There are only a handful of movies that have managed to capture the horrifying nature of Alzheimer’s. Films such as Still Alice , Away From Her, and The Father talk about this disease and the devastation it causes in a surreal manner. At this year’s Slamdance Film Festival, viewers got to see another poignant exploration of aging, memory, and the enduring power of love, delving into the devastating effects of Alzheimer’s with an intimate and deeply personal touch in Erica Xia-Hou’s Banr. The movie chronicles the journey of an elderly couple who have shared 40 years of devotion. As the couple faces the relentless march of time, tragedy strikes when the husband dies of a sudden heart attack, leaving his wife to confront the catastrophic onset of Alzheimer’s. What viewers see next is a touching journey of fragmented memories as she embarks on a journey to search for her family.
Xia-Hou didn’t leave any stone unturned to keep this film as authentic as possible and shot Banr in a real nursing home with non-professional actors. Her meticulous approach to filmmaking, combined with her dedication to portraying the emotional truth of Alzheimer’s, results in a film that is both disorienting and deeply moving. We recently got a chance to interview the director Erica Xia-Hou about the film and how she shaped Banr into a powerful testament to the enduring strength of love in the face of memory’s erosion.
The Interview with Banr’s Erica Xia-Hou Mackay
[Editor’s Note: This interview has been lightly edited for clarity.]
Aayush Sharma: Banr delves into aging, memory, and loss in an intimate and deeply personal way. What inspired you to tell this story? Did you draw from any personal experiences?
Erica Xia-Hou: When I first started writing this script, I had just finished editing Fox Hunt and found myself completely confined at home due to the COVID-19 pandemic lockdowns. The entire city was sealed off—buildings, streets, and even individual homes became isolated islands. The enemy was invisible and untouchable, yet it dictated every aspect of our lives. I was alive, yet powerless, unable to control my own fate. That sense of helplessness, of losing control over one’s own existence, struck me as eerily similar to the experience of those suffering from Alzheimer’s. At the beginning of the pandemic, my grandmother passed away. She had spent over a decade in a nursing home before her death, battling severe memory loss. She forgot directions, forgot whether she had eaten, and woke up every day with no recollection of anything. Yet, the moment she saw my father’s face, within two seconds, she would say, “My son.” After losing both her husband and eldest son, my father—her youngest—was the only family she had left. Even as her memory faded completely, his face was the one thing she never forgot. That, to me, is the power of love. Disease may erode the brain and the body, but it cannot erase the memory of love.
I have long been fascinated by the theme of memory. Ever since watching Christopher Nolan’s Memento, I have been captivated by how the human brain stores memories—how unreliable, deceptive, and subjective they can be. This opens up infinite possibilities in storytelling and editing. That’s why I chose to explore this subject through a non-linear narrative, structuring the film in a way that mirrors the fragmented nature of memory itself. In preparation, I conducted extensive research, immersing myself in books and documentaries on the subject to deepen my understanding.
Aayush Sharma: The film explores the devastating effects of Alzheimer’s while also portraying the resilience of love. What message do you hope audiences take away from this journey?
Erica Xia-Hou: I have always been intrigued by the loneliness that persists even in the presence of loved ones. In modern society, people can be surrounded by family, yet still feel an overwhelming sense of isolation. Banr reflects this reality—the elderly couple spends every day together, yet the wife’s memory loss creates an unbridgeable emotional distance. She searches desperately for her husband and her home, even when he is standing right beside her. Meanwhile, the husband, despite his unwavering love and devotion, is left to endure the silent sorrow of watching the person he cherishes most forget who he is. At its core, the film delves into our universal need for emotional connection—the longing to be loved, to be remembered, and to remain tethered to someone, even in the face of loss and fading memories. Alzheimer’s may take away a person’s recollections, but it cannot erase the emotional bonds that define our relationships. The husband refuses to let go of their shared past, holding onto love as his last line of defense against time.
