Inside the actor’s mind

We’ve long seen Hollywood stars attempt to break free from the roles and expectations imposed on them. From Paul Newman and Clint Eastwood to Barbra Streisand, many actors have taken creative control of their careers, driven by a desire to tell stories on their own terms.

In today’s landscape, however, Ben Affleck and Bradley Cooper stand out as rare exceptions—actors who have successfully established themselves as directors in their own right. In contrast, the directorial efforts of stars like Natalie Portman, Johnny Depp, Nicolas Cage, Edward Norton, and Ryan Gosling have, so far, been limited to a single film.

At this year’s CineFest International Film Festival in Miskolc, we witnessed the directorial debuts of three Hollywood actors. Scarlett Johansson stepped behind the camera after an astonishing 80 acting credits, and Kristen Stewart followed suit after more than 60 roles. Compared to them, Harris Dickinson may seem like a newcomer, with around 30 acting credits to his name. However, since his breakout in Ruben Östlund’s Triangle of Sadness and his compelling performance alongside Nicole Kidman in Baby Girl, he’s been steadily rising. Moreover, his four earlier short films suggest that his directorial ambitions are anything but sudden.

What all three share is a track record of seeking out artistically ambitious and meaningful projects as actors. As directors… well, not all of them live up to that same standard.

Scarlett Johansson: Eleanor, the Great

It should be stated up front: Scarlett Johansson’s Eleanor, the Great is not an auteur film. Were her name not attached to it, the film would likely not have been considered for the program of any major international festival—let alone Cannes. Johansson did not write the screenplay, though she has said she saw herself in it. Having recently confronted Holocaust trauma in her own family history, she was drawn to the story’s themes of buried family secrets and the complex experience of grief.

However, it seems she gave little thought to what personal cinematic tools she might bring to the telling of this story—one about a 90-year-old American grandmother who, in mourning the loss of a friend, begins impersonating a Holocaust survivor. The film’s concept is emotionally rich, yet Johansson’s approach lacks the distinct voice or perspective that would elevate it beyond the surface of its premise.

What stands out most about Eleanor, the Great is its sheer ordinariness. There’s no cinematic invention here—everything unfolds like countless mediocre stories before it. The film clearly targets a broad American audience, explaining everything overtly and often having characters verbalize what’s happening instead of trusting the viewer’s intelligence. It leans heavily on June Squibb’s charisma and sharp humor, with Erin Kellyman’s unpretentious charm offering some additional warmth. Still, it’s not the kind of film destined for box office success—these days, movies like this tend to go straight to streaming.

It’s a well-meaning but somewhat simplistic film whose message requires no code-breaking, yet it delivers that message without subtlety or nuance. The theme of learning to face death, loss, and proper grieving is vital today—but Eleanor, the Great only manages to touch the very first lesson.

Kristen Stewart: The Chronology of Water

How much of the story is autobiographical we may never know, but the film feels intensely personal in every moment and frame. Even if the exact events did not happen to her (it is based on Lidia Yuknavitch’s novel of the same title), the pain it depicts feels singular—a wound that binds the protagonist for half a lifetime, suffocating her ability to breathe or thrive, and demanding many attempts, failures, relapses into addiction, a dance with death, and “collateral losses” to overcome.

A young girl sexually abused by her father throughouy all of her teens. Her sister was already a victim. Their mother escaped into self-destruction rather than facing the truth and taking responsibility. For more than 80% of the film, we endure a masterclass in suffering alongside the protagonist as she struggles to escape or acts out in destructive ways born from her secrets and isolation. Someone carrying wounds this deep can’t be innocent or harmless.

But Kristen Stewart’s confession is far from mere misery porn—though it flirts with that possibility. At times, the tears feel almost forced, yet the storytelling remains compelling and sensual, and the performances—especially Imogen Poots’s—are powerful and believable, keeping the audience fully engaged. The film is rich with poetic imagery, metaphors, and unexpected associations—in other words, surprises. It’s an expressive experiment from a filmmaker fluent in multiple cinematic modes who remains committed to her chosen path. Even when the narrative wanders, the intentions are sincere, the commitment courageous, and the experiment reveals genuine talent. Kristen Stewart could very well become a major filmmaker.

Harris Dickinson: Urchin

Here is a newly minted star fascinated by homelessness—or more precisely, by life on the edge. Someone who has spent years trying to understand, from the inside, why people end up on the streets and whether there is a way back. Why does a young man like him, who seemingly has every attribute needed for a conventional career, beg for money, sleep on cardboard, and drift restlessly from place to place? Why can’t he be helped? Why does he stand no chance?

Urchin is a study of outcastness—or more precisely, of lovelessness—but told from a place of deep compassion and care. Its protagonist, Mike (Frank Dillane), has already lost the fight long before we meet him. We never learn where he came from, how he was raised, or what circumstances shaped him. What matters is how, in the opening scene, he wanders through a fog of total lostness—belonging nowhere and to no one, with nothing at stake—just like his temporary companion Nate, played by the director himself. No one misses them; they have nothing and no one. And how do you escape that vacuum? Only by finding something to hold onto within yourself—something Mike simply wasn’t given.

There are no anchors, no moral code, no feelings.

There are only a few fleeting attempts at “something,” but once it exists, holding on becomes impossible—it would demand even more strength. What’s remarkable about Urchin is that it doesn’t judge. It’s unbiased and doesn’t search for excuses. It simply observes, with empathy.

While the film is a realist study, it avoids slipping into raw naturalism (again: not misery porn). There’s no self-serving sensationalism; we don’t feel the smells—this isn’t what the film is about. At times, the story even lifts off the ground, because although overt feelings are absent, there is a soul—loneliness and nothing more—and that is best conveyed through metaphor. Harris Dickinson guides the camera with a steady hand, uses CGI tastefully, and his direction of actors is exceptional. With this mature and polished work, he has firmly stepped into the role of director and shows great promise for the future.

By Dóra Gyárfás

Edited by Yael Shuv

@FIPRESCI 2025