Jerome Yoo, the debut director of Mongrels, has captured international attention after winning the prestigious FIPRESCI Award and a Special Mention from the Debut Jury at the 28th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival (PÖFF). His powerful debut – a multi-layered character study of a grief-stricken Korean family adapting to life in 1990s rural Canada – has made waves among cinephiles. Known for his evocative storytelling and surreal visual style, Yoo has already earned accolades for his short films Gong Ju and Idols Never Die, which have graced film festivals worldwide. With Mongrels, Yoo solidifies his place as one of the most exciting new voices in cinema today.

Yoo had an amicable conversation with Milani Perera about getting in touch with Korean culture, starting off filmmaking and developing Mongrels at PÖFF.

MP: This is your first feature; when did it all start?
JY: My career didn’t start with this intention. When I was growing up I never dreamt about becoming a filmmaker. My journey started in theatre, and later I moved into acting, picking up minor roles in shows on Netflix, Amazon, and Apple. I was lucky enough to grow up in Vancouver, a hub for American film productions, so I was exposed to the industry early on. Over time I became more interested in writing and began crafting short films. At first I didn’t know anything about screenwriting, but I started reading a lot of screenplays and plays, which made me learn about narrative structure and plot points. When I finished my scripts I pitched them to directors, but they couldn’t identify with my narratives, and they suggested that I direct my own scripts.

MP: As an actor-turned-director, how do you tackle the challenges of directing?
JY: Honestly, at first I didn’t fully understand what directing entailed. I was just curious and eager to learn. But once I took on my first short film, I quickly discovered that it’s all about understanding the story and conveying that vision to your team. One thing I was comfortable with was working with actors. But I relied heavily on my talented crew regarding other aspects, like cinematography or lighting. Filmmaking is a deeply collaborative process. It’s like building a sandcastle with a team – everyone contributes their expertise to bring the story to life. After finishing my first short I was overwhelmed with this accomplishment. It was like a lightbulb turned on, and I knew this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

MP: Your first feature is one of the most talked about films this year at PÖFF. What was the inspiration behind Mongrels?
JY: The inspiration for Mongrels is very personal. Like most of my work it’s rooted in my experiences, growing up between two cultures. I was born in South Korea but grew up in Canada, and that sense of being torn between two worlds shaped me. When I was younger I struggled with identity, constantly feeling like I didn’t fully belong to either culture. However, as I grew older I started visiting Korea more often, and that’s when I began connecting with my roots. It was like the pieces of a puzzle started coming together. Mongrels reflects, most probably, my final cathartic journey. It’s more than just a film; it’s a way of processing my inner conflict. This film is deeply personal to me and my family, even more so than my previous work. It felt like I had to make this film. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to move forward in my career.

MP: The term ‘mongrels’ has a unique connotation in society. Why did you use this term as your title?
JY: The title came to me almost instinctively, driven by a single image – the final scene. This scene, in which three characters stand together, lost and searching for their place in a foreign land, lingered in my mind. I then thought about how dogs, especially mongrels, are often misunderstood and seen as outcasts. This resonated with the family in the film – misunderstood, caught between cultures, and striving to find their place. The term ‘mongrel’ also carries a certain rawness, a wildness, which aligns with the film’s tone. These characters, much like mongrel dogs, are on a quest for belonging, and the title felt like the perfect metaphor to capture their journey.

MP: You just said the start of your film was the final scene. What is the significance of this?
JY: The final scene, where the family stands on the riverbank and Hajoon howls, is really important to me. Hajoon’s howl is a pivotal moment. It’s his way of announcing to the world that he exists and is not afraid of the future. He’s the most torn throughout the film – caught between his father’s traditional values, his role as a protector to his sister, and his desire to fit in and explore adolescence. That’s why it had to be Hajoon who howled. It’s a moment of courage, a declaration of moving forward. The howl is a symbolic gesture of hope, strength, and the will to embrace the unknown. For me, it represents resilience, which seeps into other family members as they join in with Hajoon in howling.

MP: I would like to look at the narrative structure. It is divided into three chapters, each focusing on one family member. Was this format decided from the beginning or did it evolve during the creative process?
JY: I wanted to tell this story this way. Each chapter is essential to understanding the story’s emotional core. Each one explores the innermost struggles and pains of the family members. The chapters have different aspect ratios to reflect the character’s perspective. The first chapter focuses on the father, and we wanted to make the space feel cramped and suffocating – reflecting how he sees the world, especially as someone who’s been uprooted from his home in Korea. By the last chapter, centered on Hana, there’s a sense of innocence and wonder. Her world is more dreamlike, with lots of positive space. The narrative structure, with each chapter focusing on a different family member, allows us to delve deep into their individual experiences and emotions, providing a comprehensive understanding of the family’s dynamics and struggles.

MP: When I watched your film, the first thing that struck me was how lush and green the scenes were. They’re different from the typical dark tones we often associate with South Korean cinema, also in the first mini-plot. Can you talk about the visual choices?
JY: I’m glad you noticed that. We wanted the house to feel like a prison, a place of suffocation. It’s only sometimes a safe space for the characters; sometimes, it feels more like a cage. But as we move through the chapters, the lighting changes to reflect the emotional state of the characters. In contrast, the outside world, especially the forests, is lush and vibrant. The dogs in the film are misunderstood in their natural habitat, just like the family is misunderstood. The greenery represents the idea of freedom, of escape. It’s meant to show that there is potential for hope and safety outside their home’s confines. I think the Pacific Northwest has a natural beauty, and I wanted to capture that. In terms of tone, this visual style reflects my voice as a filmmaker, which has been shaped by my experiences in Canada, even though I’m Korean. I gravitate toward more colourful, vibrant storytelling.

MP: You started the interview thinking this could be your final visual expression of your personal stories. Would you like to share some insights about your next project?
JY: I’m currently working on an adaptation of a graphic novel. I’ve always been drawn to fantasy and folktales, and even in Mongrels you can see hints of fantasy stories like The Pied Piper. I am a fan of folktales and fantasy genres. There is a whole world of intertextuality in this which strongly appeals to me. My next project will delve into mythological creatures and explore a whole new world of symbolism. I’m really excited to bring that vision to life.