Two young disciples must throw their mother’s ashes into the mouth of a volcano in order to prevent its collapse into a flood of flames.

ASKA by Clara Milo is a visually stunning and deeply immersive short film that blends myth, fantasy, and raw human emotion. The story follows two young disciples on a perilous journey to honor their late mother’s final wish—casting her ashes into the mouth of a volcano. But their task is more than just a ritual; it is a desperate act to prevent the volcano’s collapse into an unstoppable flood of flames. As they navigate treacherous landscapes and the weight of their own grief, the film unfolds as a mesmerizing tale of duty, sacrifice, and the delicate balance between destruction and renewal.

Milo’s direction, coupled with breathtaking cinematography and an ethereal atmosphere, creates an experience that is both intimate and epic. The film’s dreamlike visuals and poetic storytelling transport viewers into a world where nature and spirit are inextricably linked. With its rich symbolism and emotionally charged narrative, ASKA stands as a testament to the power of folklore-inspired storytelling, offering a fresh and evocative take on the fantasy genre.

Aska presents a story steeped in mythology and symbolism. What inspired this fantastical tale, and how did you develop its unique narrative?

Aska was done in a very unconventional way, seeing as there was no script or storyline written ahead of the shoot. It was filmed in September 2020, during the peak of Covid lockdowns. I guess I just had a sense that it was a good time to see the World, and so I flew to Iceland with my DOP Kristof Brandl, met up with our two local actresses and just rolled into these deserted landscapes which were usually overwhelmed with tourists. It was an extremely intimate experience, just us four in a car, on the hunt for something magical, wherever that may be. There was something magnetic about it all, as though each turn we took led us to the right place.

We listened to a lot of Philip Glass during the 5-day trip, which might have contributed to the sort of trance we fell into. When shooting, the wind was so strong that we couldn’t communicate. Words became useless. All we could do was to enter an emotion altogether, and wait for it to bloom. Suddenly, everything that stood in our way turned to gold. A raging hail storm. The droplets of a waterfall blurring our lens. The shivers triggered by an ice-cold tide… I believe it was this intuitive way of creating which tainted the project with mysticism.

When I got to the editing room, all that was left to do was to assemble these incredibly emotional puzzle pieces together, try to make sense of it all. The workflow felt closer to the making of a documentary, like venturing into a fantastical World that I didn’t even know existed.

The relationship between the two young disciples and their mother is central to the story. How did you approach portraying the emotional weight of their journey?

The emotional journey of the film wasn’t premeditated. I believe that we were living real emotions, out there. It took us by surprise, and we just did our best to channel them as purely as possible.

It was actually the actress playing the mother who referred me to Rakel Ýr Stefánsdóttir, one of the two protagonists. She was her drama teacher. The other protagonist Lilja Rúriksdóttir is a professional dancer. She was very good at channeling emotions through movement, while Rakel had this wild, untameable energy about her ; she has the ability to say a great deal, just by looking at things. This dichotomy of self-expression created a beautiful balance between the two characters. Despite the lack of dialogue, their range of communication felt endless.

The decision to shoot Aska in black and white creates a striking aesthetic. What motivated this choice, and how does it enhance the film’s themes and atmosphere?

There is a funny story behind this. On set, we did shoot with a B&W Lut, but I hadn’t fully made up my mind on the color scheme just yet. I thought I could switch to color if I wanted to, but once I got to the editing room, I realized that I was forced into a direction. Since we had no money, electricity or crew members to handle lights on set, Kristof and I had only brought a very strong flashlight as lighting gear. In black and white, the effect is seamless, but the discoloration of the flashlight’s edges seems very unnatural when the images are put in colour.

Thankfully, I think it was the right choice. After all, the film is meant to be a battle between light and dark. The fear is black like volcanic ash, like the crows, like the cloaks enveloping the characters. But what spews out of a volcano at the end of the film turns out to be luminous and sublime ; like walking through starlight. It’s a cataclysmic event, seen under two different perspectives. It just depends on whether to dread it or to embrace it.

In black and white, the costumes could also become characters of their own. I had asked my costume designer Kita Mendolia to create clothes that would interact with the wind. We wanted them to come alive, like the unsettled shadows of our characters. And when at the end, the girls finally dare to remove their headdresses, it’s as though a layer of fear is being shed, revealing the luminous ecstasy underneath. Only then, could the hair of the protagonists flow freely in the wind.

The volcanic setting is both visually stunning and deeply symbolic. How did you choose or create the locations for the film, and what role does the environment play in the storytelling?

The most wonderful thing about Iceland is its variety of ecosystems. It’s nuts! Every half hour of driving brings you to a different moonscape. I hadn’t scouted ahead of time, so it really did feel like an expedition. Even though I had prepared a map of potential destinations, more often than not, our curiosity would steer us off the beaten path.

