BULLETPROOF: NADIA LEE COHEN

NADIA LEE COHEN AND GASPAR NOÉ ARE UNAFRAID OF FAUX PAS. THEIR ART ISN’T MEANT FOR EVERYONE.

By Christopher Michael

Nadia Lee Cohen and Gaspar Noé never shy from extremities—but it isn’t for the shock factor. Nadia, known for her hyper-stylized and often surreal imagery, thrives on subverting the mundane, finding inspiration in daily life both past and present. Her work often leans into extremes, pushing aesthetic and cultural boundaries with a playful irreverence we hadn’t realized we so badly needed. Contrasting ordinary scenes with bold, exaggerated accents, she exposes the layers beneath appearances, where vulnerability and exhibitionism coexist.

Gaspar’s cinematic language is relentless and provocative, confronting audiences with unfiltered depictions of the human experience. His films, whether plunging into violence or sensuality, explore the darker sides of human nature. Gaspar’s refusal to cater to mainstream expectations, as in his disdain for “good versus evil” narratives, underscores his fascination with the complexities of moral ambiguity. He’s not interested in heroes or villains but in flawed and real characters.

Together, they discuss how their experiences shaped their contempt for commercialized art and their commitment to creating work that challenges and mirrors the intricacies of human emotion—all while knowing better than to take themselves too seriously.

CHRISTOPHER MICHAEL: The age-old argument of nature versus nurture feels like a great place to start. Which do you credit for your creativity, considering how and where each of you grew up?

NADIA LEE COHEN: For me I reckon it’s both. In terms of genetics, my dad’s of Moroccan heritage, and my mum a mixture of Irish and Ukrainian—both with massively strong personalities, and neither of them are fans of rules. They’re both super creative in different ways; Dad built the houses we lived in and most of the furniture inside. He’s very loud and eccentric—always singing and an amazing chef. My mum is an artist, also eccentric, wickedly funny and super smart.

My mum was married to one of the original guys in the band Supertramp. After discovering he was cheating, she dropped him like a hot potato and decided to drive to the Middle East in her little Morris Minor car. She made it, camped with the Bedouins, and eventually ended up on a kibbutz—something that a lot of people were doing in the ’70s. It’s like a kind of commune work-to-live situation where she drove combine harvesters, milked cows, delivered calves, and painted murals on the walls. One day her friend said that they needed to visit his uncle. She was reluctant to go, imagining some old balding man shuffling around in slippers. But when they got there, it was my dad, eight years her junior, perched on a Harley-Davidson with plenty of hair. Long story short, they fell in love, neither of them able to speak the other’s language. She brought him back to the UK to her little house and they lived there together. Dad is one of 11 siblings; he came from absolutely nothing but there was a lot of love in his house. He avoided school as much as possible yet he’s super smart—street-smart, not book-smart. He dabbled in crime and debauchery to survive his environment and along the way taught himself how to make or fix almost anything. This came in handy when he and my mum were figuring out how to make a living. Dad fixed up the first house they lived in and sold it after my brother was born. Next, they moved into a cottage, he fixed that up and I was born. When I was about five they bought a derelict farmhouse and dad slowly did it up—we moved in when it was kind of half-done and it was like living on a building site. Very fun for a kid roaming around on scaffolding and mud and dirt. I was like a little boy—muddy and messy.

I read somewhere that I had a privileged upbringing and came from wealth which made me laugh. It was privileged in terms of the love in the house, but it wasn’t fancy—it was actually pretty feral. We didn’t have much money and just lived by whatever means we had from whatever little venture my mum and dad were on. The farm was pretty much an open house. My dad’s chaotic background caused him to love noise, music, and lots of people. The house was very alive and there was a constant stream of random people from all walks of life. There would be big discussions in the kitchen around the long wooden table that dad made—debates, laughter, storytelling. I remember sitting around it and listening to these adults talk. My parents are very open-minded and I think most of my values and outlook on life came from listening to their conversations and disagreements.

