Soft Floating in the Fields of Spheres with Peter Korday – New York Macoproject Interview
Soft Floating Spheres is Peter Korday’s latest feature film, exploring silence, memory, identity and the fluidity of time.
Vision and Philosophy
You describe the film as “born from silence.” Can you elaborate on what this silence represents — artistically and personally?
The film is not based on real events — it is fiction. Yet it was inspired by deeply personal experiences, pain, and loss. As a director, the deeper I delved into Rebecca’s story, the more I felt that I was touching on a profoundly human and universal question — one that demands a sense of reverence, not only from the audience, but from me as the creator as well.
This story is not about what happens to Rebecca or around her, but about what happens within her — in her soul, her mind, her subconscious. The film is a visual expression of this inner world. In order to portray it truthfully, I had to create silence within myself — and I asked the same of the actors: to turn inward and find the truth of the character from within.
Einstein’s quote about time being an illusion resonates throughout the film. How did that idea shape your approach to storytelling and editing?
Albert Einstein, one of the greatest minds of our time, said, ” Time is an illusion, albeit a stubborn one.’ This idea was a guiding principle throughout my approach to storytelling. The film unfolds across four different timelines, and this structure was a conscious decision built around the nature of time and perception.
The first timeline is the reality — the present moment — where we see doctors fighting to save Rebecca’s life in the hospital. The second timeline represents her soul’s subconscious state, her inner struggle as she hovers between life and death. It explores what might be happening within her — in her mind and spirit — while her physical body lies in a liminal space.
The other two timelines imagine alternate realities: what might have happened if the accident had never occurred. What if she had survived, kept her baby, continued her life uninterrupted? These are timelines that will never happen — and yet, in a way, they still exist within us as unrealized possibilities.
While working on the film, a thought came to me that stayed with me throughout: this film is also about the lives we never lived — those paths we never took, yet still carry somewhere within us.
The film moves between black-and-white and color. What guided your decision to use this visual duality — was it emotional, temporal, or symbolic?
Since the film unfolds across four different timelines, I felt it was important to support the viewer visually in navigating between them. For this reason, I used distinct color palettes and visual styles for each of the four timelines.
The scenes set in the present are depicted in a realist style, with a modern color tone that reflects contemporary reality. Rebecca’s journey as she hovers between life and death — her soul’s path — is shown in black and white. As she progresses through this internal process of purification, these black-and-white images gradually shift into color.
The two alternate realities — the “what if” versions of her life — each have their own distinct aesthetic. One is rendered in a picturesque, almost painterly visual style, while the other adopts a vintage aesthetic.
Symbolism also played a very intentional role. For example, the color red symbolizes feminine power, sensuality, and confidence. Similarly, fire appears as a symbol of purification.
Rebecca’s apartment is placed in a deliberately stylized, minimalistic space — not as a realistic environment, but rather as a reflection of how her soul perceives the world around her.
Soft Floating in the Fields of Spheres doesn’t offer clear answers, but rather emotional questions. Why do you believe ambiguity is essential in cinema?
The film is a psychological drama, with elements of a monodrama and meditation. In its theme and tone, draws inspiration from the tradition of contemporary French auteur cinema – yet it uses a completely unique, personal visual language.
This film does not aim to teach, to guide, or to convince anyone of anything. It is not about ideology or religion. It does not seek to impose any worldview on the viewer. It simply invites the audience to turn inward. Through Rebecca’s inner journey, the film invites the viewer on their own inner path – to search for answers within themselves, or at the very least, to ask questions.
I’ve always believed that cinema is not merely about entertainment, but also about gently giving space to the viewer – the opportunity to guide themselves along their own path, and to be touched on a personal level. And since every viewer arrives from a different place, in a different stage of life, this journey can mean something entirely different for each person.
That’s exactly why I believe that ambiguity, openness, or even uncertainty is one of the most important layers of cinema – because it doesn’t close anything down, but rather opens things up, allowing the viewer to discover their own answers.
You explore alternate timelines and unrealized lives. Do you see this as a commentary on human regret, or on spiritual acceptance?
It’s important for me to emphasize that the film is not a religious doctrine, but rather a philosophical and metaphorical visual interpretation of an inner journey.
For me, it is more a matter of spiritual acceptance. I chose the film’s title consciously with this in mind: Soft Floating in the Fields of Spheres.
The title refers to an ancient philosophical and cosmological concept that already appeared in classical Greek thought. Plato and Aristotle taught that the Earth is surrounded by a series of concentric spheres. These spheres are not merely physical layers, but representations of cosmic order and energetic fields. The expression “music of the spheres” also originates from this idea — suggesting that the universe itself operates according to a kind of harmonious order.
Quantum physics and spiritual philosophy, in many ways, arrive at similar insights: that the Earth is surrounded by layers of energy fields — so-called spheres. These are often referred to as vibrational levels, each resonating at a different frequency of consciousness.
The film follows the idea that when the soul is leaving the Earth, it passes through these spheres — as if ascending toward higher and higher frequencies. This is the origin of the image that “the soul rises” — departing from the dense material sphere and moving toward lighter, more subtle, more luminous fields.
