Photography by RAKUTO MAKINO
During the Berlinale, when all of Berlin turns its eyes to the screen and cinema takes center stage, Soho House became the setting for a special guest. Austrian actress Susanne Wuest moves between arthouse cinema and international productions, plays characters who stay with you long after the credits roll, and won the Jury Prize at Cannes in 2025. Christian Bracht spoke with her about the nature of creativity, the mechanics of award culture and the long road from script to screen.
Christian BrachtYou work between arthouse cinema and international productions, between European sets and the rest of the world. How do you experience that range?
Susanne Wuest I feel at home moving between different worlds. The industry is international by nature, and my work takes me wherever the story needs to be: Europe, and beyond. Each set has its own rhythm, but the goal is always the same – to tell something truthful.
CBHow did acting begin for you and how has it changed over time?
SW It started very early. I loved reading as a child, and I wanted to give stories another dimension by playing them. My little sister had to join in. When I realized grown-ups do this too, I thought: I want to do this forever. At some point it becomes a profession, and if you’re lucky, it still feels like what it did as a child, like passion, like privilege.
But acting itself, being on set, is maybe 20% of what I do. The other 80% is a completely different business, and most of it happens at a desk.
CBYour characters rarely make it easy for the audience. Is that a conscious choice, or do those roles find you?
SW It’s both. Sometimes the complexity is already in the writing, and sometimes it’s about how you look at it. I like approaching a character the way you’d look at ingredients: a potato can just be a potato or it can become gnocchi. I enjoy turning things around, viewing them from different angles, and choosing the version that feels most alive – ideally in agreement with the director.
CBYou work across arthouse cinema and large-scale productions. What does each give you that the other can’t?
SW My heart is with arthouse. There’s nothing like a director telling their own story – the purity of it. On a small set, it’s just the core crew, the director, the work. It can feel like making something in a friend’s garage: nothing exists except the story you’re building together.
With bigger budgets, more voices enter the room, often for legitimate reasons, but it can dilute that core. Nothing compares to that intimacy and singular vision.
CBHow much of your training is still with you and how much have you left behind?
SW It changes with every production, and it’s almost entirely down to the director. I try to forget everything I know to stay open. But of course, specific skills remain useful when a role demands something technical.
CBText work and memorizing long scenes, how do you do it? Are there tricks?
SWIt’s simpler than people think: it’s training. The brain adapts. I never start with the text. I start with the structure: like skiing down a slope and knowing you have to hit certain marks. Once the path is clear, the text lays over it.
The most valuable skill, though, is letting go of what I think and synchronizing with the director and my scene partner.
CBWas there a career decision that felt wrong at the time but turned out to be one of your best?
SW No. I’ve made some truly stupid decisions. I once turned down a script because I thought it was too strange and it became a huge success. It could’ve saved me ten years. But I won’t say which film. It’s too embarrassing.
CBWhat label keeps getting assigned to you and how do you feel about it?
SW If people can assign something to me, that’s a compliment. I’m not sure where it comes from, maybe something very Austrian: a morbid sense of humor, and a tendency to approach even “bad” characters with warmth.
I take writing extremely seriously. Maybe more seriously than any other department. I test even the strangest lines and ask: what if this was true? That can lead to uncomfortable places, but it can also make something honest. And yes – I die in almost every film.
CBHave you ever done comedy? Would you want to?
SW No, but I would love to. Comedy is difficult. Being funny is not easy at all.
And I think humor is essential: it’s how we get through life. Even in drama, there’s always a grain of humor or longing that makes life livable. I’d love to explore that.
CBWhat does personal artistic success mean to you?
SW It means everything, if it allows me to keep doing what I love. The greatest privilege is being invited into other people’s worlds: traveling, meeting different cultures, joining visions. If “success” is what grants access to that, then I owe it a lot.
CBWhat was the first award experience that genuinely meant something to you or taught you something?
SW My first major experience was very early, with a film that did incredibly well – Austria’s submission for the Oscars. I was naïve and thought: great, now things will get easier. Then I was unemployed for two years.
That taught me something fundamental: an award means nothing for the individual – it’s spotlight, awareness. It can help a film commercially, bring funding back, but for one person’s life, it doesn’t magically change anything. I don’t trust awards.
CBAfter a major prize like Cannes, what actually changes, privately, on a Monday morning, reading the next script?
SW My feeling doesn’t really change. The practical hope is that an award gives the film visibility, especially important for arthouse, because it needs that awareness to reach audiences.
