Trickster Magazine

Since last May, Matīss hasn’t stopped. Gints Zilbalodis’ animated feature Flow (2024) debuted in the Cannes Film Festival competition Un Certain Regard last year, and the film's success – accompanied by both national and global enthusiasm – brought six years of work together in a single evening. The 97th Academy Awards ceremony this past March at the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles became a historic milestone not only for the entire Flow team, but also for Latvia, as the country celebrated its first-ever Oscar win. Receiving the award for Best Animated Feature made Matīss the youngest winner in the category’s history at the age of 29.

Flow’s double Oscar nomination and ultimate win is a David-versus-Goliath moment – where major studios yielded to independent animation, bold and uncompromising authorship, and the determination and originality of a small country. The film, produced and co-written by Matīss, doesn’t shy away from semi-political interpretations despite its allegorical nature and animal-focused storyline set amid a flood apocalypse. Auteur Zilbalodis has stated he prefers to let everyone interpret the film freely – something that has enchanted spectators across the globe.

Matīss, who holds passports from three different countries, was born in Stockholm but grew up in Riga with his parents: accomplished Latvian film director Una Celma and internationally working journalist Juris Kaža. After graduating high school in Riga, he enrolled at the Tisch School of the Arts in New York and made his debut feature – the documentary One Ticket Please (2017), about a theatre-loving old woman who is the utter nightmare of the Broadway and Off-Broadway scene. After a successful run directing, producing, and writing nearly 20 films, founding his own production company, and mentoring young filmmakers, Matīss has returned to Latvia, and he’s far from slowing down.

Yet the flair for theatre remains strongly present in Matīss’ work. Last year he received the Best Young Artist award at the National Theatre Awards for Soft Power (2023) – a tense, thriller-like anatomy of the European art world’s attitude toward the war in Ukraine in their everyday lives. This year, his directorial work The National Network (2025), which dissects media culture and the value of truth in society, is the most-nominated performance with six nods. Knowing Matīss and his work over the course of a decade, it’s rather unique that he consistently refuses to let the audience fall asleep in a comfortable armchair.

He’s now rehearsing the political farce Death of an Anarchist at the Dailes Theatre in Riga – another satirical “societal explosion” – while already racing to catch a flight to the Locarno International Film Festival. His next focus is I Love You, Lex Fridman, an upcoming mockumentary with Iveta Pole. I see it as a Latvian answer to Sacha Baron Cohen’s Borat films (2006, 2020), skewering Western culture with a sharp grin.

Amid Matīss’ busy schedule, we’re catching up to discuss his professional paths, collaboration with Zilbalodis, the idea of “content within content,” and the challenges he faces both personally and professionally.

What has changed for you personally over this past year, after the frenzy of Flow?
 I’ve tested my limits in terms of lack of sleep – that’s one thing. I’ve gained insight into the industry in America, especially regarding the awards season and how distribution works there, since it’s the first time a film I’ve produced has been in such wide circulation across America and the rest of the world. I also got an agent and a manager in Los Angeles, which I didn’t have a year ago. Then, of course, there has been a lot of recognition, both internationally and locally. And now people recognise me on the street in Latvia. That’s a key difference.

 I’ve tested my limits in terms of lack of sleep – that’s one thing. I’ve gained insight into the industry in America, especially regarding the awards season and how distribution works there, since it’s the first time a film I’ve produced has been in such wide circulation across America and the rest of the world. I also got an agent and a manager in Los Angeles, which I didn’t have a year ago. Then, of course, there has been a lot of recognition, both internationally and locally. And now people recognise me on the street in Latvia. That’s a key difference.

Now it’s calmed down a bit, but in January, after the Golden Globes, it was really crazy. I don’t think Gints walked the streets, because he would be asked to take photos all the time. Luckily for him, he was travelling. (laughs) He wasn’t surrounded by people here.

I don’t think it has really impacted me, at least not directly. I think my taste hasn’t changed throughout this process. If anything, it’s other things happening in the world that influence my thinking.

Well, this character invites herself to the performances. (laughs) I think a lot has changed in these past ten years. I’ve learned the craft of filmmaking: how certain tools can have a powerful impact on the audience, and how to use cinematic techniques systematically to achieve a desired effect. I’ve learned how elements like a film’s theme or dramatic question can be woven into audiovisual storytelling without being directly referenced.

