In Coward, this "gang of outcasts" circulates a feminine energy in a conflict zone entirely colonized by the masculine. Beyond exploring their own sexual identity, these men also come to restore that missing feminine element…

I wanted to portray patriarchal masculinity—the kind that sends young boys into battle—while ensuring my narrative had a timeless quality. Much like in Fear and Desire, which inspired me greatly and in which Stanley Kubrick films a kind of war without a specific setting. My film, too, had to send young people into battle without necessarily naming their enemy or the conflict into which they are catapulted. What interested me most was showing the effects of this situation on the conscripts; and making the audience experience what it's like to be a soldier when one has the misfortune of being a young man at such a time—whether yesterday or today. In these darkest moments, my characters are able to draw light from wherever it can be found: within themselves, and among one another. Even more surprising: these "revues" orchestrated by soldiers on the fringes of conflict have existed throughout history and can be found in every army. As proof, there is Martin Dammann's photo book, Soldiers Studies, where we are astonished to discover Nazi soldiers dressing as women and putting on shows behind the trenches. These images contrast so sharply with the brutality of their ideology that they are staggering, particularly the one showing a soldier waving a flag with a swastika, wearing a dress!

What is your relationship with the "war film" genre?

It's the genre I like the least. But upon discovering these photos and visiting museums dedicated to war, such as the Imperial War Museum in London, I felt there was a space, linked to this genre, that I might be able to explore. In these museums, I found only information about battles, their locations, the use of tanks, weapons, and bombs; about defeats and victories, and so on. But nowhere did I find information about the reality depicted in these black-and-white images. These soldiers made do with whatever they could find and, using scraps of parachutes or ammunition, were able to create artistic moments that lift the spirit. I had to dig through museum archives to find traces of the programs announcing these performances, and these images where creativity and the spirit of camaraderie were thus celebrated. An emotion visible to the naked eye emerges from them. All these overlooked archives fascinated me and resonated deeply within me, to the point of making me want—not to set my camera in the midst of a battle, as the war film genre typically does—but to direct it toward men capable of creating this other space, precisely where they can break their chains and free themselves from the yoke of combat.

I also believe that I projected myself a little onto one or another of these photos, I who, as a privileged person, am fortunate enough not to be mobilized on the front lines of a conflict. I don't know how I would have reacted in these men's place, but I imagined myself as one of them, and in turn, I wanted to celebrate art with the tools at my disposal.

How did you move from that sense of wonder to the creation of your characters, Pierre and Francis—whose first names, placed side by side, sound like the title of a Maupassant story?

Amazement is, in fact, the state I was in when I brought this story and these characters to life. When I saw those photos of men dressed as women from 1914, I read an expression of freedom and joy on their faces. I was so amazed that I continued my research. That's how I came across a soldier with a female first name (in Flemish): Fincher. Everyone in that camp called him that; he was a star in his own right, celebrated for the free and elegant way he embodied female characters. Learning something like that today is quite surprising.

This art of playing with codes, of subverting the archetype of masculinity, surprised me, opened my eyes, and confronted me with my own prejudices.

I also read testimonies from World War I soldiers, accounts of encounters between mobilized men. Queer love was taboo, but it existed. In the midst of war, a space was thus carved out for some to experience a love story, and that moved me deeply. For those who survived, the end of the conflict brought their relationships to an end. Thus, in Belgium, I discovered that a moment existed: one in which queer love was made possible, even as society tried to stifle it. It was in the midst of this tension and these contradictions that Francis and Pierre were born.

While the characters in your previous films suffered from being unable to express themselves fully, paradoxically, the older characters in this film manage to create a realm of possibilities on the fringes of the battlefields. Do you see them as resistance heroes?

The word "hero" carries too heavy a burden in my view. I think many people rush toward their own ruin because of their fear of not being able to be one. When I researched soldiers who had fled the violence of war—by disappearing or being killed—it both horrified and motivated me: I wanted to create a character capable of feeling this call to heroism deeply, yet brave enough to consciously flee violence at a time when doing so could cost him his life. In this sense, Pierre's attitude—choosing life—is, for me, deeply political. Furthermore, Pierre dares to express his emotions to Francis; he dares to imagine a different future and articulate the possibility of love, which makes him a courageous person in my eyes.

During my research, I discovered that one hundred and sixty-five Belgian soldiers were never found. This information sparked my imagination: how did these men manage to continue existing in society under another identity, what became of them? I count Pierre among them, and from this perspective, Coward pays tribute to these men and their courage.

You also highlight these young men's lack of experience. Life didn't give them time to explore the world, or their sexuality…

When these young men are drafted, they are eighteen years old. So they haven't experienced much yet. Pierre hasn't even been to a dance; he's never fallen in love like this before. So many firsts await them… Pierre and Francis are experiencing the first great love of their lives. The context makes it even more special, but it also jeopardizes it by pushing it toward its end. In the end, it was important to me to restore the possibility of those first times.