Like any family, we had our fights—me and my brother are two more strong personalities to add to the mix. But our parents allowed us almost total freedom. We were still taught respect, empathy, and kindness, but we weren’t given any strict life rules or things we had to achieve. There was no judgement or expectations and we could pretty much do or say whatever we wanted. Even if initially it caused an argument, it was met with discussion, resolution, humor, and unconditional love. I think that kind of upbringing means you can push boundaries without repression. So yeah, the whole environment was quite unconventional. I didn’t really see much outside of the farm.

Aesthetically, the color palette was green, green, green, browns, yellows, and a few grays. Fields and mud and cows and nothing. I’d take breaks from playing outside to sit in front of the TV with an orange juice and a packet of crisps and binge on cartoons. I was hooked on that burst of primary color in comparison to the neutral palette I was used to. I eventually learned there was a place that looked like cartoons in real life, which was of course America.

Fucking hell that was long. What’s yours?

GASPAR NOÉ: In my case, I was pre-programmed to work in some artistic field. My father was part of a band of four painters called the New Figuration. I was born at the end of ’63 and he was already one of the most radical young painters in Argentina. My father was bourgeois, but my mother converted him to more socialist ideas. When I was born, my parents decided to move to the US. My father had the Guggenheim grant there, and my mother spoke English fluently, so she was very happy to go. The first memories of my life, I was a hippie kid living in Manhattan. Five years later, we moved back to Argentina, and I enjoyed being there too. And then 12 years later, the two of them had to run away from the country.

My education was going to shanty towns with my mother, taking care of very poor people, prostitutes—and on the other hand, going to exhibitions with my father. Painters, fashion photographers that were always with pretty girls. They were all kind of alcoholic seducers, but some of them were very good artists. When I was asked, “What do you want to be when you’re older?” I said, “I want to be a single painter.” People asked me, “Why?” I said, “Because my father, who’s married, has less fun than the other painters.”

Many years later, I decided to make movies. I didn’t consider my movies political at all. But I was raised in a very political way by my mother—in a very feminist way. That’s how we ended up here in France, because they had to escape the Argentine dictatorship. And coming in the late ’70s to Paris—even if you were a kid, they would let you see any R-rated or NC-17 movie.

NLC: That’s kind of how Tarantino says he was, as well—going to watch movies at a young age, there were less rules. It expands your mind. I think if I had kids, I would allow them [to do the same].

GN: You have to treat them like grown-up people. You have to protect them, but you have to show them how cruel life is as soon as possible.

NLC: I wonder if I was shown that. I think that we weren’t too sheltered. Was sex ever discussed as a kid?

GN: Yeah. What about in your home?

NLC: I don’t actually remember. If it was it would have been in a joking way, my parents are rarely serious. Actually, my introduction to anything remotely sexual was—you know how truck drivers used to have dirty magazines? I’m sure they still do now. Anyways, I found this big pile of discarded porn mags in the woods at around the age of nine. Someone must have had it stashed there. It was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen, and just a burst of color amongst the dead leaves and mud of the woods.

CM: What is it about the past that makes you prefer it over the present, or even the future, when it comes to aesthetics and storytelling?

NLC: I feel like your work is pretty much in the present.

GN: Mostly, I make movies in the present historical time, because it’s easier. You don’t have to reconstruct medieval castles. But when it comes to storytelling, if you’re inventive enough, you can reinvent the language of cinema or try to add some new letters to the alphabet. I’m trying to do movies that are different in their subject every time. I also try to change the form, not because it’s needed, but because it’s something that amuses me.

NLC: I think my favorite directors, including you, are ones that deal with something entirely different every time, like Kubrick, Tarantino, Ruben Östlund, Yorgos Lanthimos, Jonathan Glazer.

CM: Gaspar, you’ve said you have an aversion to fantasy films such as Star Wars. Is it just a general dislike of the future, or how it’s been imagined to date?

GN: It’s not about fantasy films, because probably the movie that impressed me the most in my whole life is a science fiction movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey. And I love The Wizard of Oz and the old King Kong. But I have an aversion to childish war epics or superhero movies with villains and good guys. There’s nothing in life that really looks like a good or bad guy. In life, all characters are complex. I only watch Spiderman or those stupidities on planes, and every time I stop after 15 minutes.