On Directing and Collaboration
How did you work with your cinematographer, Paul S. Hammary, to visually capture the film’s dreamlike atmosphere?
From the very beginning, we agreed with Paul S. Hammary that we would move in the direction of slow cinema. The use of still frames and a slow, meditative rhythm was meant to reflect Rebecca’s inner state — her sense of uncertainty, hesitation, and emotional immobility.
My intention was for the images to feel realistic, romantic, poetic, and meditative all at once. I entrusted Paul Steve entirely with the lighting, as he is not only a brilliant cinematographer, but also an exceptionally sensitive lighting designer. I felt that in this film, the cinematography and the lighting had to work in complete harmony.
We also intentionally used color as a symbolic element. As I’ve mentioned earlier, the red, yellow, and purple tones each carry deep symbolic meaning in tracing Rebecca’s spiritual journey.
At the same time, I also aimed to preserve authenticity on the level of realism. That’s why, for the surgical scenes, I asked a real surgeon to participate in the film. My goal was to ensure that the rhythm, precision, and physical presence of the movements would be exactly as they are during an actual life-saving procedure. The surgeon was not acting, but was present in the scenes as an authentic representative of his own profession.
The performances are quiet yet deeply charged. What was your process in directing actors to achieve such subtle emotional resonance?
The film is built upon an extraordinary artistic commitment: the presence of a single actress who, for sixty minutes — without dialogue, scene partners, or a traditional narrative arc — holds the viewer’s attention and sustains an emotional connection.
Although the film includes several characters, its structure is essentially that of a monodrama — and it is carried almost entirely by a single actress: Kristina Lorent Goztola. What makes her performance even more remarkable is that she could not rely on traditional acting tools. There are no dialogues, no scene partners, no interactions to respond to. She had to exist in a nearly stripped-down environment, with almost nothing external to support her. This role simply couldn’t be approached through conventional acting techniques.
It’s also important to point out that Kristina is not portraying Rebecca as a character in the classic sense, but rather Rebecca’s soul — her inner journey, her emotional and spiritual transformation. In this, Kristina was exceptional. From the beginning, we agreed to build our work around the Meisner technique — and more specifically, the simplicity-based mode of performance. This is a subtle, introspective form of acting, and it demands a great deal of discipline, training, and emotional intelligence.
Most actors, when stripped of the usual tools, tend to compensate — with gestures, overplaying, or relying on mannerisms. Kristina never did that. She stayed fully grounded, working inward, with profound emotional precision. This is the kind of high-level, less showy but deeply refined acting that I personally admire in arthouse cinema. It may appear quiet or minimal on the surface — as if the actor is “just present” — but in reality, an enormous depth of inner work is taking place.
There is, for instance, the so-called “teddy bear scene,” in which Rebecca gently covers a stuffed bear with flower petals. The bear symbolizes her lost child. This scene could not be played with external cues — no loud crying, no dramatic gestures. Because it isn’t Rebecca the character who mourns the child — it is Rebecca’s soul that is grieving. And Kristina brought that to the screen with immense sensitivity and truth.
The Witch of the East Wind is both mystical and human. How did you and Thomas Langlet collaborate to create this balance between reality and allegory?
Yes, there is a figure in the film — a puppet called the Sorcerer of the East Wind. This character represents an angelic presence, a personification of Rebecca’s inner voice or conscience. It is this voice that accompanies her on her inner journey toward purification.
There was a long and thorough casting process for finding the right actor for this character. I was looking for a male voice that was firm yet warm in tone — one that carried both emotional depth and a sense of intellect. A voice that would immediately reach the viewer’s soul. I listened to many French actors, and eventually chose Thomas Langlet, which proved to be an excellent decision. His presence adds a great deal to the film’s atmosphere.
With his voice, he brought a depth and calm to the character that was essential to the film’s meditative, spiritual layer.
We had already worked together before — he appeared in both of my previous French short films. In France, Thomas is mostly known for musical theatre and lighter performances, but I had already sensed that he carried significant dramatic potential. I’m glad that, in this film, he had the opportunity to show that side of himself.
How did music composer Martin Lukas contribute to the film’s meditative tone — did sound come before or after the image in your process?
Since I began my career as a director in theatre — working on operas and musicals — music has always been a natural medium for me. I deeply believe that music plays a fundamental role in filmmaking. In this particular film, I felt even more strongly that the music shouldn’t simply accompany the story, but should express its emotional dimension as well.
I spoke with many composers — I would even say I “auditioned” them — before finally choosing Martin Lukas. I was looking for someone who was not only technically skilled, but also deeply sensitive and capable of connecting to an arthouse film in a subtle, intuitive way.
With Martin Lukas, we worked in extreme precision — we discussed the music frame by frame. It wasn’t simply a matter of handing over the task; I stayed closely involved throughout the entire composing process. Every piece of music was shaped in collaboration. The score was composed only after the visual material was fully edited — a deliberate decision to allow the music to align closely with the film’s emotional arc.
