“We’re human. And humans need love.” We were delighted to meet with Argentinian director Lucio Castro, presenting Drunken Noodles at the 78th Cannes Film Festival.
As I climb up the spiral staircase of the office space of the ACID, director Lucio Castro (49) gets up from the sofa with a lovely smile to say, No worries, we have time for a lovely chat. Putting the journalist at ease is one of his strong points, I guess, along with his patience to listen to the questions that his film has created.
This Argentinian filmmaker, Lucio Castro, gives us an insight into his quiet, vulnerable side as we set off to unravel his film Drunken Noodles—his third feature film—which unfolds like poetry, needlework, and a long-lost memory.
The film is set in shadowy corners and leafy apartments. It’s a film that doesn’t just explore queer desire—it reimagines it. “To me, the most radical thing is connection,” Castro says, smiling gently. “Not a bullet, not shouting. Just being warm, being human. That’s what the film is about.”
The idea for Drunken Noodles came about when Castro encountered the work of Sal Salandra, an Italian American artist who uses embroidery and needlework to depict sensual, mythological tableaux, often with vivid queer themes. “I was fascinated,” he says. “I wanted to make a documentary on him. But then I realized fiction was the only way I could go deeper.”
Thus, this film is a fictional story inspired by the visual language of Salandra’s work. Castro’s protagonist is loosely drawn from the aesthetic and emotional palette of the artist’s creations. “It’s about desire, connection, and fantasy,” he explains. “Like Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz, except queer, embroidered, and real.”
The narrative of the film is non-linear, almost woven like a tapestry— a kind of poetic way. “I don’t see it as flashbacks,” Castro insists. “To me, it’s like threading. You go back, you change the colour, you come forward again. That’s how we remember.”
Drunken Noodles journeys through dark alleys, city parks, hidden bedrooms, and eventually into nature. He doesn’t shy away from depicting cruising culture—long an intrinsic part of queer life, particularly in societies where gay sex was criminalized. “In many parts of the world, gay people weren’t allowed to have sex. So, it had to happen in the dark, in secret places,” he explains. “But in those places, something beautiful also happens—strangers connect, even if just for a second.”
To elucidate this point, he added, “A friend once told me, in straight sex, you have wine and cheese first, then sex. In gay sex, you have sex first, then maybe wine and cheese. It flips the structure. You meet someone first in intimacy, then get to know them.”
Several sex scenes flow organically, filmed with grace rather than shock. “We didn’t use an intimacy coordinator on this one,” Castro admits. “But the actors knew what the film was. They knew there would be nudity. It was honest, and it was safe.”
Though much of the film takes place in spaces filled with plants and soft textures, there is a lingering emotional shadow—an undercurrent of melancholy—which I mentioned, to which he replied, “You are right, even the apartment is filled with green, but it feels dim.” That was intentional. “A solitary character lets you explore the world,” he adds. “If it were a couple, the story would be enclosed. But a lone character sees everything. The city. The cat. The boat. There’s curiosity.”
Lucio uses nature and sets it against the urban milieu. He said, “Nature offers a space for contemplation, a break from the urban rush. When you’re in a city, you go from point A to B. In nature, you get lost. You breathe. You look up at the moon. It’s a storytelling space.”
Lucio is influenced by the lyrical perspective that he has partly drawn from the work of Li Bai, the ancient Chinese poet whose verses close the film. “He left everything—wives, cities—to live in the mountains and write. His poems are about presence. Stillness. That felt right for the end.”
Why the name Drunken Noodles? When asked, “The title might seem whimsical at first.” But for him, it emerged instinctively, and then grew into something profound. “It’s a Thai dish,” he says. “People eat it after a night of drinking. It soothes you. But ‘drunken’ also connects to poetry—Rimbaud’s Le Bateau Ivre (The Drunken Boat). So, it started playful, but then layers came in.”
Lucio doesn’t see his film as a “queer statement” in the activist sense. He resists such labels. “There’s no judging,” he says. “No character says this is bad or this is good. It’s just people— touching, failing, loving. I think that’s where change starts.”
With three features behind him and critical acclaim from Berlinale to Cannes, Lucio Castro remains curious and open. “We’re in a difficult moment in the world,” he says. “But we’ve always been in difficult moments. We’re human. And humans need love.”
Our reporters are on the ground in Cannes, France, to bring you exclusive content from the 78th Cannes Film Festival—explore our coverage here.