NLC: I completely agree. This is something I feel really strongly about. I used to date this guy who auditioned for Spiderman. He told me when he was sitting in the big Marvel office, they proudly explained how they have plans for the next 50 years. So it’s not ending in our lifetime. How can you plan something that far in advance if there’s love involved in the process? I struggle to watch things that are made for monetary reasons over a true love of filmmaking. I think if I found out that somebody I fancied loved Marvel movies, it would put me off them.

GN: It’s like when you go to Tokyo, and you get into these gambling centers where they have these pachinko machines. People are hypnotized by those machines. Marvel movies are as boring as a pachinko machine. But people keep on going, and they eat popcorn, and they’re happy, and they watch Spiderman 5, 6, 7.

NLC: It’s a form of escape, a form of excitement. This is a good example: Everything Everywhere All at Once—that film wasn’t for me. Triangle of Sadness was up the same year for the Oscar and, of course, didn’t win.

GN: It didn’t win the Oscar, but he won the Palme d’Or.

NLC: Yes, but that’s exactly the difference.

CM: Both of your works deal with characters who are desperate to be seen—usually in ways that are very different from how they actually are. Others lurk in the background on the edges of the frame. How would you describe your relationship to voyeurism?

NLC: I feel like I know what you’re going to say.

GN: I think that the question is more for you, because I don’t think that the characters in my movies want to be seen so much, right? I don’t have any exhibitionists or narcissistic characters in my movies.

NLC: I think my characters have a relationship between being an exhibitionist and being vulnerable. I find it fascinating when someone pushes their look to the extreme, knowing they’re dealing with inner turmoil and vulnerability underneath. The dichotomy of plastic surgery is just that: It’s not a person doing it because they want to be an exhibitionist, it’s an attempt to fit in as a result of something vulnerable. But at times, the result can look as though exhibitionism was the original intention.

In terms of voyeurism, we’re all just fascinated by people—whether it’s someone else or even better, ourselves. That’s why psychics still exist. We’re doing this interview now because people want to know about you and they want to know certain things about me. We’re all quite nosy! Morbid fascination in terms of “the news” is also voyeuristic. Just relentless negativity. We want and need the bad news. It’s schadenfreude—tragedy is theatrical to us, it’s entertainment.

GN: The photos that you make of yourself—disguised or not—are very exhibitionist. Far above regular humankind. What’s the issue for you to present yourself as nude or disguised in a transparent dress, in your art or even in real life?

NLC: I think that it’s part of seeing what I can do before I die.

GN: Show my pussy, my tits, and my ass! Fuck you all!

NLC: Pretty much, but not in, like, a GG Allin way! And not in a serious way. I think I really got that from my parents, where not much of what I do should be taken too seriously.

GN: I’m not an exhibitionist at all, but I like making heavy jokes from time to time. I thought it was funny, when I did Irréversible. to shoot myself masturbating in the gay club. I was not proud of it, because I couldn’t concentrate and I didn’t have an erection. So many years later, when I did Love, I acted in my own movie with a wig and people didn’t recognize me because of it. I thought, This is a perfect occasion to re-show my dick. And the movie was in 3D. I told my father, “Oh, Daddy, come to Cannes, the movie has been selected out of the competition. But you will see my dick on screen.” After watching the movie, my father didn’t talk to me for two days. There were, like, 3,000 people there and the only person to not make a good or bad comment was my father. I asked him, “Daddy, what happened? You hated the movie so much.” He said, “Why did you put that shot in? The shot of the penis coming on the audience’s face!” [I said], “It was not my dick that came on their face!” And then he was a bit more relaxed.

NLC: That’s so sweet and funny. This is it though: If you’re going to do it in your movies, you also better be involved sometimes.

CM: Your play on subverting the mundane has sometimes felt satirical, and at other times, almost like a mirror, reflecting culture through a hyperbolic lens. How much of your work is part of your day to day?

