There’s a particular bravery in allowing a camera to simply observe, to resist the temptation of dynamic movement or stylistic flourishes. In Park Benches, director Dan Braga Ulvestad – who we last saw on Directors Notes with his breathtaking India-set death hotel documentary By the River – embraces this challenge with striking conviction, crafting a tender exploration of two former lovers navigating that incredibly delicate space between separation and lingering affection. Born from the introspective writings of Joe Favalaro, the film exists almost entirely at night within the tight confines of a sparsely furnished apartment room, where static frames capture the emotional dance between the pair with remarkable nuance. Ulvestad’s commitment to a fly-on-the-wall perspective transforms its viewers into silent witnesses to the evening’s fragile choreography of words, silence, and micro-expressions. Park Benches stands defiantly still, asking audiences to lean in, to notice the weight of an exhaled cigarette breath, the tension in averted eyes and ultimately, the profound connection that remains when two people share a history too deep to simply vanish. As Park Benches premieres with DN, we speak to Ulvestad about the challenges he welcomed in working on this extremely raw and naked project, revelling in the deep level of communication and trust between director and actors required for the production and his choice of a stylistically divergent ending for the short.
What drew you to directing such a quiet film, where you had to dig into your technique and process as a filmmaker?
I had been searching for a dialogue-driven script, both in my mind and elsewhere, something that would push me into the next phase of my growth as a director. A piece that leaned entirely on the strength of subtle, authentic performances, with no crutch of dynamic camera work or loud stylistic choices to hide behind. Earlier that year, I had come across Joe Favalaro on Instagram and was immediately drawn to his deeply introspective poetry and writing that grappled with existential themes. I gave him a follow, and later reached out to ask if he happened to have any short film scripts lying around. He did, Park Benches. He sent it over and it immediately checked many of the boxes for what I had in mind. One location, two characters, and a whole lot of tension. I sat with it, reworking and reflecting on the material for about half a year before deciding it was time to push ahead with it.
I’ve always been drawn to cinema that leans into the objective, where the camera steps back and lets the scene unfold without guiding the audience too forcefully. Park Benches, with its naturalistic tone, offered the perfect opportunity to fully embrace that approach. Aside from a brief opening movement, the camera remains static and at a certain distance from the characters. The goal was to create a sense of fly-on-the-wall perspective, almost documentary-like in its stillness and restraint.
Having never done anything remotely as raw and naked before, it was a big step out of my comfort zone – both a challenge and an experiment for myself.
How did you know you’d be able to translate Joe Favalaro’s words on the page into cinematic dialogue sequences?
I suppose I was able to feel the atmosphere and sense the tension lingering between these two characters on the page. And perhaps it was so clear to me because I was going through my own version of the story around that time. Portraying a story of two people with a shared history of deep love and care but who need to go their own ways for whatever reason was something I felt I could understand on a nuanced level. That being said, having never done anything remotely as raw and naked before, it was a big step out of my comfort zone – both a challenge and an experiment for myself. Looking at my own filmography, it started with loud emotions through acting and the use of music, then gradually found more subtle expressions. I saw Park Benches as the perfect opportunity to take that subtlety to the next level. I knew that if I could bring the tension I felt on the page to the screen, with truthful performances and a crafted visual language, it could work as a cinematic slice of life that many could relate to in some shape or form.
What evolved and developed in your understanding of the story during the six-month period you sat with it and led you to know you were ready to start production?
I spent those six months massaging the script until I truly understood where every line came from within the characters and the origins of the tension in every silent moment. That meant cutting some parts that didn’t fit the emotional trajectory I perceived, splitting certain lines across both characters, adding the stormy ambience, and slightly augmenting smaller details without disturbing the soul of the delicate dialogue Joe had written. The soul of the dialogue is all Joe. He made it very easy for me to shape it into what it is. The original script started with them entering the apartment and ended on the embrace on the mattress, but I felt the potential for an opener that expanded the scope of their story, and a closer that took a jab at some visual poetry through conveying the passage of time. When I had these elements visualized and matured in my mind, I felt the time was right to move ahead.
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Could you walk us through how you approached blocking and frame composition when working with such a stripped-back visual toolkit?
I dabbled with many ideas on how to shoot it, but ultimately realized that the more dynamic variants were mostly just superficially flashy and were holding me back from fully committing to the static language. To reinforce the objective nature of how I wanted to capture the story, I also wanted to minimize the number of cuts needed in the edit. We are so used to seeing cuts nowadays, but I believe there is still a subconscious register of the filmmaker manipulating what you should pay attention to. So I blocked it in a way that made every cut as objective as possible, which meant finding strong compositions for master shots that would capture the scenes in their entirety.
