“MANHOOD” is a poetic meditation on the fragile architecture of masculinity—how men navigate solitude, identity, and the elusive nature of connection. It reflects on the tension between individuality and intimacy, and the quiet burden of carrying both self and shared history. A tender exploration of what it means to be a man in a world that rarely allows softness.

Director’s Vision for ‘Manhood’

 Manhood began as a quiet question: Who are we when no one is watching, and what does masculinity look like without performance? 

I was thinking about solitude—not as loneliness, but as a space where the scaffolding of identity starts to tremble. Masculinity, in particular, often thrives on structure: inherited expectations, cultural posture, emotional withholding. But what remains when those structures soften? That’s the landscape I wanted to explore. 

The film centers on an older Black man, alone in an abandoned ballroom, accompanied only by a vintage tape recorder. To me, this wasn’t just a man in a room—it was a man in a memory. The tape recorder became a metaphor for the looping nature of inner dialogue and unspoken history. It records, rewinds, replays—the same way we revisit versions of ourselves that we’re still trying to understand or escape. 

Alongside cinematographer Charlie Flatten, we approached the visual language with a “fly on the wall” sensitivity. At times, the camera observes from a distance, immersing the viewer in a quiet, almost voyeuristic way. At other moments, we move in close—inviting intimacy, discomfort, or stillness. This tension between proximity and distance mirrors the emotional landscape of the protagonist: moments of breath, then constriction; quiet reflection, then quiet reckoning. 

The sound design, crafted masterfully by Rascal Miles, was just as crucial to the film’s emotional architecture. We built a layered sonic world meant to echo memory, disorientation, and inner unrest—each element intentionally placed to add complexity without overwhelming. From subtle textures to ambient resonance, Rascal’s work allowed the sound to breathe, ache, and sometimes disappear, creating a language all its own. 

None of this could’ve been realized without the tremendous work of producer Finnr Sverre, whose dedication and intuition helped shape this film from the inside out. His care behind the scenes was essential to bringing this fragile vision to life. 

I didn’t set out to define manhood, but to hold space for its contradictions—for strength that grieves, for vulnerability that isn’t resolved, for silence that says enough. 

This film is not meant to conclude anything. It’s a meditation. A breath. A moment to sit with the complexity of being a man in a world that rarely allows softness. 

If it lingers, that’s all I hoped for.