GN: That’s a bad word. It’s kind of disrespectful. Well, what’s a cool word for mundane?

NLC: There isn’t really another word for it, but that is actually what interests me. Yesterday, I saw a woman at the train station. She was dressed in green, standing next to a green sign and a green car. That’s the sort of shit I find exciting—because she doesn’t even know! It’s also the culture of smaller towns. Even in the most boring places, I’m interested in the people—their habits, vulnerabilities, quirks, and generally the way they go about their lives. It makes traveling anywhere fun.

CM: With the whole world having become somewhat of a stage, it’s more challenging to find work that creates tension where meaning can be found. What’s the secret?

GN: I don’t think there’s been a big change between the arts, literature, and cinema in the last 50 years. I don’t think the world has changed so much as of late. The big thing is the internet. The way of consuming media has changed. As a kid, I read the newspaper. I went to the newsstand to buy magazines, found them in flea markets, watched movies in a movie theater or on TV. But now, people get their information very quickly. Visions of the external world come through your cell phone, even more so than your computer. There’s something very unnatural about that.

NLC: Completely, the consumption has changed.

GN: Probably when it comes to my movies, people have seen them on a big screen or at least on a TV screen or laptop. But for photos, sometimes people know the artwork through their cell phone.

NLC: The concern is that, making work now, you have to look at it on a phone as well as whatever other medium you’re working in. You have to be considerate of the ratio and whether that’s going to have an impact when viewed on this rectangle. There’s no doubt about the effect it’s had on our attention spans. We’re in constant stress mode and there aren’t really any moments of calm. It’s just continual information. Like how TikTok is designed—that’s not normal!

GN: Most people tell me, “Don’t get into that.”

NLC: I can’t. If I look at a GIF or a video, I can’t think. Our brains aren’t used to continual information, information, information. And I think that it’s really hard now to be like, Okay, I’m gonna take two and a half hours, and I’m going to sit still and I’m going to look forward and I’m going to consume a movie. I think that’s what’s challenging, more so than tension. I still think that you can push boundaries. I don’t think that has changed because of the internet. I think that it’s actually, I don’t know, maybe more fun because it seems like we’re actually regressing in terms of what is offensive to us. We’re becoming a bit weak.

GN: There’s more censorship nowadays on the internet than there used to be in regular press or cinema.

NLC: Yes. Even today, I put a video on Instagram of my friend Mel Ottenberg from Interview. We were in a cab, and I put on my caption, “kidnapped,” as a joke. And it was removed because of that word.

CM: Are you ever consumed by the audience’s ability to grasp what you’re aiming to get across? Or is the subjectivity of interpretation part of the work itself?

GN: Actually, I never think about the audience. I think about my friends. I think about what my mother would think if she was still alive, what my father would say, what my favorite directors would say. I met Ari Aster. I’m happy to show my movies to him, or to Dario Argento. I recently met Sokurov, the Russian director. I’m happy to have his opinion.

If the rest of the audience is made of cinephiles of all countries, all genders, I’m happy when people come to congratulate me. I’m also happy when they tell me they hated my movie. I just hug them and say, “Oh, I need people like you.” But you mustn’t care about that abstract crowd called the audience, because you will fail.

NLC: I feel exactly the same. One example is Ariana [Papademetropoulos]. You know Ariana? I was in Greece with her and I got stung by a jellyfish.

GN: Disgusting, disgusting monster.

NLC: She peed on me to get rid of the sting. I put the video of her peeing on me on my [Instagram] story and went to sleep. In the morning my mum called me and she was like, “Nadia! People are going to think you like being peed on! You’re never going to work again! You have to delete that video!” I panicked thinking, ‘Oh my god, she’s right! I’m finished!’

GN: Canceled because Ariana peed on you!

NLC: There was definitely a mixed response, but I called my brother—the voice of reason and also a comic—and he said, “Who cares? If you think it’s funny and you want to share it, then that’s it, that’s all that matters.”

That was a lightbulb moment that made me really realize that I do what I do for myself and anyone like-minded. I’m not making it for everybody. I’m making it for the people that like being peed on.