⮞   The film opens in a world already deep into chaos. Why did you choose to skip the outbreak phase and drop us straight into year one of survival?

I’ve always felt that zombie films aren’t really about the monsters — they’re about us. The real horror comes from seeing how people behave when society breaks down and desperation takes over. In a short film format, spending time on the outbreak would distract from that idea. By starting in year one of survival, we could drop the audience straight into the tension — people already changed by the world they live in — and explore what humanity looks like when the chaos has already settled in.

⮞   The priest is such a cryptic character. What drew you to exploring faith, morality, and madness inside a horror framework?

When the writer first brought me the script, the priest was a very different character — more conflicted, more sympathetic. You got the sense he was just doing what he had to do to survive. But I wanted to take that further and explore what happens when someone clings to a warped sense of morality just to justify their actions. Instead of faking his faith, this version of the priest truly believes his own twisted reasoning. He’s not pretending — he’s fully bought in. That makes him more unsettling, because by the end, you realize he’s completely convinced that what he’s doing is righteous.

⮞   The setting feels claustrophobic yet strangely sacred. How did you approach production design and lighting to build that tension between sanctuary and entrapment?

One detail we were very intentional about was the light. No matter what time of day it was — even at night — there’s always a soft, almost comforting ray of light coming through the frosted window. It creates this strange contrast: inside the room feels tight, chaotic, and suffocating, but that light reminds you that the outside world — even in its danger — somehow feels more peaceful. It’s a small visual cue that keeps that tension alive between sanctuary and entrapment.

⮞   There’s a psychological cat-and-mouse dynamic between the survivor and the priest. How did you direct the performances to keep that tension simmering without overexposing their motives too early?

The tension between Chris and Julie really comes from what each of them believes survival means. Chris is trying to justify his actions through faith and twisted morality, while Julie’s just trying to make sense of the chaos and stay alive. I wanted their interactions to feel like a constant shift in control — who’s really holding the power at any given moment.

Because we had limited shoot time, we leaned into long takes, which actually worked in our favor. It gave the actors space to live in those uncomfortable silences and let the tension build organically. Each take felt like a real psychological duel — if one of them started to dominate emotionally, my amazing cinematographer would subtly follow that energy, either by slowly shifting toward them or tightening the frame.

I also asked the actors to hold back rather than explode — to let silence, hesitation, and eye contact do the work. It keeps the audience guessing who’s manipulating who, and whether either of them truly believes what they’re saying. That slow burn, combined with the long, evolving takes, helped make the “cat-and-mouse” feel psychological rather than just physical.

⮞   Zombie films are often about external horror. But this one feels deeply internal. Was that a conscious subversion of the genre?

Honestly, I’ve always felt that the best zombie films — especially the classics — were never really about the monsters outside, but the conflict inside. It’s less about surviving the undead and more about surviving yourself and the people around you. So I wouldn’t say it’s a subversion of the genre; it’s more like returning to its roots — focusing on the human condition, fear, and morality under pressure.

⮞   Sound design plays a huge role in evoking dread. Can you talk about how you used silence or ambient noise to shape the viewer’s fear?

Sound was one of the biggest storytelling tools in this film. I relied heavily on the incredible score composed by Analia Lentini — her music really became the emotional backbone of the story. Instead of using constant ambient noise or traditional horror stingers, we let her soundtrack guide the tension.

The music subtly mirrors the psychological shifts between Chris and Julie — you can feel it responding to Chris’s manipulations and Julie’s gradual changes in trust. Sometimes it creeps in quietly, almost unnoticed, and other times it fills the silence like a warning. That balance between quiet and score helped create dread without having to rely on jump scares or loud effects. It made the audience feel what the characters were feeling — uncertain, cornered, and always one heartbeat away from danger.

⮞   The title “Where Does It Matter?” is intriguingly philosophical. What does it mean in the context of survival and faith?

The script already had the title when it was brought to me, but the more I worked on it, the more it resonated. To me, “Where Does It Matter?” speaks to the idea that in the end of the world, people will do whatever it takes to survive — and then lie to themselves just enough to live with it. They twist morality or faith to justify their actions, because that’s the only way to stay sane. At that point, when everything’s fallen apart and everyone’s compromised something, you have to ask: where does it really matter anymore?

⮞   We get glimpses of moral decay and redemption. How do you personally view humanity when stripped of order—does the film mirror your belief, or challenge it?

I think a lot of people already feel like it’s the end of the world in their own lives — whether it’s through fear, loss, or uncertainty — and that mindset can push them to take far more extreme actions than they really need to. That’s something this film explores. It’s less about the apocalypse itself and more about how people behave when they believe they’re at the end. In that sense, the film doesn’t necessarily reflect my belief or challenge it — it just holds up a mirror to how fragile our sense of morality can become when survival feels personal.

⮞   You avoid over-relying on gore, focusing instead on atmosphere. Was that an aesthetic choice, or a commentary on the emotional fatigue of constant horror?

It’s a bit of both. Personally, I’ve always felt that the idea of horror — the tension of waiting for something to happen — is often more terrifying than actually seeing it. Letting the audience’s imagination fill in the blanks can be far more unsettling. At the same time, our budget was extremely limited, so we had to lean into atmosphere and suggestion rather than spectacle. In a way, that constraint worked in our favor — it forced us to focus on tone, sound, and performance to create fear, and I think that made the film more emotionally grounded and effective.

⮞   If you had to describe the film’s message in one sentence, what would it be—the truth that keeps you awake after watching it?

At its core, Where Does It Matter? is about how easily morality can bend when survival becomes personal. In the face of chaos, faith, reason, and humanity all start to blur, and people do terrible things while convincing themselves they’re righteous. That’s what lingers for me — not the monsters or the violence, but the quiet realization that everyone in that world, and maybe even in ours, believes they’re the good guy.