One of the most poignant lines in the film is: “I would rather feel pain than forget.” This is why the husband records videos—not just for his wife to remember him, but to preserve the love they have shared, even if only for a fleeting moment. It reminds me of the animated film Coco, which captures this sentiment perfectly: “To be forgotten is to truly die.” Memory may define who we are, but love is what keeps us alive. Through Banr, I hope audiences will reflect on the deep, enduring power of love—the kind that lingers even when names are forgotten and faces become unrecognizable. I want people to walk away cherishing the present, embracing their loved ones a little tighter, and realizing that, in the end, love is the only answer.
Aayush Sharma: The story unfolds in a non-linear structure, mirroring the fragmented nature of memory loss. What challenges did you face in crafting a narrative that feels disorienting yet emotionally grounded?
Erica Xia-Hou: One of the main reasons I was drawn to this subject was the immense creative freedom it offered in editing. Memory is inherently fragmented, subjective, and often unreliable, which allowed me to explore non-linear storytelling in a way that mirrors the experience of both those suffering from Alzheimer’s and the loved ones trying to piece together their shared past. However, this approach also posed one of the greatest challenges—structuring a film that feels disorienting yet emotionally grounded. To discover the most effective way to convey this experience, I spent six months editing alone, working 14-hour days without weekends or holidays, continuously reshaping and refining the narrative. I experimented relentlessly—shifting scenes, altering perspectives, and testing different emotional throughlines—until I found a rhythm that felt true to the story.
In the end, the final version of Banr is almost entirely different from the original script—a near 100% transformation. But that was precisely what made this journey so exhilarating. Through editing, the film found its own voice, growing organically into something far more profound than I had initially envisioned. The challenge was not just about telling a story, but about crafting an emotional experience—one that immerses the audience in the fragmented, dreamlike reality of memory loss while ensuring that every moment remains deeply human and emotionally resonant.
Aayush Sharma: The film is set in a real nursing home and features non-professional actors. How did these choices influence the authenticity and emotional impact of the story?
Erica Xia-Hou: I chose to shoot in a documentary style, a decision I had already made when writing the script. Non-professional actors need a real environment to immerse themselves in and connect with. I didn’t want them to act in a traditional sense—I wanted them to live in the film and give me the most natural and authentic reactions. I love the inspiration that real environments bring, especially since parts of the film involve improvisation. For example, the opening and closing scenes—where four elderly people sit by the window, gazing outside—came directly from my first visit to the nursing home. Every afternoon, I saw them sitting there for hours, staring through the window’s bars. Above them, the ceiling was painted with a fake blue sky and white clouds. That image deeply affected me. It was both poignant and surreal, and I immediately told my cinematographer, We have to film this.
When we returned with the actors, I simply placed the actress in that real setting and recorded the moment. In the scene, you can see the elderly woman next to her notice the newcomer, take her hand, and gently shake it. She wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. After a moment, she simply turned back and continued looking outside. That moment was completely real. Similarly, the scene where the elderly residents play with a ball wasn’t staged—it’s part of their daily therapy routine. Everything you see in the nursing home scenes was captured as it happened in that environment. For a low-budget independent film like Banr, building a full-scale nursing home set and hiring elderly extras would not only be impractical but also feel artificial. Instead, I wanted real professionals to play their real roles. The doctors and nurses in the film are actual medical staff from the nursing home. We filmed them during their breaks, simply doing what they do every day. As soon as we finished their shots, they returned to work.
This approach not only grounded the film in authenticity but also heightened its emotional impact. The audience isn’t just watching a story unfold; they’re stepping into a world that exists beyond the screen, filled with real people, real moments, and the quiet, often heartbreaking reality of aging and memory loss.
Aayush Sharma: Banr has a documentary-style realism that immerses viewers in the protagonist’s world. How did you approach cinematography and sound design to achieve this level of intimacy?
