journey, employing long uninterrupted shots that force viewers to experience each moment in real time, before shifting modes to incorporate fragmented imagery and slow motion to make the experience of dissociation tangible for viewers. This short film stands as a powerful exploration of the complexities of consent, offering a cinematic portrayal of arousal non-concordance with remarkable sensitivity. Through its restrained storytelling and thoughtful visual approach, The Ceiling gives voice to experiences that too often remain unspoken, while creating an environment where the importance of active consent becomes unmistakably clear. As Connolly-Burnham premieres The Ceiling with DN, she speaks to us about immediately seeing the emotional benefit of shooting in long, unbroken takes, the invaluable collaboration with intimacy coordinator Elle McAlpine – whose lauded work on Poor Things and at the vanguard of this essential filmmaking role we’ve dug into previously – and the importance of leaving the audience sitting in the discomfort of the film’s final shot.
I know you and writer/actor Louisa Sexton spoke a lot about the motivations behind this narrative.
The Ceiling was born from a stream of consciousness that Louisa wrote one night after a conversation with friends. They were talking about dating and sex, and she was struck by how often sexual assault, particularly within the context of dating, is normalised or dismissed. Especially when it involves someone you like…someone who seems like a ‘nice guy’, someone you might even want to see again.
That night, she opened her Notes app and poured out her frustrations. Over the following weeks, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Those thoughts became the foundation for the first draft of The Ceiling. She sent it to a few close friends, and their responses confirmed that she had tapped into something deeply relatable and emotionally impactful. She hoped to shed light on two key things: first, arousal non-concordance – to help viewers trust their own thoughts and emotions, even when their body might be responding differently. And second, the importance of creating an environment where consent is actively cultivated, and where everyone feels safe to express themselves at any moment.
What drew you to the project as a director and what in the writing assured you that you could apply your own signature to the project?
When I first read Louisa Sexton’s script, it hit me with a kind of quiet force. There was something in the way she handled such a difficult, often-overlooked subject with nuance, honesty, and restraint. It wasn’t loud, but it was devastating, and that really spoke to me. I was particularly struck by how she explored the grey areas, especially around consent and the dissonance between the body and mind. I knew I could bring my own visual and tonal language to that space. The restraint in the script actually gave me more freedom – it left room for silence, for the camera to observe, for the atmosphere to speak.
I immediately knew I wanted to shoot the film using long, unbroken takes wherever possible, experiencing each scene in real time helps the audience feel the tension more viscerally.
The film treats arousal non-concordance with remarkable sensitivity and clarity. What research or personal understanding informed your visual approach to this phenomenon?
Arousal non-concordance was central to our exploration. I spent a lot of time reading clinical research and listening to survivor accounts. It was really important to me to capture the internal conflict without over-explaining it. That’s where the camera came in. We leaned into tight framing, ambient sounds, and Harriet’s breath as tools to mirror her psychological state. The feedback that’s resonated the most has been from women who said, “This is the first time I’ve seen something like this reflected so accurately on screen.” That kind of response makes all the careful choices worthwhile.
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I immediately knew I wanted to shoot the film using long, unbroken takes wherever possible, experiencing each scene in real time helps the audience feel the tension more viscerally – it makes the moment feel more realistic and more uncomfortable. We shot the entire film in a single day, which was manageable since most of it takes place on one bed, in a single location. We also made a deliberate choice to exclude music entirely. The absence of a score allowed the atmosphere to feel even starker and more terrifying. In the sound design, we focused closely on Harriet’s breathing and her accelerating heartbeat, drawing the audience into her physical and emotional state.
Casting for this role alongside Louisa must have been crucial. Were you involved in finding Jake Curran and during rehearsals, how did you build that almost indescribable chemistry between the two of them?
By the time the project came to me, the casting was already in place. Louisa had written the role of Harriet with herself in mind, drawing from her own strengths and lived experiences, so it felt like a natural and powerful choice for her to play the part. She had also cast actor Jake, a friend and past collaborator she deeply trusted. That existing relationship between them turned out to be a huge asset. With such sensitive material and only one day to shoot, having that foundation of trust and safety already established made an enormous difference. It allowed us to dive straight into the emotional depth of the story without needing to manufacture chemistry.