As for the single shots, we decided to frame them slightly off-center to play into the disharmony of their dynamic.
One particular challenge was getting them from the hallway to slumping down on the living room floor in a way that felt motivated. The location didn’t allow her to just walk over to that wall without it feeling forced, so it was a bit of a head-scratcher until finding the scene where he non-verbally invites her over from the next room. As for the single shots, we decided to frame them slightly off-center to play into the disharmony of their dynamic, with his frame more empty and vulnerable, and hers having a bit more support with the door filling the negative space, reflecting their slightly different headspaces. The frame then finds more harmony as they get closer – physically and emotionally. It might sound counterintuitive, but it was definitely a thrill to shoot these long, static, uninterrupted takes. Like any continuous take, one blip behind or in front of the camera can mean the take is dead. In this case, I was able to entirely immerse myself in what was happening in front of the camera.
The film relies so heavily on performances and the performances by Stan Rawlings and Iona Champain (who we also loved in Sitter) are beautifully captivating.
From the outset, I envisioned the characters speaking with British accents – it just felt right. That opened the door to reach out to Stan, whom I’d met on a backpacking trip ten years earlier. I’d seen some of his acting reels on Instagram and they really caught my eye. Thankfully, he was keen. Given the delicacy of the dialogue and our limited rehearsal time, I thought it’d be ideal if the two leads already knew each other. Stan suggested Iona, a close friend and previous collaborator. She turned out to be perfect for the role. We flew them both out to Berlin and ran rehearsals in my living room leading up to the shoot.
Working closely with actors is probably my favorite part of filmmaking, and this script demanded a deep level of collaboration. The main challenge was finding the emotional rhythm between the characters: how to create friction and unresolved tension early on, while still making their final moment of connection feel believable. In our initial rehearsals, Iona leaned a little too hard into her character’s resistance to Toby’s sharper edges, which slightly tilted the dynamic into hostility. It became a fascinating exercise in exploring their shared history, digging into the emotional logic behind her forgiving nature on this particular night, and uncovering the quiet love still lingering between them. Crafting that subtle back-and-forth was one of the most rewarding parts of the process.
Park Benches also relies on what’s unspoken between the characters. How did you direct your actors to communicate through micro-expressions and body language within these static, observational frames?
It started back in pre-production when writing the background of the characters and their relationship. I gave them each a version that omitted certain details about the other person. Things only the other person would know for sure, so that their shared history left individual question marks. After finding the right headspace for each character, fitting the tension of that particular night, I also asked them not to rush their lines. I encouraged them to sit in the silence, feel the awkwardness, and use it to materialize the next line. Additionally, I think the smoking and drinking elements that Joe cleverly wrote in an interactive way gave them actions that helped anchor the unspoken moments naturally.
I also asked them not to rush their lines. I encouraged them to sit in the silence, feel the awkwardness, and use it to materialize the next line.
You are capturing a very deep, lush nighttime scene. How did you work with DoP Carlos Feher to keep it visually arresting while embracing the clean, neutral look?
Truth be told, we originally wanted to go for harder light with dramatic shadows. But because the wonderful location we landed was on the first floor (which is quite high in Berlin) and due to budget restraints, we couldn’t get the cherry picker needed to pull that off. We had to work with what the small balcony allowed, using bounce as our key light. Tim Boller, our gaffer, came up with a homemade styrofoam board mounted underneath the next balcony, with a couple of lights bouncing into it, along with another light emulating sweeping car lights. It was a jungle out there on the 2×1 balcony.
Inside, we mounted a huge butterfly to the ceiling to diffuse a bunch of warmer Astera tubes for the soft fill. It didn’t create the darkness I initially envisioned, but instead gave us this gentler look that I grew quite fond of. It was a good fit for the tenderness of the story. We also worked closely with colorist Ignasi Insa to find the right level of darkness while keeping the skin tones natural and vivid.
Carlos and I had at one point during pre-production considered going for a tungsten streetlight look with that orange wash, but I’m glad we ultimately opted for this more neutral look. To support the sense of quiet objectivity, we decided against using vintage lenses that I normally gravitate towards, and instead shot on Signature Primes with the ARRI Mini LF. It gave us a clean, neutral look that didn’t impose itself, allowing the performances to take center stage.
Despite the apparent simplicity, creating authentic moments within a controlled environment presents unique challenges. Were there any particularly difficult scenes where you had to recalibrate your directing approach in the moment?
