As a director, Valentin Guiod sees the image as an organic language, inseparable from sound. For him, music does not illustrate: it sometimes comes before the frame, sparks a scene, opens up an imaginary world. From family VHS tapes to his work for DJ Snake, including projects driven by powerful emotional weight, his journey tells one essential story: portraying the world means, above all, staying true to an intuition.
In this episode, Valentin looks back on his visceral relationship with music and image, on the importance of the first idea, on the blank page that is as anxiety-inducing as it is stimulating, and on those rare collaborations where everything aligns—a vision, a track, a story. A sensitive, deeply felt conversation that reveals how the most powerful images are often born from what we only half hear, but fully feel.
Valentin Guiod
The Tales Interview
What is your first memory of musical emotion?
I’d say Henri Dès. And right after that, I think of my father, who sang a great deal. He was part of a choir and sang a lot at home. It wasn’t an instrumental relationship, but a relationship with the voice—a voice that often resonated throughout the house.
And during your teenage years, how did music remain present?
I think it was passed down through my parents, especially my father. He listened to a huge number of vinyl records. What’s crazy is that I found out he had thrown away a large part of them as a teenager—and that’s the very music I listened to later on. I thought, “If only we had kept that stuff for another ten years…” What I discovered was both a musical heritage and an object. Vinyl was part of the space in the house, not just for the sound, but also for the image. A record sleeve is also a powerful image. I remember, for example, the one by Van Morrison, sitting in the living room—it was part of the decor. There was a natural connection between music and image from the start.
So image came into your journey very early on?
Yes, but it’s all a bit hazy in my memories. I think the relationship between music and image, for me, largely comes from the family video tapes I watched as a child. I even made a film about them—it was my first short film. There was a very organic relationship between sound and image. Right away, it brought a kind of nostalgia, an imaginary world. I remember the off-screen music in those VHS snippets very clearly. What was playing alongside the visible image. That relationship with what you do not see, but hear, was fundamental to the way I perceive things. Cinema came gradually, not necessarily through music, actually, but rather through the images themselves. I remember seeing The Green Mile when I was 9. It’s absolutely not a film for a child that age (laughs), but it left an impression on me. Because it was the discovery of something forbidden. And at the time, there were still video stores. Going there, choosing a tape, was already a form of staging. Once again, there was that physicality of the object, which matters a great deal in my relationship with image and sound.
Music came into this relationship with image a little later. Even though I became interested in it quite early, since I played piano for ten years. I was a musician, but I think I first discovered music and image as two separate things. Then, after watching films and developing a love of cinema, you understand that the two can come together and feed each other.
Was there a music video or work that particularly left an impression on you?
Michel Gondry, without hesitation. I went to the same art school as him. He embodies a kind of visual freedom that I admire: he is a director, but also a musician, an inventor of images. His videos for the Chemical Brothers, especially Let Forever Be, were a shock. He invented a language that did not exist.
Can you retrace the key stages of your journey?
I started at ENSAM in Paris, then studied at University of the Arts London. There, I experimented with video, advertising, and graphic design. Then I worked for five years as an art director between Paris and London. But I had always wanted to make films. I left my job and returned to Paris with no network, no safety net. And I met my producer, Hugo Legrand-Nathan. We
got started together. Since then, I’ve directed commercials, music videos, and short films.
How did your collaboration with DJ Snake come about?
It started three years ago. The film took a long time to come together. At first, he had a remix of Sabali by Amadou et Mariam—a universal anthem that everyone loves, that everyone knows, and that I truly held close to my heart. My writing is very cinematic, so I came in with a 10-15-minute screenplay. We weren’t really sure whether it would work, but he went along with me. We wanted to talk about immigration, to take a stand, to bring humanity to this music through image.
We shot a huge amount. In the editing room, the film held together. I asked him for his stems—which is rare—and he immediately agreed. In the editing room, I discovered all the musicality of the track. When you isolate each track, it’s quite magical. There were some absolutely beautiful, slightly ’80s synths.