But personally, I keep going. Even during Cannes, I was bouncing between shoots: Cardiff, London, Nice, Cannes. And I was relieved to return to set, because that felt like real life again. I love the team and the filmmaker deeply, and I want the film to thrive, but for myself, I just continue. I still don’t trust it.
CBDo awards create freedom, pressure – can it be both?
SW People expect a big immediate shift, but it’s slower than that. Major moments take years to “shed a skin.” It’s one step in a long path.
The ups don’t matter as much as people think, and the downs don’t either. You keep walking. Awareness grows, opportunities shift, but it’s rarely a sudden “my life changed overnight.” And pressure? I don’t really feel it.
CBWhen you read a script, do you ever think: this has huge award potential?
SW Sometimes. There are scripts that feel extraordinary. But film is a long journey — so many things can go wrong: weather, funding, logistics, post-production, timing, whether it hits a nerve. You can make a brilliant film and still not find an audience — or it can be recognized decades later. So yes, you can sense festival potential, but you never know.
CBHow honest is the award system and who decides what gets seen?
SW The person with the biggest budget decides what gets seen.
There are different kinds of awards: artistic ones, and marketing-driven ones. The Oscars, for example, are heavily marketing-driven –campaigns, PR, advertising, networking, strategy. A big festival is only the beginning; you still need immense resources and sustained attention to stay in the race.
CBDo you believe festivals like Cannes or Venice reward the most artistic films?
SW I want to believe that truly. But “honesty” is complicated. Even choosing dinner with a family shows you how consensus works: sometimes it’s not the top choice for everyone, but what people can agree on.
And before awards, there’s the selection process long, complex, shaped by many factors. So: I hope the most artistic work is honored, but it’s never pure.
CBWhat role does the Berlinale play compared to other festivals?
SW Every festival has its own “color.” Berlin has a reputation for being political, and it happens at a particular time of year. It’s important! Not only culturally, but as an industry vehicle. We’re lucky to have it here.
CBAs a juror, how much responsibility do you feel, knowing choices can shape careers and which stories exist?
SW There’s real responsibility, especially for first-time filmmakers. Winning or losing can change someone’s trajectory for years.
At the same time, I try not to play God. You can’t decide who “deserves” a career. Sometimes it’s even good not to win immediately. I try to focus on the films and the work, without interfering emotionally with people’s futures.
CBShould emerging artists work toward awards?
SWNo. Honestly, no. If you chase awards, you start making compromises, and that can hurt your craft and distort your choices. Happiness comes from a different place – authenticity, love for the work. You can become famous or wealthy and still feel far from why you started.
CBIf you could redesign awards from scratch, what would you reward?
SW I would reward courage and vulnerability, not polish. It shouldn’t matter if everything is “perfect”: sound, light, surface. Life isn’t perfect.
I’d reward the attempt to tell something deeply human, even if it fails, the artist trying to make gnocchi out of potatoes and not quite succeeding, but daring to try.
AudienceWas there a role that changed how you see life and what inspires you behind the scenes?
Susanne Wuest Every role shifts something. It’s hard to name just one. Often, what changes me most is watching my scene partner what they do can elevate everything.
Inspiration comes from tiny things: listening to someone tell a story, being in conversation. Sometimes I’d rather hear a story told than read it on the page. And yes, I love cooking.
AWhat did theater teach you that film benefits from and what can filmmakers learn from theater?
SW Theater teaches discipline and care: you look after your costume, your props, every department – because no one will rescue you if you’re careless. You also learn to work with your whole body.
And you learn something crucial: you take the written word apart again and again, finding every meaning, then you throw it away and do it fresh. Theater also trains imagination: creating in an empty room.
That helps enormously on film, especially under extreme conditions – 4 a.m., night shoots, exhaustion – and still having to hit the moment as if it’s the first time. Improvisation, too.
AUsing your cooking metaphor, what ingredients do you look for in a script, and how long does it take to truly immerse yourself in a role?
SW I look for a challenge, something that asks more of me. I also look for a director who is consequential: someone who tells the story at all costs, without compromise, and without judging the characters.
Truth matters. People do everything you can imagine and storytelling has to face that. I’m drawn to roles where I can explore the “why,” even in the darkest character – like asking what pain made the witch want to push someone into an oven. That kind of truth is hard, and I love it.
ALooking back, were the sacrifices worth it? And how do you see your younger self now?
SW For me, I didn’t have much of a choice. I knew early that I needed focus. I missed certain experiences; I grieved that at the time, but I walked into it with open eyes.
The job requires balance, like any extreme sport. You miss birthdays, you’re often away. But I’ve been lucky: I have loyal, patient friends, and when it gets too much, I call and say, “Don’t give up on me.” That’s how you keep the human part intact.