When we shot The Ceiling, we were still navigating the tail end of COVID restrictions, so all our rehearsals took place over Zoom. It was important to me that the performances remained nuanced and restrained, no shouting or overt dramatics. We wanted to keep everything grounded and authentic. Both actors brought a level of naturalism and preparation that was essential for this project. We were fortunate to work with an incredible intimacy coordinator, Elle McAlpine, and a dedicated mental health coordinator, Laura White, throughout the entire shoot. Given the weight of the subject matter and the fact that the film centres around a non-consensual intimate act, we knew their involvement was essential. We made sure Elle had ample time with the actors before filming began. They worked together in a separate space, doing exercises and rehearsals to build trust and establish boundaries. By the time we rolled camera, both the cast and crew felt confident and supported in how we were approaching the material in the safest, most respectful way possible.
How did the nature of the narrative influence your choice of equipment and composition of the shots?
This was such an intimate and personal story, and we wanted the audience to truly feel that through the visuals. We chose to shoot on the Alexa Mini with Carl Zeiss Super Speeds Mk III. Not only for the beautiful shallow depth of field they offered, but also for their compact form factor. That allowed us to get in close with our characters and create the feeling that the audience was right there in the room with them. We often framed our male character leaning into the shot, which created a subtle but effective sense of pressure and tension. The set was lit for 360-degree shooting, which was key given the intensity of the story, as we wanted to avoid breaking that atmosphere with constant interruptions. This setup meant that for much of the day, it was just the actors, the director, and the cinematographer in the room, allowing for a more fluid and immersive process.
We often framed our male character leaning into the shot, which created a subtle but effective sense of pressure and tension.
Your decision to employ long unbroken takes at the beginning of the film creates an almost voyeuristic intimacy. Could you discuss how that technical approach deliberately shifts after the turning point, and how these contrasting shooting styles mirror Harriet’s psychological journey?
There’s something deeply unsettling about the camera not cutting away. Experiencing each scene in real time draws the audience in and forces them to sit with the discomfort — it heightens the tension and makes the moment feel more immediate, more real. That’s why, in the early part of the film, we relied heavily on long, unbroken takes. It created a sense of intimacy and unease that mirrored Harriet’s experience.
But as the film progresses and the tone begins to shift, we deliberately fracture that visual rhythm. Time starts to stretch and distort. We introduced slow motion during the assault to reflect Harriet’s perception of time dragging, an unbearable moment that feels like it lasts forever. It also served to visually express her dissociation, the way her mind was trying to disconnect from what was happening to her. Cuts become more purposeful, and we begin to lean into fragmented imagery, echoing the splintering of Harriet’s internal world. The intention was always for the audience to not just see the shift, but to feel it, viscerally and psychologically as Harriet slips further away from herself.
Cuts become more purposeful, and we begin to lean into fragmented imagery, echoing the splintering of Harriet’s internal world.
The point at which everything slows down and you focus on her face and his back is so pivotal.
That birds-eye shot became a central image early on in the process. One element that was really important to me was having a birds-eye rig that looked straight down at the actors. We wanted the audience to almost become The Ceiling, watching this act unfold with a powerless perspective, just as Harriet is powerless in that moment. The stillness and detachment of that angle reinforced the sense of her mind floating above the situation. Focusing on her face while we only see his back was intentional. It centres her experience, her emotional truth, without needing to sensationalise or show more than we had to. Dissociation isn’t cinematic in the traditional sense, but we wanted to externalise it through these visual metaphors.
Working with both an intimacy coordinator and a mental health coordinator seems integral to your process. Beyond the necessary safety considerations, how did working with Elle McAlpine influence your directorial approach to the intimate scenes, and did this collaborative framework yield unexpected creative benefits?
