Set within Vienna’s InterContinental Hotel, Gastón Solnicki’s The Souffleur pairs Willem Dafoe’s dark romanticism with painterly fragility, where grandeur collapses into cathartic relief.

For three decades, Lucius (Willem Dafoe) has lived and worked as the devoted manager of Vienna’s grand InterContinental Hotel, a post-war landmark now in decline. Once a symbol of modern optimism, the building is quietly succumbing to age and uncertainty. As an Argentine developer—played by director Gastón Solnicki—moves to acquire it, the fragile order Lucius has preserved begins to unravel. As pipes fail and routines collapse, the hotel itself seems to mirror the fate of its caretaker.

Bookended by the image of a soufflé rising and collapsing in the oven, The Souffleur transforms this delicate dish into a metaphor for both Lucius and the fading institution he has long known as home. Solnicki’s camera lingers on the hotel’s crumbling grandeur and its refined characters with painterly sensitivity and a quiet romanticism, while Bach’s counterpoint and an emotive soundscape deepen its resonance. The result is a work of quiet morbidity and rare tenderness, a meditation on loss that yields an unexpected catharsis.

A Rabbit’s Foot spoke to Gastón Solnicki about fragility, risk, and working with Willem Dafoe inside Vienna’s InterContinental Hotel.

Sayori Radda: In both the opening and final scene, we encounter an art-house close-up of a soufflé rising and collapsing in the oven. What is its significance?

Gastón Solnicki: I was drawn to the soufflé’s fragility—the mastery and mystery of getting it right. It’s not just the recipe, but the making, which requires dedication and passion. You never know if it will rise or collapse—just like a film. For me, the soufflé became a metaphor, light enough not to overwhelm, but enough to set the direction into gear.

SR: You’ve mentioned the manifold meanings of the word ‘souffleur’. How do these surface in the film itself?

GS: Much later in the process, I considered working with a dramaturg. When I described this, the Austrian producer said, “Oh, you mean a souffleur—a theatre prompter.” In Austria, the souffleur whispered lines to actors who had forgotten them. It was perfectly harmonious—language coming together through semantics. I’m interested in these unexpected correspondences, manifold meanings. It’s less about fixed ideas and more about small things some people don’t notice, but others find deeply compelling.

SR: So more like subtle details or clues that guide atmosphere and mood, without being definitive?

GS: Exactly. It can be challenging yet generous—able to move or envelop you far more than a fixed idea of a character ever could.

SR: Spontaneity is central in your work. To what extent did you follow the script?

GS: The script was mostly an excuse to organise things. Narrative strategies help us to a point, but I’ve learned to stay open—not just to chance but to the discoveries you stumble upon while searching for something else. With my previous films, I found that what emerges unexpectedly is often more interesting.

SR: Do you see this as a guideline just for your filmmaking, or more universal?

GS: Not just for filmmaking. Many great achievements came through accidents—penicillin, for example. I believe in having ideas without clinging to them. Too often cinema, architecture, or other fields remain unnecessarily trapped in rigid structures.

SR: Yet structures also act as safety nets. Was stepping outside your comfort zone unsettling?

GS: Yes—extremely unsettling and risky. This generous aspect was revealed in Willem as an actor. I didn’t fully grasp it until I was editing the footage. I’m used to working this way, perhaps because I have less to lose. That’s the deformity of the film—it’s small, risk-taking, made without concrete plans. What we’re doing is trying to decipher what we’re doing. Not as a metaphor, but as a method of working.

SR: Did you always envision Willem Dafoe in this role? How did he respond to this way of working?

GS: The project began around him—we made it together. Willem didn’t merely accept it, he demanded we continue. For such a highly established actor, it was challenging. Sometimes I couldn’t give him a clear sense of what was happening, and naturally he was tense at times. He would say, “Gasti, you can’t expect us to pull a rabbit out of a hat every day,” and I would answer, “But isn’t that what our work is?” Together, we dragged each other through the mud.

SR: How did you construct this film?

GS: The writing of my films happens in the editing. When I shoot, I’m not chasing scenes to serve a fixed narrative, but moments that function on their own terms. This approach has a long history in cinema, and I find it compelling. It gives film its full potential to move an audience, to express.

SR: Scenes are accompanied by grand classical music, like Bach, as well as emotive ambient soundscapes. What role does music play in your films?

GS: Music is central to my films. The soundtrack honours a city that gave birth to modern music, embracing sound’s unique ability to affect an audience in both tangible and abstract ways. Direct sound is also vital, and we took extra steps here to create a more dynamic soundscape. At first glance, the film may appear classical in its narrative, but if you look closer at its fabric, it’s built from cinematic detail.

SR: None of the roles in the film apart from Willem Dafoe were played by trained actors, but by characters you encountered in everyday life and cast intuitively. Can you tell me about this approach?

GS: Most of my films are built around characters I feel closely connected to—family, people I love, or those I feel drawn to. I rarely work with professional actors; Willem is the first. My previous film in the trilogy featured Angeliki Papoulia and Carmen Chaplin, who are extraordinary performers, but most of the time I prefer to work with non-actors I meet by chance.

SR: How did you find the characters in Vienna, and what role did Willem Dafoe play in this dynamic?

GS: Vienna has what I call a density and darkness, something deeply rooted in Austrian culture. Many of the characters came from chance encounters—people I crossed paths with on the street, met on earlier trips, or through the hotel itself. Willem was the only actor, and that was intentional. He wanted to step into this world, expose himself to those dynamics, and work alongside non-actors. He was deeply touched by the experience.

SR: There’s a sincere absurdity in the way the characters interact. How did the combination of non-actors and Willem Dafoe play into that dynamic?

GS: It was certainly a challenge. When non-actors work together, there’s a natural harmony—they’re in tune. But when you bring Willem into that dynamic, it becomes more complex to find the balance. The combination worked well, though. He was very touched by them and often incredibly patient, especially when multiple takes were needed. In fact, he was more patient with them than with me or the production team, which is understandable. Making a film inside a functioning hotel further proved to be its own intriguing challenge.