Erica Xia-Hou: I have known my cinematographer for 16 years. When I first entered the industry, I was the primary creator, and he was the cinematographer. Now, 16 years later, as I direct my first independent film, I still chose to work with him. At the start, he kept asking me, “Whose perspective is this shot from?” I told him, “Forget what you learned in school. Forget your past experiences. Let’s try something new—even if it’s unconventional.” The shifting perspectives in the film reflect the shared emotions among all characters—even the dog. They all experience loneliness and long for love. The wife, insecure due to her illness, keeps searching for her husband and asking to go home. The husband, in turn, feels isolated because his wife no longer remembers him. Their daughter, who once believed her mother understood her best, now faces the painful reality that her mother doesn’t even recognize her while dealing with her own family struggles. Even the dog mirrors these emotions. When the characters look directly at the camera in point-of-view shots, it is as if they are confronting their own reflections. This was something I deliberately planned from the beginning, inspired by the concept of breaking the fourth wall in theater. It allows the audience to engage with the film on a deeper level, just as the characters engage with their own memories.
The film’s sound design and background music incorporate elements from daily life, such as the sound of a ping-pong ball bouncing, footsteps, and water bubbles. These are not merely ambient sounds; they serve as auditory markers of the character’s emotional and sensory memories. For example, the rhythmic sound of the ping-pong ball originates from the elderly woman’s sensory training sessions in the nursing home. This repetitive action has become ingrained in her muscle memory. Even in scenes where she is at home with her husband, the subtle echo of the ball lingers in the background, reinforcing that these moments are fragments of her memory—perhaps more imagined than real. Similarly, the sound of footsteps carries strong symbolic meaning. Though she is confined to her room, unable to go outside freely, the background sound reveals footsteps treading on grass or wandering through nature. These are not literal sounds but rather projections of her longing for freedom and the outside world.
Another crucial auditory element is the sound of water bubbles. This is not a natural part of the nursing home environment but a reflection of her nostalgia for home. The sound originates from the fish tank in her living room—an ever-present reminder of her past, a sensory connection to what she once knew as home. These intentional sound design choices not only enhance the film’s immersive quality but also add emotional depth, allowing the audience to experience the character’s fluid movement between reality and memory. Sound, in this case, serves as a bridge—linking past and present, the tangible and the imagined—creating a deeply resonant cinematic experience.
Aayush Sharma: The use of non-professional actors often brings an organic and unpredictable quality to performances. What was your process in working with them, and how did you guide them to deliver such natural portrayals?
Erica Xia-Hou: I chose non-professional actors because I wanted their reactions to be as authentic as possible. This meant that my approach to directing on set had to be highly adaptive and immersive. For instance, I positioned myself right next to the camera, closely guiding them throughout each scene. We filmed three consecutive takes without stopping, allowing them to react naturally based on the given circumstances. At first, the elderly woman had a habit of looking directly into the camera while delivering her lines, as she was accustomed to performing for short-form videos like TikToks. It took some time to guide her into a more natural cinematic acting style. The elderly man had several emotionally charged scenes, and he had his own unique approach to immersing himself in the role. Since his character drinks alcohol in the film, he insisted on drinking real Chinese baijiu (a potent Chinese liquor) instead of water. He believed that consuming real baijiu would help him relax and tap into his emotions more organically. This was especially important because, as a non-professional actor, performing in front of a full film crew was initially intimidating for him. During the hotpot scene, he was actually drinking baijiu, and I even had a small drink with him. By the end of the scene, I felt slightly tipsy myself, and my cinematographer later joked that my eyes looked dreamy, as if I had genuinely been drinking.
Before shooting that scene, I went over the lines with him and explained that improvisation would play a big role. I encouraged him to respond naturally to the situation and the relationship dynamics in the scene. Of course, not every moment was perfect—he’s not a trained actor—but that imperfection also added to the raw authenticity of his performance. I filmed three takes in total. Initially, I wanted to capture the scene in a single long take, but some of the dialogue didn’t flow as smoothly as planned, so I ended up piecing the best moments together in editing. For the birthday cake scene, I placed an old photograph of his former comrade in front of the cake—a picture from his younger days when he served in the military. Before filming, we talked in depth about his time in the military, the challenges he faced, and how the loss of his comrades affected him. By discussing his real memories and emotions beforehand, his response during the scene felt incredibly genuine. The three glasses of baijiu he drank in that scene were real, and downing them all in one go heightened his emotions almost immediately.