When it comes to original, bold personalities who don’t obey certain behavioural norms, I think that interest has remained with me. What has developed is my interest in certain formal aspects of filmmaking as a kind of game – things like long-take and single-take films, which I now approach differently. My cinematographer, Aleksandrs Grebņevs, and I are even considering making a trilogy of single-take films.

It’s always difficult to find something you’re interested in both thematically and formally when approaching a single-take film. If you’re not fully invested in immersing yourself in the subject matter and the world of the characters, you’ll likely give up at some point during development. Securing funding can take several years, as can convincing institutions and collaborators that the project is worth undertaking. In the case of a single-shot film, many different factors come into play. You have to adapt the story so it works within that framework, and it has to be meaningful enough for the creative team to take on the complicated choreography the approach requires. It’s especially challenging for the cinematographer, but it’s demanding for everyone involved.

With every new project, I try to find a new challenge. Whether it’s taking on a co-production with another country or making a film in a genre or format I’m unfamiliar with. Sometimes a sudden idea sparks something – this was the case with Iveta Pole’s idea to make a film with a very absurd premise: Iveta travelling to the United States to stalk the famous podcaster Lex Fridman, and forcing him into a meeting where she proposes to him because she’s madly in love with him. It ended up becoming a road movie. The art-making process is one of constant discovery.

We’ve tried, yes – several times. There has been no response from his representatives, but we know that he has received messages from Iveta, so maybe he’s thinking about it.

Yeah, it really depends on who’s asking and the context. There are different reasons why I wear so many hats. In cinema, for instance, it’s not really possible to direct films continuously because of how funding works and how projects are structured. Unlike theatre, where the rehearsal period usually takes about two months, making a feature film can take two or three years. Taking on different roles makes it possible to keep working consistently. Some people do it by working as editors, cinematographers, or casting directors… I’ve just found my own way of staying involved.

He also works as an editor and cinematographer on certain projects. What I find great in Lithuania is that there’s a group of young filmmakers in their mid-thirties who collaborate on each other’s projects, rotating through different roles. It’s much better than just waiting around for the next opportunity or endlessly rewriting a script – you’re constantly engaged in the process and observing how other filmmakers work: how they handle situations, solve problems, approach pre-visualisation, or work with actors. It’s always interesting to have this multi-perspective approach.

Theatre isn’t my comfort zone. Not at all. I have very little experience in theatre compared to cinema. I feel constantly challenged because I need to get used to the rules or principles of theatre-making, and how it all works. It’s exciting for me because it’s a learning process – first at rehearsals, and then in the last weeks before opening night, when you suddenly realise you have to do everything you never actually rehearsed. (laughs) Nothing seems to work once you move from the small rehearsal space to the large stage.

Whereas in cinema, we can bring the camera into the rehearsal space, and everything will be more or less similar to what’s on the set. On set there will be extras, different camera angles, and more elements, but you can still do clear previsualisation. In theatre, especially on a large stage… well, you only really know how it works when you get up there in full gear, so to speak. (laughs)

I first got involved in theatre by making short videos for the Latvian National Theatre Awards. After that, the artistic director of the National Theatre invited me to stage a performance on the small stage. At that time, I co-wrote a play with Elza Marta Ruža, which set me on my path in theatre. One of the key projects was Soft Power, a political piece on the European arts community during the war in Ukraine and similar contexts. But theatre is very different: you feel like you’re in a windowless world for a couple of months, and the architecture of the space has a real impact on the production. You’re working within the confines of a specific vibe, place, and architecture, which is entirely different every time.

He also works as an editor and cinematographer on certain projects. What I find great in Lithuania is that there’s a group of young filmmakers in their mid-thirties who collaborate on each other’s projects, rotating through different roles. It’s much better than just waiting around for the next opportunity or endlessly rewriting a script – you’re constantly engaged in the process and observing how other filmmakers work: how they handle situations, solve problems, approach pre-visualisation, or work with actors. It’s always interesting to have this multi-perspective approach.

