How Anyrin brought controlled madness to the screen

What was the impetus to wanting to make Birdy?

What interested me was the possibility that a person could sound completely rational while slowly drifting toward something morally vacant underneath. That contradiction stayed with me for a long time. Birdy came from wanting to sit inside that contradiction without explaining it away too neatly.

There wasn’t this theatrical instability. No explosions. No 'movie version' of madness. It was quiet. Ordered. And somehow that made it worse.

I think it started with listening. Really listening to somebody describe themselves in a way that felt... frighteningly composed. There wasn’t this theatrical instability. No explosions. No 'movie version' of madness. It was quiet. Ordered. Thought through. And somehow that made it worse.

Above: Anyrin's new short film, Birdy.

Why did the theme of duality and psychosis appeal to you?

Because I don’t think people are singular. I think we rehearse versions of ourselves constantly. Public selves. Private selves. Protective selves. Performative selves. What fascinated me about this character was that his division isn’t obvious, even to him. He doesn’t wake up believing he’s fractured. He thinks he’s becoming clearer. More resolved. And there’s something tragic about that. The danger isn’t confusion — it’s certainty.

I was interested in the silence before collapse.

A lot of films about psychosis externalise everything. I was more interested in the silence before collapse. The moment where someone still appears functional, articulate, even charming, while internally something colder is beginning to win.

Above: A quiet sense of psychosis is at the centre of Birdy; "A lot of films about psychosis externalise everything. I was more interested in the silence before collapse."

The sound design is unsettling; what was the thinking behind the approach? 

I always felt the sound should behave like thought. Not music telling you what to feel, but pressure. Presence. Something lingering at the edge of perception. We avoided anything too expressive or traditionally 'horror.' The film isn’t interested in jump scares or emotional instruction. 

The sound became very textural — distant hums, low frequencies, air moving through rooms.

It’s about erosion. So, the sound became very textural — distant hums, low frequencies, air moving through rooms, tones that almost feel mechanical but not quite.

What’s the actor’s name and where did you find him?

Joby Mitchell. The thing that struck me immediately was restraint. Some actors arrive with intensity already turned outward, but he understood that this character becomes more frightening the calmer he appears. He had this ability to let thought sit behind the eyes without announcing it. That’s very rare.

Above: Actor Joby Mitchell plays the intense, brooding, quietly manic main character.

It’s an intense and difficult dual performance; what direction did you give him while shooting?

We talked a lot about control. About somebody carefully curating themselves in real time. I kept saying: don’t play madness. Don’t indicate instability. Because the character doesn’t believe he’s unstable. He believes he’s correct. That changes everything. Suddenly the performance becomes less about deterioration and more about concealment.

When you’re working this subtly, every decision becomes dangerous.

So, we focused on tiny ruptures. Moments where empathy arrives a fraction too late. Smiles that linger slightly too long. Eye contact that becomes evaluative rather than emotional. The idea was that another version of him is slowly learning how to imitate humanity more efficiently.

The location itself is made to feel stark and bleak; where is it, how did you find it and what were you looking for the location to say?

What interested me was the idea that the building itself almost appears sane. Ordered. Functional. And inside that order is something deeply wrong.

What was the most challenging part of shooting the film?

Tone. When you’re working this subtly, every decision becomes dangerous. One performance choice too large, one piece of music too emotional, one camera move too expressive — suddenly the spell breaks. Right now we’re focusing on festivals and trying to place the film in spaces where audiences are open to slower, psychological storytelling.

My hope is simply that it lingers. That people leave the film still thinking about it hours later. I’ve always loved films that don’t entirely resolve themselves emotionally — films that leave a residue behind. Birdy was made very much in that spirit