Elle was invaluable. She didn’t just choreograph movements, she shaped how we told the story. Her presence allowed us to get incredibly precise about the power dynamics of each moment. She encouraged us to think about breath, eye contact and spatial tension, all of which fed directly into how we blocked and shot the scenes. Having her and Laura White, our mental health coordinator, created a sense of trust and safety that rippled through the entire crew. That safety enabled two of the most vulnerable and honest performances I’ve directed.
She encouraged us to think about breath, eye contact and spatial tension all of which fed directly into how we blocked and shot the scenes.
The exclusion of music works brilliantly and the film’s soundscape operates almost as a character itself, particularly during the assault and bathroom sequences. What specific techniques were employed to externalise Harriet’s emotional state?
We made the decision early on to avoid music entirely. We didn’t want to cue the audience on how to feel, we wanted the atmosphere itself to guide them. In post, we built a soundscape that was almost subconscious. Harriet’s breathing became our anchor. We amplified it subtly and layered in low-frequency hums, distant sounds, and her accelerating heartbeat. In the bathroom sequence, we played with muffled audio, as if her ears were underwater – again reflecting dissociation. Our sound designer treated sound almost like a second skin for Harriet’s psyche, which I think helped the audience inhabit her internal world without needing dialogue.
What discussions did you have with your cinematographer Angela Zoe Neil (whose work on Tom Moran’s Romanesco we really admired) about the final long, slow composition that serves as a thematic punctuation to the story and what were you hoping audiences would experience?
We talked a lot about silence and space in that final shot. After such a visceral experience, we wanted to strip everything back and let the emptiness speak. The wide, static frame after the characters have left acts as a kind of emotional residue. It’s deliberately unresolved. We wanted the audience to sit in that discomfort, to feel what it’s like after something traumatic has occurred, not with a musical swell or a dramatic beat, but with stillness. That moment became the punctuation mark. Not a full stop, but an ellipsis.
Chloë made the bold choice not to cut away from Harriet and to stay locked on her as she silently absorbs his words.
How involved was the edit? Were there any specific challenges which arose from the decision to shoot the film using long, unbroken takes?
Editing a film like The Ceiling comes with a very particular kind of challenge. Our editor, Chloë Kilby, had to sit with and repeatedly watch incredibly difficult, often disturbing footage. Even though we all know it’s not real, the emotional toll of revisiting those moments again and again shouldn’t be underestimated. For that reason alone, I think Chloë deserves enormous credit, not just for her technical skill, but for her emotional resilience.
Because of our shooting approach, those long, unbroken takes and minimal coverage, we weren’t dealing with a huge volume of footage but that came with its own set of challenges. The focus in post wasn’t about choosing between angles, it was about sculpting emotional pacing. We had to ensure each beat landed with precision, never rushed, never indulgent. The real task was finding the quietest way to say the loudest thing. One of Chloë’s most powerful editorial decisions was during the scene where Harriet sits on the edge of the bed while Jamie insists she consented to a sexual act, when she didn’t. Chloë made the bold choice not to cut away from Harriet and to stay locked on her as she silently absorbs his words. You see the doubt start to flicker across her face, as if she’s beginning to question her own memory, her own truth. It’s an incredibly uncomfortable watch, but it’s exactly what makes it so powerful. That unwavering gaze places the audience right inside Harriet’s psychological unravelling and it’s devastating.
Since completing The Ceiling, you have gone on to have huge success with Sister Wives with that short being longlisted for Oscar, BIFA and BAFTA and seem to have a plethora plenty of projects on the go. What are you focusing on next?
Thank you! Sister Wives was a completely different beast, but it still dealt with themes of power, identity, and emotional survival, so in many ways it felt like a natural next step. We’re now in the process of developing that into a feature, which is incredibly exciting, there are some big updates on that front coming very soon. Alongside that, I have three short films currently in development. One is The Intimacy Coordinator, which I wrote myself, ironically, given the subject matter of The Ceiling. I’m also working on Full Fat, written by Cara Mahoney and Scratching Post, written by Abigail Hardingham.