It was an adventure in which we had to let the environment write the story. We were mere victims of its intensity. For example, I remember driving through a hail storm on our second day ; nine hours of dirt roads, lots of aimless wandering, and nothing to show for it. We could barely see past the windshield. The kind of weather which might send your car door flying into the sky if you dared to open it. It gave me an idea – how about we tried to get out, and see just how long we could last? Thank God, everyone was up for it. And so we took our courage in our hands, counted to three and braved outside. Standing diagonally against the wind, we put one foot in front of the other while ice pellets the size of ping-pong balls fell around us. I don’t think we lasted more than two minutes before scurrying back into the car. But it turned out to be one of my favorite scenes – the one where the two girls are screaming in the wind.

I have similar stories for almost every scene, and none of them could’ve lived on a shot list. The power of Nature in Iceland is just that strong. At one point, someone in our crew even vomited from fear. Not that it’s something to seek, but when you are stuck in the belly of a storm, reality turns into something different. Something to be respected, even venerated. Something that has a will, a purpose, and a capacity to fight back – or to steer you in the right direction, depending on how you look at it!

Could you share how the music was developed and how it complements the story and visuals?

The film was shot and composed by two brothers – Kristof Brandl as DOP, and Wilhelm Brandl as composer. For a few months, we all lived under the same roof, and I would go with Will into his basement studio to play with textures taken from nature recordings. Together, we put together a list of sounds which awakened our primitive instincts ; beehives, the sound of tectonic plates rubbing at the bottom of the ocean, thunder clasping, different types of echoes… Our goal was to create some kind of natural orchestra that would make your stomach turn. And since Will also did the sound editing for the film, he was able to intertwine diegetic sounds with music. That’s what makes Aska so eerie – you lose a sense of what is real and what is magic.

I truly see him as this sort of puppet master of intangible emotions. I come up with images, and he gives them a voice. It’s exciting to develop this cinematic language together. Aska was both our first attempt at making a film, and I don’t think I’ll ever dare making a film with another. We are currently in the process of creating three new Universes for my next projects, which makes him hands down my most precious collaborator.

What challenges did you face in bringing such an ambitious concept to life, particularly in terms of visual effects and capturing the grandeur of the volcanic setting?

It’s strange talking about challenges, seeing as every roadblock seemed to push the film forward. The Covid lockdown gave us these immaculate landscapes, our tiny 15k budget led to this intimate shooting dynamic, the bad weather instigated real emotions. The real ambition was just to trust the process, and to embrace the risks that come with it. During the trip, I remember repeating the same line over and over in my head “Everything that happens is meant to happen. Everything that happens is meant to happen”. It’s very soothing, and it makes you feel as though you are being guided through your own film.

This type of creative liberty is very addictive, and it is surprisingly accessible. Shooting with natural light, with a small enough crew that you have the space to improvise. It’s within anyone’s reach. If I have to name a particular challenge, it’s the one of making conventionally structured films afterwards. Now that I have the opportunity to make films that are financed, scheduled, organized, planned and scripted, it feels a bit like being in a careful-tended garden when all I want to do is run back to the jungle.

Were there particular influences—whether from other films, art, or literature—that guided the visual and stylistic direction of Aska?

There were two main points of influence for the making of Aska. The first was a set of photographs taken by Peter Lindbergh, where women in black cloaks walk through various backgrounds. The shape of their dark clothes created such a sensual geometry which felt almost surreal against the pale landscapes. This was just about the only visual reference that I could give to my collaborators to explain what the hell we were doing.

But the idea to go to Iceland stemmed from a music video that I saw once, with two dancers on a winter beach. “F Major by Hania Rani”. Everything about the video is mesmerizing, but what really caught my eye was the thin layer of snow which whirled over the black-sand ground. It created a dance of its own. The ground was alive! It made me go “Woah. I’m going there.” Two months later and there we were.

What do you hope audiences take away from Aska, both in terms of its fantastical narrative and its emotional resonance?

I simply hope that they don’t see it as something that needs to be comprehended. Reasoned with. I hope that people can instead let themselves be haunted by these sublime landscapes and by the range of emotions that it can induce in someone. I hope it can remind people to feel reverence towards the wilderness, and not as something to be feared.

That being said, I was totally surprised by the film’s reception. People really seemed to accept it for what it was. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even expect to get into festivals. I mean, it’s a black and white film in Icelandic, for God’s sake! How much more self-indulgent can you get? But it had a wonderful run, and I think it’s due to the fact that people are thirsty for eco-tales. Films that take you inside an oasis. Stories where Nature feels like a being, a presence that can hug you and wrap around you if you let it be.

At least, that’s my take on it. That’s the impact that it had on me. Ever since Aska, I’ve had this craving to create more environmental fiction – films where everything feels alive. Because truly, who is the hero of our story? The little humans, or whole entire volcanoes?

Can you share with us some of your favorite short films?

Haulout – Maxim Arbuggey & Evgenia Arbuggeva (Russia)
Ice Merchants – João Gonzalez (Portugal)
Phlegm – Jean-David Bolt (Suisse)