Francis and Pierre occupy the entire space of this film, which I envisioned as a romantic film. With them, I wanted to film love. Perhaps also because my previous films have been associated with melodramas, a genre that encourages the release of emotions. This time, I made a deliberate choice to focus on romance.

Behind this front line, which you film like a backstage area where death and life dance together, you show the reality of war—the colossal shell crates, the piled-up corpses… If Coward achieves a form of transcendence, it's also because you've made it a sensory and immersive film…

The relationship to the body is fundamental in this film, as it is in my previous ones, for that matter. In Girl, Lara's body was abused, transformed, and destroyed to achieve the silhouette this dancer sought. In Close, it was about how the body expresses itself and unfolds in order to be accepted into a group. In Coward, physicality is linked to brutality, to what is expected of a strong, effective soldier.

I always work on my characters' movements as if they were choreography. We established certain movements, particularly when the soldiers pile the corpses of their comrades onto carts—an act of extreme brutality that shocks the entire Being. But, on the other hand, as an antidote to barbarism, I wanted to show that bodies are also capable of giving each other pleasure through physical contact: the discovery of the other's body, of intimacy, was meant to create a revitalizing counterpoint. I wanted to film the connection between these men, not only on a romantic level, but also, for example, when one soldier helps another undress before sleeping, comforting him after a failed escape attempt.

Can we glimpse, lurking behind your images, a deep faith in the transformative powers of art and, perhaps even, a faith in humanity, a… humanist faith?

For me, violence, in all its forms, is part of our lives. We are constantly confronted with it. I am thinking in particular of the times we are living in, where extremely violent conflicts are raging. For me, it is important to look this violence in the face: in Coward, it is there. But I needed to highlight a sensitive, tender humanity, present despite appearances. I wanted to show empathy, solidarity, and generosity, as opposed to the competitiveness and self-centeredness at work in our societies. I think it's important to show this, because it truly does exist!

We worked with forty young actors on this film, and I saw in each of them a tenderness and a capacity for emotion that I wanted to bring to life on the big screen. I'm not particularly interested in violence. It had to appear in this film to highlight what stands in opposition to it. Seeing men dancing together, dressed in women's costumes made from parachute fabric, in the midst of a conflict as deadly as that of World War I—which I seek to universalize—is a cinematic image that, it seems to me, had not been filmed much until then, and that the world needs to see emerge today.

How did you approach the camera work and the question of perspective?

Perspective was a major underlying issue in this film. I had no desire to film men slaughtering other men. So I decided to position myself in the camp behind the trenches, and to relegate the war to the background and off-screen. The characters thus move back and forth. The way the film opens up space comes through the characters' imaginations and their dialogues, given that these soldiers are trapped in time and space. They must therefore find ways to survive and breathe.

I wanted to nurture my love for faces, as in my previous films. The camera thus becomes Pierre's companion. It is through his eyes that we discover the world around him. All the illusions evoked at the beginning through dialogue eventually materialize in reality: the trip to the sea, the desire for a getaway to the mountains… The project consisted of creating an off-screen space where the war film could be relegated, and directing the gaze toward this camp, where other possibilities play out—and thus celebrating the power of the imagination by focusing on the faces.

How did you choose your actors?

While we were still writing the screenplay, I began casting by going out into the countryside to scout. I was looking for a young man with a way of moving specific to farm work. That's where I met Emmanuel Macchia. He was very shy and struggled to use his voice, which interested me, because Pierre, at first, speaks like everyone else and hasn't yet found his own voice. Insofar as he over-adapts, Pierre is, for me, a performer, but in a different way than Francis.

Emmanuel came to the first casting call and completely won me over. I was moved by the way he barely dared to take up space. In contrast, I was looking for an extravagant partner for him. When I met Valentin Campagne, I found an unfiltered actor, capable of taking up space in the best sense of the word. At first, their duo didn't quite click, but I had a hunch that Valentin would help Emmanuel come out of his shell. And by the third time they met, an immediate synergy took hold; each became important to the other: we were in tune with the spirit of the film.

How did you work on the lighting and color grading of the film with your cinematographer Frank van den Eeden? Do your actors' light-colored irises influence the choice of dominant hues?

War films—particularly those set during World War I—are often dominated by shades of khaki, brown, and green. My imagination wanted to introduce varied, warm colors, such as certain shades of blue, red, and yellow. That's why there are candles in certain scenes.

Costumes, from this perspective as well, are very important. These khaki uniforms erase all identity. But when these men create their costumes for the revues, they become inventive and incorporate colors that allow them to recreate an identity for themselves.

As for the light-colored eyes, it's true that this is a recurring motif in my films, but it likely stems from the unconscious.

Your work on sound is striking. The texture of one of your sound effects is unforgettable: the sound of the razor wielded by Pierre, gliding across Francis's skin…

Sound design is fundamental to me. I wanted to keep the world of war off-screen, so I made it manifest through sound. It's this idea of brutality coming at you from the outside. There too, to create a counterpoint, we created sounds whose function was to bring sensuality to the film. The one you mention is one of them. It creates a connection between two bodies.

Equally important are the voices in this film. The singing voices clash with those panicking or screaming in pain.