We stretched out moments and reorganized things. We went from three minutes to nine. And then he recomposed it based on the edit. It was an immense pleasure, I think for him as much as for me.
A powerful memory from that shoot?
There is a shot in the film that, for me, sums it all up: an eye beneath a tarp, saying something about the violence endured by those who cross the desert for a better future. I had had that image in mind from the beginning. But it had been cut; we couldn’t fit it in the way I wanted. The next day was our first day with Omar Sy. They told me, “If you want to do it, now is the time.” That meant making him wait for an hour. I went to see him and explained it. He said, “Do your shot, don’t tell me how much time you need.”
We shot it. And when I showed him the edit, he turned to me, moved. I think he was genuinely emotional. That moment symbolizes something very powerful: no matter someone’s fame or the size of their name—when someone commits to a story, they do so wholeheartedly. That look, that shot, that shared emotion… I think it will remain one of my most memorable shooting memories.
Were there people who played a decisive role in your journey?
Yes, I immediately think of my producer, Hugo Legrand-Nathan. He was the first person to tell me, “You want to direct? I’ll give you the means to do it.” And I think that as an artist, that is exactly what we need: someone who invests in our ideas.
I also think of Lukas Dhont. Before shooting my first short film with children, I wrote to him. He had just released Close, and he replied with very valuable advice about the way he directs children. It helped me a great deal.
And then, more symbolically, there is Michel Gondry. I have always admired him. On the day of my
final high school exam, he walked past my school. I took it as a sign. I
went to see him. I have run into him several times since. It’s a bit anecdotal, but it stayed with me.
Do you work with a particular composer?
Yes, Clémence Ducreux. We met when we were 13-14. She composes all the original music for my films. It is a rare, lasting collaboration. I am also very involved in sync. For my first short film, I managed to secure the rights to Bridge Over Troubled Water as covered by Nana Mouskouri. It changed the entire film.
How do you deal with writer’s block?
I think it’s an anxiety that all artists know. That moment when you tell yourself, “That’s it, I’ve said it all.” Even though I’m still at the beginning of my career, it’s still dizzying. Telling the story of the world is a privileged position, but also an anxiety-inducing one. If you can’t do it, nobody is going to come looking for you.
I try to hold on to my initial intuition. Often, you question it throughout the whole process, you try to kill it to find a better one... And in the end, you come back to it. It’s what guides you. Sometimes it takes a day, sometimes six months, but if you work on that first idea, it often saves you from writer’s block.
Do you ever write starting from music?
Very often. Certain pieces of music immediately trigger images, scenes. For example, The Joke by Brandi Carlile inspired an entire screenplay. Music can come before the image, or even the word.
What makes a good director? A good music video?
It’s an idea. A strong, simple idea. An arrow shot from the brain to the heart. The less you add, the more likely you are to hit the mark. Michel Gondry is an example of that. And there’s also this idea of staying faithful to your initial intuition. Because everything in production pushes you to abandon it. But it’s what guides you.
Do you embrace working across formats: music videos, commercials, fiction?
Yes, even though in France people like to put others in boxes... I see each format as a space for experimentation. A music video is a laboratory. A commercial is a stimulating constraint. A short film has a longer narrative. And I don’t think a strong image can carry every kind of story.
A music artist you’d like to make a music video for?
Theodora. There’s a very strong promise in her. Otherwise, Bad Bunny, for fun. Or Rosalía, but for a more narrative-driven project.
A dream actor?
Tilda Swinton. She can play anything. She’s fascinating, she’s truly the actress who makes me
dream.
What advice would you give younger people who dream of directing?
If you feel like you have something to say, you have to find ways to show it. Legitimacy is a quest. It doesn’t fall from the sky. You have to get up in the morning with that drive, and nobody will do it for you.