Another deeply emotional moment was when he recorded a video message for his wife, hoping she wouldn’t forget him. Although that scene didn’t require alcohol, he requested a small drink to help him relax and connect with his emotions. He explained that otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to access his feelings as deeply. Since he had some difficulty remembering all his lines, I sat close by during the shoot, subtly prompting him when necessary. By the end of the scene, his emotions completely took over—he suddenly broke down, crying and calling out for his mother. His mother had also suffered from Alzheimer’s, and he had cared for her for over a decade before she passed away. I never explicitly directed him to cry; instead, I told him, “Follow your heart. Go with what you feel in the moment.” That’s exactly what he did. His grief resurfaced in an incredibly raw and visceral way, making the moment feel heartbreakingly real. Even our cinematographer was deeply moved, later telling me that it reminded him of his own mother. He admitted that ever since his mother passed away, he had always carried a lingering sense of loneliness.
This experience reinforced my belief in the power of working with non-professional actors. While they may not have formal training, their lived experiences bring an irreplaceable authenticity to their performances—one that resonates deeply with both the crew and, ultimately, the audience.
Aayush Sharma: Memory loss and emotional disorientation are central to the film’s themes. Were there any specific editing techniques or visual motifs you used to convey this experience?
Erica Xia-Hou: I didn’t use any specific editing techniques in a traditional sense; instead, I approached the editing process entirely from the perspective of the character’s emotions. For me, editing is very similar to acting—I immerse myself in the character’s world, feeling their emotions and allowing their internal rhythm to shape the cut. Rather than applying predefined rules or technical formulas, I treat editing as an extension of the character’s psychological state. Every cut, every transition, is guided by their emotions at that particular moment, creating a natural and immersive flow. For instance, when a character feels a sense of confusion or loneliness, I might juxtapose their scene with another character experiencing the same emotion, even if they are in different locations or timelines. This technique reinforces the idea that emotions, rather than linear time, connect people.
Additionally, I deliberately removed scenes that over-explained events because memory loss is often fragmented and unreliable in real life. There are moments in the film where the wife senses her husband is gone, but she doesn’t remember when or how. This ambiguity mirrors the disorienting experience of Alzheimer’s and allows the audience to share in her uncertainty. I also experimented with imperfect moments. If I had multiple takes of a scene, I wouldn’t necessarily choose the most technically perfect one. Instead, I often selected takes where the actors’ reactions felt the most genuine—even if they included small mistakes or unpolished details. I also incorporated moments before the director’s call of “Action” or after “Cut,” when the actors were at their most natural. These choices brought an organic realism to the film, making it feel less like a constructed narrative and more like a lived experience.
Ultimately, my goal was for the audience not to feel like they are watching a heavily edited film, but rather to experience the characters’ journey as if they are living through it alongside them. I wanted them to feel emotionally connected to the characters in a way that transcends structured storytelling, allowing them to enter a world where time, memory, and emotions intertwine seamlessly.
Aayush Sharma: The film is shot entirely in China, and cultural nuances play a significant role in shaping the narrative. How did you incorporate traditional Asian values into the storytelling, particularly in portraying love and devotion within aging families?
Erica Xia-Hou: I believe that elderly people are just like everyone else—they have emotions, desires, and a need for love. That’s why I chose to portray this in my film. Even when the elderly woman moves into a nursing home, her husband still feels jealous when he sees another old man getting close to her. He still wants to assert his masculinity and charm. He even “competes” with the other elderly man, playing sports to prove himself—in today’s internet slang, he’s just trying to “stay relevant.” In North America and Europe, relationships among elderly people are relatively common. However, in many parts of Asia, children often hold a more conservative attitude toward their parents’ late-life romances. They believe that once someone reaches a certain age, they should stay devoted to their family, take care of their grandchildren, and not pursue personal happiness or new love. For many elderly people who seek companionship again, they often face resistance from their children and societal stereotypes. But I believe that love should not be restricted by age—elderly people have just as much right to pursue happiness.