Yes, absolutely. I think the biggest challenge for Stan and Iona was maintaining this brooding headspace through long, 8+ minute takes back-to-back. The first night, we dedicated to Iona’s side of the main dialogue, with Stan sitting off-camera opposite her, repeating his lines all night. While we had talked about holding back on emotions while off-camera, it’s a tough balance working in such a delicate emotional space. There needed to be enough investment for Iona to have his emotional beats to act off of. Stan was naturally equally exhausted by the end of it.
Come night two, we set up the camera and got Stan in position. I called action and immediately knew we were in trouble. His lines came out strained, not from the place of deep hurt we had found in rehearsal (and that he had been in the night before). We ran another take. And another. With me desperately searching for any magical direction, while Sasha Gordiiash, my AD, tapped me on the shoulder to show me the time. Had he spent his emotional juice on the first night? Had I not cared to protect it enough?
Then I remembered that before the shoot, knowing how much this film would rely on truthful performances, I had asked Stan if he had any ideas for what I could do to help if we ran into an emotional block like this. He suggested an exercise from the Meisner technique, where actors repeat a given line without ever breaking eye contact, actively listening to what is being said and how it’s delivered in order to find a genuine connection to the moment. We called a ten-minute break, brought Stan and Iona to the backyard, and gave them the opening line of the film, “Who are you?” Some minutes later, Stan gave the sign. We went back in, called action — and it was a sigh of relief. We were back in the zone. A bit behind schedule, but we were printing.
With such limited coverage and predominantly static shots, how did you approach the editing process? Were there rhythmic or pacing challenges unique to this minimalist style?
Oh, definitely. I knew I took a massive risk shooting the way we did, with literally zero inserts, and at one point when they sit next to each other, committing to shooting only one angle, effectively locking us out of cutting options. I might not be as sure of myself next time because there was a chunk of dialogue we ultimately needed to cut from that shot, and we were forced to get creative with a cutaway. The solution ended up giving a much-needed breath from the tension, though. Which poses the question: would we have even thought of that solution if we had traditional coverage? Sometimes, limitation is key.
During the part where they sit opposite each other, it was important not to fall into a predictable back-and-forth of talking heads. Together with the talented editor Matt Osborne, who has a great feeling for nuance, we found the moments where we could break predictability and hold the shot instead of following the action. It’s a choice that I think adds a sense of realism to films, as there is a feeling of no longer being guided by the filmmaker, and you’re left observing the reality that instinctively would be off-camera.
I knew I took a massive risk shooting the way we did, with literally zero inserts, and at one point when they sit next to each other, committing to shooting only one angle, effectively locking us out of cutting options.
Sound also played a big role in making the tension work. Together with sound designer and mixer Denis Elmaci, we worked hard to create the right level of stormy ambience that boxed them in and made the apartment feel like a shelter – they’re essentially forced to confront their discomfort. Distant thunder rolls so subtly that it’s more felt than heard. In addition to the passing traffic, we layered in subtle hints of human activity – muffled voices in the distance, a trash can lid closing – beyond the storm, to make the world they inhabit feel real and alive. And as they begin to find their way back to each other emotionally, the storm gradually lifts.
My long time collaborator, Dustin Lau, who normally have been given briefs for big, dramatic emotions, nailed the score with this more understated, minimal piano that lingers around the right nuances of emotions as we’re being transported to a blank canvas.
What did you discover about directing performances during this project that you’ll carry forward into your next films?
Using stand-ins when possible! Most of my films have tackled heavy emotions in some shape or form, and Park Benches was another reminder of how important it is to protect the emotional space of the actors, especially when working in such a deep place. I admire the courage actors have to go to these places, and I think the results can only get better the more trust they have with the director. In some way, I want them to feel like I’m there, at the depths, with them.
That final dreamlike reverie of what their life had been is the only piece of light. Why was it important to you to add this in?
That glimpse into happy memories was originally a much longer sequence of various angles and moments of their shared history – their shared park benches – now that their journey together has come to an end. Ultimately, it felt too long, and maybe too specific to them. I try to tap into universal, human experiences with my films, and this sequence detracted from that. It was cut out for a while before the balcony glimpses were added back in recently. I like how it merges the beginning and the end, juxtaposing them in the same frame and tapping into the nostalgia rooms can carry. It also serves as a ceremonial ending, whether it’s for the death of their relationship or something else entirely.
What are you working on next?
I’ve been spending some time in the digital space over at danulv.com, catching up on the rapidly evolving AI tech that I’m very torn about. On the one hand, it’s exciting, and I’m playing with some narrative ideas that could make use of it. On the other hand, it just feels… wrong. Synthetic. And I worry about how it will influence cinema. But that’s another interview. That being said, I am looking to connect with more like-minded writers, so if you, the reader, have a knack for candid, nuanced stories, please do get in touch.