Theatre has a limited audience. Even if you create a show that becomes as popular as The Long Life (2003) by Alvis Hermanis, and it travels around the world, it’s still seen by a limited audience compared to film. In cinema, it’s easier to reach a global audience. I think the size of the screen – not at home, but in the cinema – and the way cinema sound systems are used these days can be extremely visceral. It can impact the viewer more powerfully when it’s done well. Of course, a really good theatre performance will have a bigger impact on the audience than a mediocre film, but the power of the medium is more evident in cinema due to the nature of the technical apparatus and the size of the screen.

Over the past year, including this year’s Cannes, I saw quite a few films, and one trend I noticed is non-linear storytelling – a stream-of-consciousness style and structure with airy, open approaches to narrative. Also, a lot of subjectivity in how the point of view in these films is constructed. After seeing many such works, it became refreshing to encounter films that are very structured.

Not exactly – I mean films that really hit the beats they set out for themselves. They engage powerfully with the structures they put in place. I don’t feel negative about a more abstract approach to filmmaking, but sometimes those films start to wander. (pauses) And that’s when they get boring. (laughs)

In mainstream cinema, studios are still afraid of going for original intellectual properties because they’re not as safe as book adaptations, another superhero series or…

Well, yeah, but Flow is not a studio film. Flow is a good example that audiences are willing to be adventurous enough to go to a film that doesn’t have dialogue, where animals behave like animals; a film with a more subtle approach to storytelling than, say, Pixar films. It’s more minimalistic in its means, yet still emotionally resonant.

I think audiences crave originality, but studios aren’t willing to risk going in that direction because of financial risk. It might not reach an audience – and of course, not every sequel, which is the typical Hollywood approach, succeeds either. Take, for example, the extremely popular horror film M3GAN (2022). The studio released another one, which flopped because they couldn’t replicate the marketing elements that appealed to audiences the first time.

Of course, that’s a preconceived idea. Nobody knows what “an audience” really is. You want something, I want something else, another person wants something completely different. There is no single audience – there are different types of people and different psychographics, or whatever term marketing uses. That said, you can still find ways to make sure people first know something exists, and second, are interested enough to watch a film or attend a performance.

The problem in Latvia is that you really need outside validation to convince people that something is worthwhile. Once authorities like the Cannes Film Festival, Golden Globe, and Oscar Awards started saying that Flow is worthy of attention, people paid attention. At first, we didn’t have particularly high numbers – ticket sales were solid but modest – but everything skyrocketed after the Golden Globes.

Yeah, it’s true. We live in an age where it’s extremely easy to create audiovisual representations of the world and publish them on TikTok, Instagram, and anywhere else. There’s such an overwhelming influx of something called “content,” and finding meaning – or “content within content” – becomes a challenge. There’s a book, Wasting Time on the Internet (2016) by Kenneth Goldsmith, that talks about browsing randomly online and the benefits of acquiring random or semi-random information. I think you can discover a lot that way – by scrolling through websites, Instagram reels, or TikTok – but it requires the understanding that you have to wade through a lot of noise to find something meaningful. Ultimately, you have to curate your way through the waste.

There are a lot of strange new trends, like “verticals.” They’re a new form of cinematic entertainment, professionally shot for vertical screen formats. They even have their own streaming platforms, and many other streamers are starting to adapt. A friend of mine from college works on them now. They’re kind of like soap operas for teenagers – each episode lasts a certain number of minutes, and you have to pay to access the next one. This trend hasn’t hit Latvia yet, and I wonder if it will.

In one sense, I think there’s a certain expectation for the next film by Gints Zilbalodis, but I think we’re making the right choice by not making something similar to Flow. That’s the most exciting part – we’re not doing Flow 2 but expanding into a new universe that is visually different. It’s challenging for us on the technical side, since we’re trying to do some things that haven’t been done in animation before. (laughs) We’re trying to break some new ground.

I think Gints is too focused on his work – he can only make one film at a time. I don’t think he would join other projects. We had lots of offers from different screenwriters pitching material to us, but we’ve always said we’re focusing on Limbo. That’s what we’re doing until 2028.

Artists should talk about what deeply concerns them, whether it’s self-discovery, societal criticism, or something altogether different. Of course, sometimes I feel we’re not critical enough of our own society and our own way of thinking, but it’s also more difficult to pitch certain themes. I’ve been wanting to make a performance about Israel, Palestine, and Gaza, but I doubt institutions would take that risk. They prefer safer material.

Interview by Dārta Ceriņa