This is exactly the message I want to convey through my film, just like in 50 First Dates, where the old man tirelessly tries to reignite his wife’s memory and love for him every single day.
Aayush Sharma: Was there a particular scene or moment in the film that was especially difficult to shoot, either emotionally or technically?
Erica Xia-Hou: One of the most emotionally and culturally significant scenes in Banr is the fireworks scene. The husband, determined to celebrate their 41st anniversary, searches for fireworks to set off for his wife on Lunar New Year’s Eve. However, fireworks have been banned in many parts of China for years. Despite this, they hold deep cultural meaning—symbolizing farewell to past misfortunes and welcoming a new beginning. For the husband, setting off fireworks is more than a tradition; it is his way of expressing love and devotion, his silent plea: Please, don’t forget me. This scene also reflects a broader reality in traditional Chinese families, where women spend their entire lives caring for others—first their children, then their parents, and later their grandchildren—often without living for themselves. When the husband tells his wife, “Maybe fate has made you this way so you can finally rest,” he is not only comforting her but also acknowledging a lifetime of sacrifice.
Visually, I chose to present this sequence in black and white. In the end, the husband never gets to show his wife the fireworks—at that moment, he suffers a fatal heart attack. The absence of color blurs the line between reality and memory, leaving the audience to interpret: Was this a dream, a regret, or his final farewell? The answer is left open, inviting each viewer to find their own meaning in his unfulfilled wish.
Aayush Sharma: As a filmmaker, how did you balance the artistic vision of Banr with the ethical responsibility of portraying a real and sensitive condition like Alzheimer’s?
Erica Xia-Hou: For me, Banr is not just about portraying Alzheimer’s disease—it is about capturing the emotional depth of those affected by it. As my university professor once said, “Art comes from life but should be elevated beyond life.” While the film is deeply rooted in real experiences, my goal was not to create a medical documentary but to explore the emotional and psychological impact of memory loss through artistic storytelling. Balancing authenticity with artistic expression was one of the biggest challenges. I wanted audiences to feel the struggle, not just observe it. That’s why the film focuses on small yet profound moments—how a patient copes with forgetting, how family members navigate grief and confusion, and how love endures even as memory fades. These seemingly ordinary details create a more intimate, human connection with the audience.
In editing, I experimented with blending fragmented memories and reality, mirroring the disorientation of Alzheimer’s. Through pacing, visual transitions, and non-linear storytelling, my goal was not just to depict memory loss but to immerse the audience in the character’s inner world—helping them experience the complexity of losing oneself while still holding onto love.
Aayush Sharma: What was the most surprising or unexpected thing you learned while making this film—either about the subject matter or about yourself as a director?
Erica Xia-Hou: One of the most surprising realizations I had during this film was how much I disliked being called “director” on set. I preferred that everyone simply call me by my name, Erica. I also referred to the elderly actors as “Dad” and “Mom,” hoping to create an environment where they could naturally immerse themselves in their roles. More than that, I wanted to establish a sense of equality with my team—we were collaborators, not working in a rigid hierarchy. In many parts of Asia, the director is seen as an unquestionable authority, but for me, filmmaking is a collective creative process. I asked my cinematographer to capture every spontaneous moment on set, no matter how small, and I encouraged the actors to share their thoughts about their characters. Whether or not their ideas made it into the final cut was a decision for editing, but during production, I wanted to embrace every possibility to keep the film organic and alive.
Through making Banr, I also realized that I don’t see myself as just a director or an actor—I identify as a filmmaker. Because this was an independent film, I found myself wearing nearly eight different hats, involved in every stage from pre-production to post-production. It reaffirmed my belief that filmmaking isn’t just about holding a title; it’s about fully committing to the creative journey, pouring all of myself into bringing a story to life.
Banr recently screened at the Slamdance Film Festival.
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