We intentionally used a variety of musical elements — from classical to jazz and swing — yet we made sure that a meditative rhythm and tone ran consistently throughout the entire film.
Working closely with writer-producer Kristina Lorent Goztola, how did you balance your shared creative visions during development and production?
This was not my first collaboration with Kristina — we had worked together several times before, including in theatre, and we’ve always been able to create effectively together. The writing originally came from Kristina: she wrote the outline of Rebecca’s story, which — while fictional — was inspired by a series of personal family tragedies. It wasn’t intended as the basis for a film, but simply as a way for her to release her pain.
It was then that I suggested turning the story into a film. At first, Kristina was very much against the idea — she couldn’t imagine how it could be translated into cinematic language. But once she agreed, I joined the writing process, and together we worked out how to visually represent Rebecca’s inner spiritual journey on screen.
As the producer, I’ve primarily taken the lead on the production side. Of course, Kristina and I consulted closely on everything — not only during the development phase, but also throughout production and shooting. At the same time, I made sure to take as much weight off her shoulders as possible, so that she could fully concentrate on her work as an actress.
Style, Influence, and Identity
You’ve said your style is “Fellini dreaming through Truffaut’s lens in a Tarkovskian silence.” Which of these influences felt strongest during the making of this film?
It’s very hard for me to single out just one influence, because all three filmmakers — Fellini, Truffaut, and Tarkovsky — have deeply shaped my artistic vision in different ways.
Fellini’s playfulness, his surrealism, and his constant blurring of the line between dream and reality have always fascinated me. Truffaut’s sensitivity, humanism, and the subtle way he portrayed human relationships resonate very strongly with me. Tarkovsky, on the other hand, had a profound impact on how I understand silence, space, and time in cinema — through him, I first truly realized that film is not only about telling a story, but about creating an inner vibration.
Coming from a theatre background, silence, gazes, and stillness have always been essential tools for me. In that sense, Tarkovsky’s influence might have been the strongest in this particular film. At the same time, as this is my first feature-length work, I felt that Fellini’s boldness and Truffaut’s empathy also accompanied me throughout the process.
Your past in theatre spans several countries. How has that stage experience informed your sense of movement, rhythm, and emotional presence in film?
The rhythm, acting, and dynamics that work well in theatre can often come across as artificial, overly verbal, or theatrical on screen. I had to relearn how to translate all of that into the language of cinema — and that’s not an automatic process. As a film director, I had to rethink my approach to time, presence through the camera, and the much more intimate relationship with the viewer.
What I was definitely able to bring with me from my theatre work is emotional presence, inner focus, discipline, and precision — all of which are essential when you’re an actor standing in front of thousands of people. Theatre people are not afraid of silence — they understand the weight and space that silence can hold on stage. I deliberately applied this trust in silence in the film as well.
In terms of movement, my background in stage direction gave me a strong sense of physical awareness and a choreographic mindset, which helped structure scenes with clarity and rhythm — especially in a film like this, where stillness and slow motion play a central role.
And perhaps one more thing: coming from the world of theatre also fosters a deep empathy — a constant search for the truth of the moment and of human presence. That’s the mindset I carried with me behind the camera.
You’ve lived and worked in both Los Angeles and Paris — two vastly different artistic cultures. How have these environments shaped your cinematic voice?
I spent several years living in Los Angeles in the early 2010s, and during that time, I happened to live in the former home of Frank Capra — the legendary Hollywood film director. He built that house himself and lived there for many years. At the time, I had no connection to filmmaking whatsoever; I wasn’t even considering directing films. But looking back, I now see that period as a subtle, symbolic sign from life — as if something was quietly guiding me toward this path.
Although I was impressed by the openness, professionalism, and technical precision of the Los Angeles film world, I’ve always felt a deep affinity for European — and especially French — cinema. Since childhood, I’ve loved classic French films: Jean Gabin’s work, timeless films like A Man and a Woman, and the visual worlds of Truffaut or Jean-Pierre Melville. These works influenced me not only aesthetically, but on a human and emotional level as well.
There’s a spiritual stillness that runs through your work. Do you see cinema as a kind of healing or meditative act — both for you and for your audience?
I can’t say that every film is inherently a healing or meditative process — many films are created primarily for entertainment and lighthearted escape, and that is perfectly valid.
However, in the case of Rebecca’s story — I do feel that a certain openness is required on the part of the viewer. As with most arthouse cinema, it’s important that the audience doesn’t engage with the film purely passively, but instead opens themselves to its atmosphere, rhythm, and internal world.
If someone allows Rebecca’s story to pass through their own emotional filter — if they connect with her on a personal level and let the imagery, the silences, and the music guide them into a meditative state — then I do believe this film can offer a kind of emotional balm. Or at the very least, it can offer a space for stillness, for reflection, for quiet inward movement.
After completing your first feature film, what personal revelation or lesson has stayed with you most strongly from this creative journey?
As I moved forward in the creative process, especially during editing and post-production, a thought came to me — that this film is, in a way, both a remembrance and a reverence for those who are no longer with us — those who have left, yet left their love behind.
Source by macofilm.org
